Save Me If You Can

Save Me If You Can Chapter 12

SAVE ME IF YOU CAN

Chapter 12

By

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13. Disclaimer: All rights belong to Jeff Eastin. Thanks for letting all us fanfic writers enjoy playing in your world! 

~WC~

Neal stood before Thursday's magnificent picture window, the reflective sun near-burning his pale skin through the thick glass. He welcomed the burn, because it reminded him he was still alive. He had been there for nearly an hour, practically unmoving, staring almost unblinkingly at the sun-drenched rooftops until the intensity of light threatened to leave permanent spots in his vision. Had the others seen his face so brooding and pensive, they would have easily surmised all the machinations of his whirling mind, the myriad emotions at war within him. No one dared disturb him, giving him liberty to process his way through the amalgam of hate, despair, fear and loathing that had temporarily paralyzed him.

Daniel Hauser was not dead.

This was a game-changer.

Neal had nearly bought into the idea that he had spent the last few months in hell to pay for his complicity in the downfall of Linus Hauser which, in turn, triggered events leading to the boy's supposed death. Neal tried to reach into his own blistered heart to find an ounce of understanding, a mustard seed of compassion for Hauser: a father's anguish, the insanity of addiction, the futility of estrangement, the despondency of loss. Yet he could find nothing to comfort or cure his stricken soul.

If the boy was still alive, then what was all of this for? The senselessness of it stymied him. It wasn't as if Linus, upon finding out his boy was alive, could undo any the damaged he had done (or the damage he had given Neal cause to do to himself). None of this could be undone. This wreckage could not easily be cleared away, not even by the capable helping hands of his friends. The landscape of Neal Caffrey's life had been forever altered, and there was nothing anyone could do to fix it. He looked down at the row of fading track marks on his arm. They were healing, yes, but were still visible. He worried if the telltale signs of his affliction would ever fade, much as he once pondered if the bruising left by the tracking device once shackled to his ankle would ever fade enough that he could forget it was ever there. Would he ever truly be free?

"Neal..."

He heard Peter's voice, but he was not yet able to speak. He licked his drying lips and shoved his hands forlornly into his pant pockets.

"Neal..."

He closed his eyes. Splotches of red – afterimage temporarily burned into his vision – were insufficient walls to hide behind. He flinched as a warm and unexpected hand touched has shoulder, giving him a well-meaning but impotent squeeze of support.

"Give me a minute," Neal said.

"Mozzie's back," said Peter, his voice low and deep. "He thinks he may have an address."

~WC~

"You've got to let me go, Peter," Neal pleaded.

"I have no problem with you going...just not going in alone."

Neal turned to the mirror to tie his tie.

"I can do this," Neal promised. "I'm strong, I feel better than I've felt in weeks."

He held out flat one of his hands as proof – the tremor was gone, his hand was as steady as ever.

"I'm not questioning your physical capability, Neal. I'm just questioning your judgment."