Title: Remains - Part 2
Author: angelita26
Rating: PG
Characters and/or Pairing: Gen - Neal, Peter, El, Mozzie
Spoilers: Early Season 2
Warnings: As usual, betaed by my anal personality - all mistakes are mine.  Minor canon Peter/El smooches.
Word Count: ~3600
Summary: A man wakes in a hospital bed with no memories while an FBI team desperately searches for one of their own.


Part 1


Three long and tiring days later, Neal was doing well enough that the doctor released him with the stipulation that someone needed to be available to keep an eye on him. His concussion was still giving him headaches and sometimes made him unsteady on his feet. Not to mention that the amnesia was still an issue. He was getting flashes of people and places, but none of it made sense and mostly just frustrated him even more.

Mozzie and Elizabeth agreed to take the brunt of the Neal-watching work, but Peter, Jones, and even Diana had volunteered to help out. Also, June was expected back from Australia, where she'd been vacationing with her granddaughters, at the end of the week. He wouldn't be wanting for company for a while.

Neal gaped as Peter parked outside of June's house. It was afternoon, and the light shined on the mansion in a way that made it look like it was out of a fairy tale. “I live here?”

“Yeah. It surprises me every day too,” Peter replied, getting out of the car and opening the back passenger door. He held out a hand to help Neal, but the younger man batted him away with an annoyed glare.

With one hand guarding his ribs and stitched stab wound, Neal used the other to pull himself out of the Taurus. He stood for a moment, getting his bearings and taking in the neighborhood. It was well kept, and the houses were all large and extravagant. Neal felt uncomfortable, like he didn't quite belong in this world despite the designer pants and sweater he was wearing.

Elizabeth gently put her arm around his waist while Mozzie grabbed Neal's overnight bag from the trunk. “C'mon, sweetie. Let's get you inside.”

“I don't understand,” he said while they crossed the street. “How do I live here?”

“A lovely lady named June owns the house,” Mozzie explained patiently. “She rents you the top floor apartment.”

Neal looked up, up, up to the fourth floor and groaned. “It had to be the top floor, didn't it?”

“It has a great view.” Elizabeth smiled and gently tugged him forward. He was paling and starting to stagger.

“And a service elevator for the cleaning staff.” Mozzie had used it himself while recovering from his gunshot wound. It was a tight fight with a wheelchair, but Neal would be okay as long as he could stay on his feet that long.

“Thank God for small favors.” Neal dropped his head and concentrated on keeping up his sluggish pace. He was tiring quickly but didn't want to alarm the others. They had a tendency to close ranks and gang up on him when he showed any sign of fatigue or weakness.

“Let me help,” Peter said, smoothly replacing Elizabeth on Neal's uninjured left side and taking more of his weight. Neal recoiled, but when Peter threaded his fingers through Neal's belt loop to keep him from pulling away, the younger man gave in and accepted the assistance.

Together, they made it to the front door where Evelyn, the maid, greeted them with a big smile. “Welcome home, Mr. Neal. Please let me know if there's anything that you need.” She had just started working for June recently, and neither Neal nor Mozzie had been able to stop her from calling him 'Mr. Neal' yet.

Surprised by her acknowledgment, Neal stumbled and almost fell. Peter was forced to shift his grip and nearly carry his friend the next few steps to an available chair where Neal curled in on himself and grunted as quietly as possible. He was tense, pain spreading from his broken ribs, which had jostled uncomfortably, and his head, which was throbbing from the anxiety and uncertainty about the trip home.

“I'm so sorry,” Evelyn was apologizing, but Neal couldn't respond. Peripherally, he realized that Mozzie had stepped in to take care of the housekeeper, and he was grateful.

“It's okay, Ev. Neal's just a bit sore. Could you bring him a glass of water?”

It was Elizabeth who kneeled in front of him and held up a large white pill. “Take this.”

“No.” Neal's breathy refusal was complete with a head shake that caused his vision to go gray for a moment. “I'll be okay in a minute.”

She pursed her lips unhappily. “Sweetie, there's no need for you to be in pain.”

He didn't know what to say to that, but he also didn't like the way the painkillers fogged his mind. Thanks to his head injury, he didn't need any other help in that area. What he really needed was time alone to get himself together.

Peter couldn't handle seeing his friend in pain any longer. Neal was trying to be stoic, but it really only made it more obvious that he was distressed and hurting. “Neal,” Peter's voice was stern, “take the damn pill.”

Neal's head jerked up; Peter's tone didn't sit well with him, and he was so tired of them trying to tell him what to feel or think or do. The adrenaline suddenly pumping through his system dulled the pain better than any pill could, and he stood and backed away from them. “You can't tell me what to do! I don't even know you! I'm not taking any pills, and I don't need any of your help! Leave me alone!”

Everyone froze in place, and the only sound for a long moment was Neal's harsh breathing. His eyes darted between Peter, Elizabeth and Mozzie, as he considered his next move. He wasn't familiar with this house and didn't know where he could go to get away from them.

Oddly, it was Evelyn who broke the showdown. She was oblivious to the scene when she walked up behind Neal and patted his shoulder. “Here's your water, Mr. Neal.”

He startled badly, knocking the glass out of her hand as he spun to face her. His hands came up to protect himself from the perceived threat, and Evelyn shrieked and ran from the room. Neal was left staring at empty space.

“Hey?” Peter called out as he slowly took a step toward the younger man, as if he were approaching a snake that was ready to strike. “Look at me. Neal?”

Neal turned to face Peter, and his haunted eyes exposed far too much of his anger and confusion and suffering. “Stop. Stop calling me that.”

Peter held his hands up in a gesture of harmlessness, but that didn't stop him from taking another step closer. Neal was surely about to crash, and the kid didn't need any more bruises to add to his already impressive collection. “What would you like us to call you?”

That took the fight out of him. It was the question he kept coming back to in his mind over and over again. They insisted on calling him Neal but even that didn't feel right. “I don't... I don't know.”

“Noman is my name. Noman my father and my mother call me,” Mozzie quoted as he too slowly stepped forward, hands out to catch his friend if he faltered.

“Homer.” Neal identified the origin without thinking. It just slipped out, and it frustrated him that he could name epic Greek poets but not himself.

Mozzie smiled, trying to be encouraging. “That's correct, mon frere.”

Neal blinked as his adrenaline rush faded and he fell, nearly clipping his head on an occasional table as he went down. No one was close enough to catch him, but their hands were on him almost immediately, and he made a weak attempt at pushing them away. His head was spinning, and nausea was threatening to turn into something messy, and he just wanted to be alone.

Peter and Mozzie gently but swiftly moved him to the couch in the parlor while Elizabeth gathered a blanket and another glass of water. Offering the small, but tangible comforts for their ailing friend made them all feel a little better.

“Please,” Neal pleaded a few minutes later, throwing a forearm over his eyes as his head throbbed despite the painkiller Elizabeth had helped him take with sips of water. “Please leave me alone.”

They quietly backed out of the room, leaving him to try and sleep. No one knew what to do, though they all fiercely wanted to help him get through this. Neither Mozzie nor the Burkes were ready to leave yet, so they hunkered down in June's main sitting area to wait him out.

~~!!~~

Neal woke to the quietness and shadows of early evening in the old mansion. He slipped by his sentries; Elizabeth had fallen asleep on one of the sofas, and Peter and Mozzie were in the middle of a heated game of cards across the room. Slowly, he climbed the stairs, letting his mind wander as he instinctively made his way to his apartment.

On the second floor, he passed a coffee table that reminded him of an older black man with a deep voice and, oddly, piano music. He started humming a song that he didn't recognize as he continued to the next flight of stairs.

When he reached the third floor, he saw a worn soccer ball in a chair with a couple of dolls. He stopped and stared at them for a moment trying to grasp the image of a young girl in a bright yellow jersey and stretch it out into an actual memory. When even the mental picture slipped away, he sighed, slumped down on the bottom step of the last flight and closed his eyes.

He hated the residual weakness from his attack, and he couldn't stand not knowing anything about his past or the people downstairs or if – when – he would get better. Amnesia was not fun, and Neal was more than ready for it to be over.

Footsteps alerted him that someone was coming, but he didn't bother to raise his head. “Neal?” Peter cautiously spoke the name. “You okay?”

“Peter,” Neal muttered, not at all surprised that it was the FBI agent who'd come looking for him. Actually it wouldn't have surprised him if it were Mozzie or Elizabeth either, seeing as how they all liked to keep him in sight at all times.

“Hey,” the older man said as he eased down on a step close to Neal, “I just got a phone call. Diana and Jones arrested the guy that we think attacked you. Are you feeling up to viewing a line-up?”

Shaking his head, Neal finally looked up. “Not today. Please.”

“Okay. That's okay. We can hold him for forty-eight hours, and I think you need to get some sleep in a real bed.” He stood and held out a hand so that Neal could make the decision about asking for help or not. Elizabeth had pulled him aside a few minutes ago and told him to go easier on their friend, to give Neal time to request something before manhandling him into what Peter wanted him to do.

Neal stared at Peter's hand for a full minute before grasping it with his left and letting Peter pull him to his feet. As soon as he was steady, he let go and made his way up the remaining stairs by himself.

The studio apartment was not what he'd expected. The high ceilings and terrace alone were well worth whatever he paid for such a spacious home. There were drawings and paintings scattered about in various states of completion, which he wanted to examine more closely, but it was the view outside that drew his attention. It was breathtaking. Literally.

Peter slipped an arm around Neal's waist before he could take a second tumble onto the hard wood. He didn't say anything as he shuffled with Neal to the bed. He got the former conman seated on the mattress and then bent down to remove his shoes.

Removing his sweater and pants would be too much of an effort, so Neal lay down on his side, wrapped his arms around the closest pillow, and closed his eyes. He was vaguely aware of Peter placing his lower legs and feet on the bed, and then pulling a down comforter over him. Neal nodded off quickly and dreamed of the apartment, of paintings and sketches, of women and wine.

Peter took a seat on the couch and watched Neal sleep. He thought of the tracking anklet that he'd left in the console of the Taurus. He'd told Hughes that he'd put it back on his consultant tonight, but Neal was in no state to understand or deal with the shackle that he didn't remember negotiating for nearly three years ago. In fact, Peter was dreading that conversation.

“Hey,” Elizabeth whispered, peeking through the partially open door behind Peter. “Is he asleep?”

“Yeah,” he turned and beckoned her inside. “He made it all the way up the stairs, but I think it was a bit too much.”

She smiled and sat on his lap where he curled an arm around her back and she put her own around his neck. It was cozy and allowed them to comfort each other after the tough day. “He needs some independence. We've been hovering over him practically since he woke up.” She looked over at Neal when he sighed in his sleep and rolled over. “It must be scary, not knowing who you are, who we are.”

Peter rested his head against her shoulder but didn't say anything.

“What's wrong?” Elizabeth looked down at him but couldn't see his face.

“I have to put the anklet back on him tomorrow which means-”

“-that you have to tell him why you're putting a anklet on him. Oh, hon.” She hugged him and kissed the crown of his head. Who knew how Neal would react to that news. So far, he'd been almost completely unpredictable.

He leaned in to her and closed his eyes against all the possibilities of how tomorrow could go. He'd really hoped Neal's memory would return before he had to do anything with the tracker.

“You need to get some sleep.” She stood and held her hands out to him, but he shook his head.

“I should stay with him. Without the anklet on, I can't leave him alone.”

She frowned but nodded. “I talked to June on the phone a few minutes ago. She said that we could have any room that we wanted, so I'm going to find one just downstairs. If anything happens, come and get me, okay?”

Instead of lying, something he promised he'd never do to her, he just said, “Nothing's going to happen. He's sleeping, and I'm going to get some shut-eye too. This couch is more comfortable than it looks.” Elizabeth needed her rest too, and Peter wouldn't wake her for anything less than a life or death emergency.

She kissed him goodnight and left him to stretch out and try to calm his mind. He'd thought that finding Neal was the hard part, but he'd had no idea what he was stepping into when he walked in that hospital room a few days ago.

~~!!~~

Neal spent the next morning rifling through his life, trying to get a sense of who he used to be. By lunchtime, he'd determined that he was a damn good artist with a suit collection to rival a 1960s remake movie's costume department. He might or might not be a wino based on the number of empty bottles in his recycle bin and full ones in the wine rack. And he apparently took his meals elsewhere because the fridge was mostly empty except for some beers, a couple of opened bottles of white, and vegan cheese.

“Am I vegan?” he asked Mozzie with a seriousness that caused the grifter to laugh.

“No, despite my best efforts. Those are mine.” He pointed to himself when he said, “Lactose intolerant.”

Nodding, Neal grew even more somber. “Am I an alcoholic?”

Mozzie laughed even louder. This impromptu game of twenty questions was turning out to be the most fun he'd had in ages, subject matter notwithstanding. “Again, no. You and I both enjoy a vintage bottle every now and then.”

Neal raised an eyebrow. “Have you seen the empties in there?”

Leaning back in his chair, Mozzie only smiled and pointed to the chess board. “It's your move.”

They were sitting on the terrace at Neal's request. He loved the fresh air and the view and would probably stay out here all day if they let him. For the moment, he considered his options, hesitating before moving his knight. His headache had finally faded with more painkillers but the resulting haze was making it hard to focus. “Can I ask you another question?”

Mozzie immediately made his own move and said, “Checkmate.” He pushed the board aside and gave his full attention to his friend. “Judge a man by his questions rather than his answers.”

“Voltaire?”

“Correct. What did you want to ask?”

Neal leaned closer as he inquired, “What kind of work do I do with the FBI? That female agent-”

“Lady Suit. You usually call her Diana.” Mozzie was stalling for time by interrupting. This was the Suit's territory, and besides, they'd agreed to keep Neal's darker past quiet for now.

Neal hadn't quite gotten the hang of Mozzie's nicknames for everyone, though he'd figured out that anything Suit meant FBI, and that it wasn't a term of endearment. He frowned, but nodded. “Diana said that I was a consultant. What does that mean?”

Mozzie fidgeted with his wrist-kerchief and avoided Neal's eyes. “You... consult.”

Neal rolled his eyes and sighed. “Consult on what?”

“Evil government mind control experiments. I don't know. I don't ask,” Mozzie lied as he stood and made a beeline for the kitchen. “Do you want a drink? I need something.”

Neal slowly followed him inside as his curiosity was piqued even more. “You're not telling me something. What is it?”

Before Mozzie could respond, the apartment door swung open and Peter walked inside. He immediately frowned at the bottle in Mozzie's hand. “Isn't it a little early for that?”

Shrugging, Mozzie muttered something about needing vitamin C and scuttled out of the room with the entire champagne bottle.

Peter shot Neal a bemused look before realizing that Neal was probably more confused that he was. “You okay?”

Glaring at the question, Neal leaned against the kitchen counter and crossed his arms over his chest with a minor wince of pain. Maybe the painkillers were a good idea after all if his broken ribs and stitched wound barely pulled at his actions. “I really wish you'd stop asking me that.”

“Sorry.” Peter replied. “I won't ask again. For a couple of hours at least.”

Neal sighed but dropped that line of conversation. He had more pressing things on his mind anyway. “Peter, what do I consult on? Mozzie wouldn't tell me.”

This was the conversation that Peter had been dreading, but it was the one he'd come in here to have. He took a deep breath to steady himself and gather his thoughts before pulling Neal's anklet out of his pocket and holding it up.

Neal would have backed away if he could. “What's that?”

Peter decided that it was better to just rip the bandaid off, so to speak. He practically blurted, “This is your electronic monitoring anklet.”

Neal's mouth dropped open and his knees buckled when the words hit him. He'd heard them before; he'd said them before. Peter jumped forward to catch him, panicking when Neal's eyes rolled back and his lids shuttered closed. Was he... Peter was afraid to hope.

Images were flashing too fast for Neal to really grasp, and it took him a moment to realize that he was remembering moments from his past. Snapping his anklet in place and joking with Peter and Jones. Showing it off to a woman, a mark maybe, with a terrible pink scarf that clashed with her vibrant red hair. Sitting in a hotel room with Diana, both of them clad in bathrobes, as he drew a bridge on the wall. Fitting the anklet around a pug's neck. June's dog. Bugsy. The memories flooded back with a rapidity that overwhelmed his system, and he blacked out.

When he came to, he was laying on his bed in his apartment and Peter and Elizabeth were both by his side. Elizabeth was sitting on the mattress next to his hip while Peter hovered over her shoulder. “I remember,” he murmured, tone quiet with the weight of his affirmation.

Elizabeth's eyes filled with tears, and she pressed her hand to her mouth to keep from sobbing out loud while Peter hugged her from behind. Neal stared at the couple, letting his recollections of them and their friendship fall into place. He must have lost a few moments while stuck inside his head because the next thing he knew, Elizabeth was pulling him into a hug and Peter's arms were wrapping around him too. They held him as tightly as they dared, always mindful of his injuries, but he clung to them desperately as the stress and emotion of the past few days flooded over them, crested and washed away.

~Finis

Thanks for reading!


Crossposted at whitecollarhc and AO3