Chapter 14

Content warning for speculation that Neal was suicidal and overdosed on purpose. Spoiler: he didn't.

"What happened?" Peter asked Dr. Santos. "You said he'd be fine."

Dr. Santos and U.S. Marshal Simon Preston were pulling an unconscious Neal Caffrey from where he had been sitting, so that he was sprawled fully on the bed. Standing next to the nightstand, the doctor picked up the bottle of bright blue prescription-strength medicine and swore. "I gave him a dose of this while you were in the hall. But he must have taken two more doses."

"Did he overdose on purpose?" U.S. Marshal Marcy Weaver asked.

"He was still somewhat under the influence of the dosage he took last night, and a common side effect is confusion. It's not unusual for patients to forget they have just taken it, and then take it again. Fortunately, an overdose tends to trigger vomiting, so he expelled most of it before it got into his system. I just don't know how I missed seeing him taking it. I barely turned my back on him."

"He's an expert in misdirection and sleight-of-hand," Peter offered, recalling how smoothly Neal had taken his car keys. "Do we need to get him to a hospital?"

"No," the doctor said, as he checked Neal's pulse and breathing. "His vital signs are strong. He should regain consciousness in about half an hour."

Weaver checked her watch, clearly not wanting to wait around that long. "And he had taken this same medication last night?"

Peter nodded. "Shortly before he misdialed the drugstore."

She frowned. "Can we see his ID?" Peter went through Neal's wallet and pulled out the Henry Winslow driver's license, which Weaver and Preston studied. Finally she said, "He doesn't look twenty-seven."

Before Peter could offer the reminder that sleep made most people look younger, the doctor spoke up. "He's not. He's twenty-four." When everyone stared at the doctor, he shrugged. "I asked him for those statistics and his medical history last night. He said he's twenty-four."

"This isn't his real ID," Weaver stated, looking to Peter for an explanation.

"He wanted to rent a car. That's a challenge for a twenty-four-year-old. I wouldn't put it past him to get a fake ID for things like that." Peter considered what to share next. On the one hand, he understood the Marshals' desire to know the kid's real identity. On the other hand, he'd promised to keep Neal's family out of it, and telling the Marshals that he thought Neal Caffrey was the kid's real name might break that promise. "He's a CI. No, I don't have a social security number for him. No, I wouldn't necessarily trust that number if he gave you one. And yes, he has several aliases, probably more than I know about."

The Marshals conferred for a moment and decided they could leave. As Peter escorted them out of the room, Preston handed him a business card and asked, "Has he ever gone by the name Danny?"

"That one's not on my list of known aliases," Peter said.

"If you hear of him using it, give me a call," Preston requested.

"Is this Danny of yours in some kind of trouble?"

"He's a missing person. His family would like to know where he is."

Family. Neal had said his family might think he was dead. And this morning Neal might have died of an overdose. Was that a coincidence? Did he suspect it was the Marshals at the door, and been willing to escape through any means? "How long has he been missing?"

"He disappeared about six years ago."

Peter closed the door behind them and stood lost in thought. Missing persons wasn't the Marshals' jurisdiction. Their interest would be in missing prisoners, or missing witnesses. If Neal was Danny, what had he gotten himself into? Was this why Neal said he hadn't had many options other than crime?

Walking out of the entryway, Peter saw the doctor sitting at the desk, making notes. The man looked up and asked Peter, "What's a CI?"

Taking the opposite chair, Peter explained, "It stands for Confidential Informant. It's sort of like a consultant. Someone with knowledge or connections useful to law enforcement can act as a CI to help catch criminals, and often will get immunity in return."

"Your stepson had a troubled past?"

"You have no idea. In fact, I'm beginning to think I've seen only the tip of the iceberg."

Both men worked in silence until Neal started mumbling in his sleep. They looked up when they heard him saying, "Stop. No!"

The doctor sat on the bed and brushed his hand over Neal's forehead. "Not running a fever," he said. "It's a run-of-the-mill nightmare."

"I promise. Just stop," Neal pleaded, his breath quickening.

"It's only a dream," Dr. Santos told him. "You're safe."

"Please," Neal said, not calming down. He wrapped his arms around his rib cage, as if protecting himself.

"Do you want to try?" the doctor asked Peter, standing up. "He's more likely to respond to a familiar voice."

Peter was dubious that his voice was familiar enough after a day into the father-son act, but he sat on the bed and put a hand on Neal's shoulder. "Hey, kid. It's okay," he said gruffly. "You're dreaming. No one's going to hurt you."

That seemed to do the trick. Neal's breathing slowed and he relaxed back into undisturbed sleep.

Dr. Santos said, "He knows he's safe with you here."

Not even the infamous Neal Caffrey could pull off a con while asleep. Suddenly Peter felt a terrifying sense of responsibility. "We're not even related."

"Yes, as a stepfather yours isn't a biological relationship. But sometimes the family we choose is even more important to us than the family we're born into. Whatever he might say, in his heart he trusts you."

"That's... Wow. That's a little overwhelming."

The doctor smiled. "And that response tells me a lot about why he trusts you." He checked his watch. "Go ahead and wake him up."

                                                                    ###

Neal had long ago learned to sleep lightly, so he could stay a step ahead of the law or partners who wanted to sneak away with his share of the take. As a result, his struggle to wake surprised and disoriented him. He didn't remember where he was, or who was with him. But he knew he wasn't alone.

A voice continued, urging him to wake. Neal knew that voice. As awareness grew, his eyes opened, slammed shut in reaction to the light, and then opened again more slowly. His grogginess worried him, but he wasn't in immediate danger. "What happened?"

"Three times the recommended dose of a prescription medicine happened," Peter said in what could only be called an accusing tone. The man was upset, pacing the floor beside the bed. "What were you thinking?"

"Ummm." Neal slowly sat up and leaned against the headboard. He didn't quite follow Peter's question, so he just said, "Water?"

"He's probably a bit dehydrated," said someone Neal couldn't quite place, but since he handed over a glass of water, Neal decided to like him.

As soon as Neal handed back an empty glass, Peter continued the interrogation. "Do you have any idea what could have happened?"

Having no idea what had happened, much less what could have happened, Neal shook his head and said, "This isn't my shirt." The stranger laughed, and the fog lifted a little. He wasn't a stranger. He was Dr. Santos. Peter had said Neal could have more medicine after the doctor checked him over. And so Neal had taken a dose when the doctor seemed to be done. But maybe the doctor had already given him some? Or had that been the night before? And there had been other people. "Were there really Marshals here, or did I dream that?"

"That was real," Peter confirmed. "As was your overdose. Now tell me: did you do that on purpose?"

"What? Why would I..." Neal simply stared at Peter.

"I think that's a no," added Dr. Santos.

"Thank God." Peter sat down heavily on the bed across from Neal's.

Author's Note: I'm not a medical expert and wrote these scenes for entertainment purposes only. Please don't overdose on medications.