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It’s not even his fault, this time.
He wasn’t—wasn’t being reckless, not even by Peter’s standards, wasn’t doing anything but going for a midnight run.
Okay, so, maybe running across the roof of a condemned building wasn’t actually as careful as he’d promised June he’d be after the last time she had to patch him up, but how was he supposed to know he’d land wrong when going down?
How was he supposed to know he’d land straight in a pile of rubble?
Neal couldn’t possibly have anticipated being impaled during what wasn’t even supposed to be a patrol, just a fun little way to keep active. He’s been jumping across rooftops for so long, it’s all instinct at this point. He just… didn’t see that his landing wouldn’t work out until he was already in the air.
Maybe he should’ve just stayed home. He was supposed to stay home. Shit, he’d forgotten to text Peter that he got back to the apartment earlier–
Focus, Caffrey.
He can’t stay here. If he stays here, he’s as good as dead. June can fix him up again, he just needs to get home and then he’ll be fine.
He’ll be fine.
Neal pushes himself into a sitting position and somehow, the pain gets even worse. His vision darkens, and his stomach turns, but he wills himself not to throw up.
As he prods around the injury—not all the way through, too high up to have nicked his intestines, but just high enough that it could have gotten his lung, only bleeding sluggishly as the rebar staunches his blood—a thought comes to him.
He needs to make it home somehow. Has to get home if he doesn’t want to go to an ER. But he also almost passed out from the pain when he was just trying to sit up.
It’s a stupid idea.
Mozzie made him promise not to try it again after he overdid it last time while waiting for June to come home. That time, it had only been a broken arm, and he’d already taken pain meds, meaning his control kept slipping and—well. Mozzie found him before June did, in the end.
He should just call someone. Mozzie, June, Peter, hell, even Alex. But this—it’s life or death. He doesn’t want them to rush here just to be too late.
It’s not a very fun experience, using his powers on himself. From what he could tell, based on what Mozzie told him the one time he allowed him to try and Charm him—for science, he’d said—it’s not that different from what everyone else feels like. Mozzie hadn’t said anything about a cold sweat and dizziness, though, so those are probably just him. Some base instinct of Neal’s, revolting against what should be emitted being turned inwards. Besides, it’s just more exhausting than any normal use of the Words.
Can’t get worse than it already is, Neal thinks, and opens his mouth.
“You’re fine.”
He can’t quite get a grasp on it as his body protests even the slight movements of speech, but Neal can’t let himself be deterred by a little discomfort.
“It doesn’t hurt. You can make it home. You won’t pass out. You’re fine. Just go home.”
Even as he says it, before the Words have any way of settling on his brain, Neal is acutely aware that it will be about as effective as putting a bandaid on a stab wound.
A split second later, though, the throbbing pain fades into a dull ache, and he breathes deeply for the first time since he fell. It’ll come back, he knows. It will come back, and he’ll have to do it all over again, pray he makes it before his energy runs out.
But…
Even that thought is whisked away by the Words.
He’s fine.
Neal gets up, robotically, and for a split second it feels like being stabbed all over again, but it fades just as quickly as it came.
It barely hurts, now.
There probably isn’t much for June to fix. Maybe he was wrong about the length of the rebar.
He climbs back up on the roof. It’s a much quicker way of travel, after all.
His control doesn’t slip until the eighth rooftop he lands on, and he has to lie down on it, starfishing for a minute before he can catch his breath enough to redo the Charm.
This time, it’s already less effective. His body carries on, even through the pain, and he knows that if he wants to conserve as much energy as possible, he has to consider letting himself feel it. To consider concentrating on forcing himself to move, to stay awake, to get home in one piece.
The next time the Charm breaks, Neal can’t move for a full five minutes. He knows he just needs to make it work one more time, then he’ll be back at the apartment and June can take care of him, but he’s so—he’s tired. Every part of him aches to go to sleep, and the words jumble the first time he tries to make himself move again.
He had a small amount of hope left that he wouldn’t be entirely useless once he got to June’s, but there’s no point in keeping false hope alive. Neal raises his Voice again, and makes the decision he’d hoped to avoid:
“Go home. You know the way. You don’t get to sleep tonight. No passing out, either. Pull your coat tight, so no one sees, and walk.”
There’s no use in trying to use the Words to push back the pain. He’s too tired for elaborate mindtricks, his powers too depleted already to do much of anything other than keeping him awake and moving.
Neal walks, and it’s agony.
He walks, and he can feel his body and mind fighting against the Words, only adding to the discomfort.
He walks his endless walk, his own Odyssey, he thinks bemusedly, and it takes hours even though he knows he was only ten minutes away from June’s.
The house is silent when he finally gets inside, and Neal knows he’s made a miscalculation.
June—June was—
He can’t remember.
But she’s not here.
She’s supposed to come back later tonight, he knows she’s not staying anywhere, but he doesn’t know when and—
A sob shakes its way out of his throat and it sends fresh pain exploding through his torso.
Neal gathers some of the last strength he has left for one more set of commands to himself.
“Go upstairs. Lay down. Stay awake until June gets home.”
Each step feels like being stabbed all over again. The walk up the stairs is as endless as the way here.
He already knows he’ll be groggy and laying in bed with a migraine for days after this. It's one of the few things June can't help him with, no matter how badly she wants to: overuse of his own powers.
God, Mozzie will be insufferable about this one.
Neal can take it, as long as Peter doesn't find out.
As if summoned by this very thought, when Neal reaches the top of the stairs, he sees the shoes immediately.
They can only be Peter’s.
He wants to keel over with it, with the knowledge that he'll have to somehow manage to keep up his charade until Peter leaves or June gets home. That he’ll have to avoid any and all physical touch if he doesn't want him to go mad with worry.
Neal pulls himself together.
One last time.
His voice is barely above a whisper, and still, he can feel it reverberate in his bones.
“You're fine. Act normal. Don't go to sleep. Peter can’t know.”
He retreats into himself. Lets the Command take over, even though he knows he’ll have to check back in eventually, or Peter will notice. But, for now, he lets the Words carry him into his apartment, awaiting judgement.
At least the disconnect between his mind and body should make him feather-light enough to pass the weighing of his heart.
Peter is sitting on the sofa when he enters.
Neal finds he doesn’t greet him, the Command seemingly not deeming it necessary, and instead, he just walks to the fridge to get two beers.
His coat is a vice around him. The pressure might be the only thing keeping him from floating away from what is happening entirely.
Some part of him wishes it wouldn’t. It would mean he won’t have to deal with whatever comes next, only the consequences of it. Would mean he won’t have to feel the pain even through the haze.
He’s just out of it enough, though, to watch their conversation from the passenger’s seat.
“Where were you?”
Peter doesn’t look up from his phone as he asks, and Neal thanks whoever might be listening for small mercies.
He sighs,
“Went on a run.”
Despite the fog of his own powers, his voice is clear, and it shrieks in him. It’s like he can hear, no, feel every frequency of it at once, everywhere, and it makes his eardrums ache with it.
“So, you were hopping around New York City’s roofs again.”
Neal shrugs.
“Nothing illegal about a little late night exercise.”
It’s worse, this time. Somehow, it’s worse, because he can feel the pitch fraying him. A violin string about to snap and cut into flesh, his vocal folds chafe and burn with everything.
At least this part is familiar—it always happens when he uses his Voice too many times. Eventually, after using his powers over and over, even normal talking will make his mouth taste like blood and his throat sore.
“Neal—”
Peter looks up, and Neal knows he’s been caught.
Usually, Neal is… oddly glad about having someone this close to him be immune to his Charm. It’s nice, knowing that whatever he did to deserve Peter’s friendship, it wasn’t the lingering aftereffects or a latent lilt in his voice.
Right now, it’s nothing short of terrifying.
They stare at each other.
Neal’s body blinks, and Peter is so close to him when he opens his eyes again that he has to will himself to take a few steps back to avoid his watch.
It’s not normal behavior.
It’s a bad idea to revolt against the Command when it’s so weak already.
It’s his only option.
Thankfully, he manages to hold onto it, but he pays the price—he has to stay in the driver’s seat, now. There’s no leaning back. He has to focus on what normal means, here.
Peter’s face scrunches.
“Okay, what’s going on?”
“I'm just tired, Peter. I'm tired, and I needed to talk to June about something and forgot she was out tonight, so I’m slightly annoyed,” Neal talks for two syllables too long, and regrets it immediately as it burns down his throat like a cup of lava.
His ears ring with it.
He feels… refracted, somehow.
It slips. Just for a millisecond, his hold on himself slips and he gasps. Lets a hand wander to the spot on his coat that is ever so slightly darker than the rest.
Peter freezes immediately when he notices. Sees the dark spot, slowly spreading under his hand. Can probably see the slightest tinge of red where it touched the stickiness slowly permeating the fabric.
“Are you hurt?”
Peter can't know. Peter can't know. Peter can't know. Peter can't know. Peter can't know can't know can't know can't know can’tknowcan’tknowcan’tknOWCAN’TKNOWCAN’TKNOW—
“Just a scratch.”
His grip on the command is iron tight. It's the only thing keeping him standing, he can't—
Neal is focused. Too focused on keeping up the Charm. He doesn't notice Peter reaching out, and when he does, it's too late. He's too sluggish to react.
Peter drops a hand on his shoulder, and the world crashes back into focus.
There's blood in his mouth. Whether from the overuse or the rebar, he can't tell.
Before he knows it, he’s doubling over, sending fresh, white-hot sparks across his torso as every muscle in his abdomen contracts while he vomits.
It's red.
Neal looks up at Peter, but before he can decipher the look on his face, the world goes black.
***
There's hushed voices from the kitchen when he wakes.
His curtains are drawn, thank God for small mercies, and someone has wrapped him in a veritable mountain of blankets.
He's also distinctly lacking a piece of rebar in his abdomen, so June must have come home. Probably shortly after he passed out, or he'd have woken up in a hospital instead of his own bed. Peter wouldn't have been inclined to wait a whole lot of time once he passed out.
Neal tries to make his newfound wakefulness known to them by clearing his throat, but it’s no use. No sound comes out.
He should have known. It's only ever been this bad once before, but he should have known.
His pathetic attempt at communication must have been noticed, though, because soon enough, there's footsteps and a gentle hand in his hair.
“Go back to sleep, Neal. We'll talk when you feel better.”
Some more sleep does sound nice.
Neal furrows into his covers, ignoring the ache in his throat, and does what Peter tells him to do.