WARNING: SPOILERS FOR THE SUMMER FINALE!
Hope you enjoy…
Title: Near-Life Experience
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Title from the Lifehouse song.
Summary: The direct aftermath of the events in the summer finale. There's a bonding, of sorts, with every act they encounter.
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"Mistakes are a part of being human. Appreciate your mistakes for what they are: precious life lessons that can only be learned the hard way. Unless it's a fatal mistake, which, at least, others can learn from."
Al Franken
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Neal is first to reach the door, pushing through the gap between Diana and Peter and tearing down the stairs at a rapid pace.
"Neal?" June's voice reaches him before he's even set foot on the ground floor where she stands conversing with Alex. "What's wrong?"
"Neal!" Peter calls, two sets of footsteps chasing after his own. "Neal, Wait!"
"Woah, hold it there, Speedy-Gonzales," Alex says, and she takes a step back to obstruct his clear route across the foyer to the front door.
He tries to go round her, but she moves again and holds up her hand to stop him. She places her palm against his chest, already heaving with the exertion from the multiple-story sprint down the stairs.
"Get out of my way, Alex," he tells her, dragging in a ragged breath.
"Not until you tell me why you're running," she calmly replies. "I thought you were done with the Frank Junior routine."
"Alex, please, it's Moz – I have to – I need to find him," he says.
He's struggling to maintain a semblance of calm; the desperation already curling the edges of every word that falls from his lips, his eyes darting from her to the door and back to her again like a caged animal frantically attempting to escape.
"They're after him – Moz – he's the target – and he's out in the open," Neal tells her, gulping down a breath in between each snippet of information, as if he physically can't bear to speak it all at once. As if the magnitude of the conjoined jumble of words will create a jigsaw that will fragment his very being in an instant. "He's exposed, Alex. Please, I need to get to him – "
The two agents come to a sudden stop behind him and Peter immediately informs him that Diana's already called it in, that they'll have NYPD canvass the area; that they'll find him.
"What's he wearing?" Peter prompts then.
While Neal grapples with his frazzled brain and tries to process the information, Alex fills in the space he leaves open. "Brown pants, beige-ish shirt, gray blazer, brown-rimmed glasses," she tells him, the vision of the man during her earlier visit all too clear in her mind.
And then without another word, she grabs Neal's hand and pulls him towards the door.
She throws a look over her shoulder and tells the agents, "Moz may be small, but he moves surprisingly fast. We should go."
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When they receive word of possible sightings, they're already in the area looking for themselves.
It's literally a race against time, because while Neal may be playing on the side of the right and just, he still skirts the line and that brings him closer to danger than they'll admit. This current endeavor with the music box has attracted more threats than ever; already its price paid in bloodshed and stolen last-breaths and ended lives. Mozzie doesn't need to be added to the list.
"Neal!" Alex's strangled cry reaches his ears mere moments later and he breaks off in a sprint.
He finds her kneeling on the sidewalk and his first thought is that he hopes she doesn't scrape her bare knees on the rough stone, or ruin her dress. It's ridiculous and out-of-place, but he doesn't want to look up. He knows what he's going to see and he doesn't want to see it, doesn't want to have to acknowledge it, or process it or deal with it.
It's selfish, he knows, but this is Mozzie.
This is his best friend who is lying on the park bench, with Alex's hands pressed tightly against his chest, trying to plug the hole that just keeps spilling blood all over him and her and them.
This is his best friend who is bleeding out before his eyes, with the crimson circle that's spreading across the expanse of his upper torso and making it look like his shirt was that color all along.
This is his best friend who is dying right in front of him, and there's not a damn thing he can do about it.
"Ambulance is two minutes away," Peter notifies them, and he nods numbly at the information.
"You better have a police escort to get him to the hospital," Alex speaks up then, her tone matter-of-fact, but with a touch of something he can't quite decipher.
She whips her head round and the look in her eyes tells him she's being completely serious. The expression on the officer next to her confirms it, in case they'd been in any doubt.
Neal can hear the words she's left unsaid as profoundly as if she'd whispered them intimately into his ear in a silent room with just the two of them as occupants: Because he's not going to make it otherwise.
It swirls around in his head until all he can hear is those words and all he can see is Mozzie coughing up his own blood because it has nowhere else to go; and then Alex's voice is calling to him and Peter's hand is on his shoulder shaking him and Mozzie's eyes are clear and glassy and looking straight at him, straight through him.
"Moz," he says, almost choking on his breath as the stench of impending death floods his senses. "Oh God. Moz!"
He falls to his knees beside Alex and grabs the hand of their fallen comrade.
"C'mon Mozzie, stay with me here, just stay with me," he repeats over and over, like a mantra he daren't break, willing his best friend not to either.
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When the paramedics arrive and load Mozzie into the back of the ambulance, Neal stands side-by-side with Alex and watches as it pulls away from the sidewalk with the police motorcycles clearing a path in the busy afternoon traffic.
Her fingers thread through his, and when her hand nearly slips from his grasp, he curls his fingers and refuses to let go. When their palms connect and slide against once another with the blood still wet on hers, her fingertips hit the ridges of his knuckles and she digs her nails into the neat flesh. He doesn't even flinch, and she keeps her fingers bent like it's a cat's claw that binds them together.
He welcomes the chance to anchor her; it's all he can do not to crumble to the sidewalk and scream until his lungs give out.
Peter places a hand on his shoulder and says, "Come on, I'll drive you to the hospital."
Alex isn't as wary of the medical world as Mozzie, but that doesn't mean she'll go easily. When she doesn't let go of his hand, he supposes that's his answer and pulls her with him as he turns to follow after his partner. Peter opens the back door of the Taurus and Neal slides inside. He tugs Alex in after him, so she nearly falls into him as soon as she's inside the door. Diana and Peter get in the front, and the sound of sirens leading their way threatens to overwhelm.
He feels himself begin to sag against the seat and tries to pull himself up straight again, but Alex is leaning against him, her fingers still filling the spaces between his and their hands trapped between them. He supposes the reality of what's going on, the gravity of what she just had to do has hit full force. He holds tight to the door handle and tries not to leave any indentations on the armrest.
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Peter does all the talking when they get to the hospital, Diana on the other side of him and Alex still holding onto his hand like it's the only thing that's stopping her from bolting out the door.
They resign themselves to sitting on the hard plastic chairs, that uncomfortable feeling creeping into their bones with every passing minute; as unforgiving as it should be.
Alex is holding onto his arm with her free hand, her other clasped tightly to his as it rests on her thigh. His wiry limbs are lax under her touch and he's grateful for her closeness. He stays perfectly still, under the watchful eyes of his partner who sits across from him. He knows they're both waiting for him to come undone, but he's more numb than anything right now. Besides, if anyone's going to break down, it'll likely be Alex.
He hasn't seen her this shaken since that night all those years ago; the bullet wasn't meant for her then either, but her hands were stained crimson all the same and the damage was done.
June arrives with Elizabeth and Jones updates Peter on the chatter that Neal's missed out on because he's too busy sitting there, silently, letting the scenarios run through his mind like flashes of what if and what could be that merge to form transfigurations that are more brutal and lasting than the previous.
When Elizabeth takes a seat next to him and places a hand on his shoulder and one on his upper arm and rubs circles that are supposed to soothe against the material of his shirt, the friction alone makes him want to shrug out of her touch. It's insensitive and cruel, and he can't bear to see the hurt that he knows will flicker across her face before she masks it with plain understanding, so he stays put. After a few minutes, he has all but quashed his initial want to recoil from her touch, even relaxing an inch under her reassuring hands.
June is sitting next to Alex, the frown on her face and the low tones she's adopted testament to how worried she is.
"Would you like me to get you anything?" the elder inquires. "I think a coffee run may be in order, to ensure you all keep up your strengths while you wait."
"No, I – " Neal hears Alex reply, and knows the breath she takes in that cuts off her words mid-speech is to compose herself. "I'm fine, June, thank you. I'm just going to go to the bathroom to freshen up."
He knows she feels exposed, that she prides herself on how people see her, what they perceive her to be; they're cut from the same cloth. Except while the people surrounding them have witnessed him from multiple angles, have dealt with multiple sides of his personality, they've only really seen one side of Alex. The persona she has spent years creating; the one she shows to the world, lawful and unlawful alike, is currently lying on the floor in tatters along with what remains of their teammate's bloody shirt. The longer she sits there; hand clutching his, the deeper the damage.
She carefully stands, detangling her hand from his; and the way she smiles at June emulates the one he saw earlier while they were chatting in the foyer, almost perfectly.
He chances a look at her and instantly wishes he hadn't.
If he looked in a mirror, the expression she holds on her face, the chaotic swirl of emotion in her eyes, the subtle clenching of her fist that draws all she cannot show into one solid force; he imagines it would all be reflected back at him.
He watches her go, doesn't turn when Elizabeth squeezes his arm or even look up when June places her hand briefly on his cheek to take him in. Peter sits next to him, in the seat his wife just vacated, and claps a hand on his shoulder.
"The doctors seem confident he'll be ok," his partner tells him. "They had everyone standing by for when he arrived. He's in good hands, Neal."
"I know," he replies, nodding. He glances over at Peter, makes sure his partner can see he understands what he's being told, before dipping his head and repeating, "I know."
"C'mon, it's Mozzie," Peter says after a moment, cracking a smile and squeezing his shoulder in reassurance and an attempt at lifting his mood. "He hates hospitals, he'll be out of here before you know it."
Neal releases a low groan. "He's going to kill me when he wakes up."
"Well, at least you'll be expecting it," his partner says, almost teasingly, and slowly a smile creeps along his lips to lift them at the corners.
The irony in the statement isn't lost on him, and he could chastise Peter for his lack of tact, but soon Neal is smiling too. It helps lift the fog that's settled in front of his eyes, helps dim the noise from the foreign mess that his mind has become.
It makes him ever more grateful that he has Peter in his life, ever more grateful that he has any of them.
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June and Elizabeth return with coffee and he takes it with a thankful smile when it is offered to him. He walks the length of the corridor, turns when he reaches the end and spots the sign instantly.
He pushes the door open and silently makes his way inside. It's empty save for one person; the one he'd been seeking.
Alex is standing in front of the mirrors, head down, back bent, concentrating, as she scrubs furiously at her hands.
She releases a growl in frustration and snatches a scrubbing brush that sits on the sink-ledge and rubs it against the soap lathered in her palms.
The scrubber clatters against the curve of the basin a moment later and she leans both hands on the sides of the sink, lifting her head slowly to look in the mirror.
She shakes her head with a sigh when she catches him watching her intently.
"Waiting for me to collapse to the floor in a fit of sobs?" she asks, without turning round.
"No," Neal replies easily, honestly. "I came to see if you were ok."
He steps forward, and places his hand on her waist to get her to turn round and face him.
"Look at me, Alex," he tells her, taking her hands in his. "This is Moz, he'll be – "
"Fine," she finishes for him, lifting her gaze to meet his.
"Yeah," he breathes out, with a nod.
She gives him a shaky smile and a brief laugh with a bitter undertone that he doesn't miss. "He better be. He saved my life; I save his. That's how it works. Tit-for-tat. Now we're even. Everybody can move on, or whatever."
"I don't think any of us expected you to have to return the favor," he says, wincing slightly at her attempt at nonchalance.
It hurts him more than he'd admit that she's putting on this act for him of all people, but he understands that what's happened to Mozzie has thrown her off-kilter. What happened to Kate was devastating and the blow it dealt him had him questioning himself for months; sometimes it still does. Mozzie, though, he's different. He's always made sure he blends into the crowd, his work going unnoticed, his operations undetectable. They all performed acts that brought them attention, often deliberately, but Mozzie didn't operate that way; he was never supposed to be targeted.
Alex tilts her head and throws him a look, pulling her hands from his grasp. "Don't be naïve, Neal. It comes to all of us; you've just been lucky enough to avoid it so far."
"Why? Because I haven't been shot or blown up or beaten to a bloody pulp?" he responds, and the anger gives his words bite. "Do I really have to suffer through it physically to justify saying it hurts just as bad from both sides?"
"I'm not denying it hurts, Neal," she answers and there's that bitter laugh again when she throws her arms out and gestures to herself. "Look at me. I think it's fairly obvious you don't have to be the victim to be affected."
She reaches out and takes his hand this time, from where it hangs limply by his side. He tries not to let his gaze linger on her palm, still marked with a distinct red tint, as she places his hand on her forearm, covers his fingers with her own and traces the scar that marks her skin.
"Sometimes the scars are a good thing," she tells him, and takes a shaky breath in, swallowing it deep. "They remind us of our own mortality."
"I think Kate's plane blowing up and Mozzie being shot will leave enough of a lasting impression," he replies shortly.
"Do you remember?" she asks him then.
"What it was like?" he says, knowing exactly what she's referring to. He knows why as well, and it's not because she's hurt that she was left out of his previous statement. "Of course."
"But you weren't there for the aftermath," she says, and there is no bitterness in her voice, just simple fact. "Mozzie was."
He dips his head, and she moves their hands to her waist; he feels her sharp intake of breath as his skin molds to his touch.
"You heard the shot, you saw me go down," she carries on. "You helped carry me when I could barely stand on my own."
His fingers are splayed out across her side and he can feel every breath she takes like it dictates when he takes his.
"You were there, you saw it happen, but Mozzie was the one who sat with me and plugged the hole in my side and told me over and over, until I believed him when he said I wasn't going to die," she tells him, and the emotion that is missing in her voice is reflected in her eyes.
He runs the pad of his thumb over the indent in her side, it's tiny; the mark of a bullet, the size of a dime, no more, and yet the damage was huge.
"I'm not saying it's harder, Neal, it's not. It hurts; it all hurts," she says, her voice betraying nothing but her stark candor. "I'm just saying it's different."
"Why are you telling me all this, Alex?" he asks, tearing his gaze away from her. It honestly just hurts too much to look at her and remember that, while thinking of this, and he's having a hard enough time trying to keep it together as it is. "Is it to make me feel guilty? Because with everything that's happened, I'd have thought – "
"No," she tells him, cutting him off with a slight shake of the head, and he believes her instantly. There's something in the way she says it, the way she's looking at him now, the way she's cradling his face in her hands. "I'm saying it because I want you to understand."
He blinks, because he's not quite sure what she's trying to say, but he knows she's being completely honest with him. There's a raw clarity in this moment that the years and the person have taught him to be true.
Her hands fall to grasp his tightly, fingers knotting through his.
"I needed you today, Neal. I held onto you so tight that I gave you no room to deal with what was happening on your own," she says; and it's all beginning to make sense, the pieces of the puzzle falling into the places they should've held all along. "And you were there for me. So I wanted to say thank you."
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It is June who finds them like that, breaks the moment with her radiant smile and bright eyes.
"The operation was a success," she tells them, unable to contain her joy. "They've moved him into recovery, and they need to keep him under observation him for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, but the doctors are confident he should be on the mend in no time."
Alex releases an audible breath of relief, and mutters, "Thank God."
He hesitates at first, his mind still processing the information, and then his cheeks split into a wide smile.
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Peter and Elizabeth stand on either side of Neal outside the observation window, while June stands back near the opposite wall beside Alex.
"Byron used to get in some scrapes back then," she shares with a smile that betrays her fondness for the memories. "I remember one time though, the boys had to take him to the hospital. They were so scared to call me, because they didn't know how I'd react."
June shakes her head at the antics of grown men, recalling the exact moment in her mind.
"When I arrived, I found them all standing outside his room with their hats in their hands and their heads bowed. They looked like scared little schoolboys, the lot of them," she says with a laugh. "I remember the nurse telling me afterwards that I looked more put together than all of them combined. She said they'd been wringing their hands with worry and pestering anyone in sight the whole time they'd been there."
She lets the air settle between them, and places a gentle hand on Alex's arm, complete with a warm smile.
"I imagine it was one of those times where they tended to forget that I didn't work to their schedule, and my own expectations were the ones I strived to live up to," she says frankly, and looks to Alex knowingly.
June pats her arm reassuringly, the smile still present on her face as she turns back to look at the trio watching over Mozzie while he sleeps.
Alex takes in the husband and wife duo flanking Neal; Peter with a strong hand positioned on the Neal's shoulder, and Elizabeth half-curling her body into him with her arm hooked around his.
She supposes they all draw comfort and support where they can, when their own reassurances fail them.
It's a welcome change from the times of old; and she's certainly grateful to be a part of it.
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"Hey, honey, how are you holding up?" El's voice greets him on the other end.
Peter drops a sigh. "I'm more worried about Neal to be honest."
"I know," she sympathizes. "But you heard what the doctors said, Mozzie's responding well to treatment, it's just a matter of time until he wakes up. We just have to be patient."
"Normally I'd say that's a foreign concept to Neal, but he's been sitting by Mozzie's bed for over an hour now," he tells her. "And he doesn't look like he's about to move anytime soon."
"I know this is hard for you, Peter, but you just have to be there for him," El replies, the understanding clear in her voice; he's always grateful to have her ear, to receive her sound advice in return. "Neal just needs to know that you're not going anywhere, especially now."
"Yeah, well the sooner Mozzie opens his eyes the better," Peter says. "I'm beginning to think there'll be some sort of retribution for every day he's had to spend in this place."
El's laughter brings a smile to his face and brightens his mood considerably; he wonders if he'll be able to pass it onto Neal, if it'll pass like diffusion by proximity. He'll be by his partner's side no matter what.
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When Mozzie wakes up, Neal is sitting in the seat next to him, fighting sleep.
There are fresh flowers delivered daily from June and homemade treats left by Elizabeth, on the cabinet next to his hospital bed. He figures this place is out of Neal's radius so the Suit must be around somewhere, which is an oddly comforting thought; but obviously only because he's thinking of it in terms of Neal's welfare. There's an origami flower tucked into the arrangement in the vase and a book on codes next to it, obviously Alex's idea of a joke; although the idea that she'd followed through made him smile. Now they were even.
The first thing Mozzie notes when his eyes blink open and he takes in walls that are too white and a smell that is entirely too sterile, even for someone who's used to covering his tracks, is that he isn't shackled to the bed. No handcuffs; that's always a good sign.
He squints at the bracelet fastened to his wrist and a frown falls across his brow. However, he is most certainly in the system now, and that will not do.
The buildup of trinkets and the lingering floral scent battling with the stench of antiseptic clues him in to the fact that he's been here a while; which is too long in his book.
His frown deepens as he looks down and sees the overlay of wires leading to multiple machines; they're attached to him. This will not do either.
He starts to pull at the electrodes on his chest, removing them in turn, when he sees Neal blink sleepily, confusion coloring his features for the first minute as he rouses, and then clarity sets in.
"Moz?" he asks, and then his face breaks into a smile and he leans over to lay a calming hand on him.
The laugh he releases then is short, but Mozzie can sense the relief in it and it puts him at ease.
Neal's positively beaming, and Mozzie rolls his eyes; but the kid looks so damn happy that he can't bear to totally ruin the moment.
In all honesty, it's not the worst thing to wake up to after cheating death.
He's not going to tell Neal that, of course; the last thing any of them need is an expansion on the Caffrey resume that claims he can bring people back from the dead using only his good looks and charm.
A confident, well-versed, opportunist he may be; the Lord Almighty he is not.
He leans back into the pillows with a sigh and fights the inward battle to cut and run; Neal's here with him, where would he go?
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"There is nothing on this earth more to be prized than true friendship."
Thomas Aquinas
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The End.
A/N: as has since been pointed out to me, I made a rather gross oversight by including June since she's supposed to be away - let's jus pretend she came back early, yeah? Sorry!
Hope you liked it, please let me know what you thought
Steph
xxx