Agent Burke was furious. Hopping mad to be precise. Jason Almeida has been on the radar of the FBI for years. He was fencing stolen art of all kinds. Moreover, the White Collar division found evidence that Almeida was responsible for many of the art heists himself.
This undercover operation has been planned right down to the last detail with a lot of effort. The White Collar Team has checked the environment, positioned agents at the right places, prepared the complete operation with due skill, care, and diligence.
Almeida's MO was meticulously prepared deals. He was mistrusting of his business partners, bordering paranoia. But never has there been any report about him being armed. Not once.
So, when that scumbag drew a semi-automatic gun out of the duffel bag – the same duffel bag that was supposed to contain Pre-Columbian sacral gold jars - the FBI team has been caught off guard.
Burke stared at the aftermath of this disastrous operation. Glass shards all over the place, furniture upturned, paramedics treating the wounded agents. A wine rack had been hit. Therefore, puddles of wine were on the floor, emitting a distinct smell of booze. A probie who joined the team only 3 weeks ago was hurt pretty badly, gunshot wounds in the knee and torso. Two other agents have been winged. What a mess! This was supposed to be a clean arrest, not a carnage.
Eventually, they took Almeida down. Jones saved the operation by shooting the crazed criminal in the arm. Right now, the guy was still hollering and resisting first aid as well as the arrest.
Agent Burke was taking stock, analyzing the situation, and not in the best mood at all when Neal approached him. "Peter, you know I don't like guns! You promised this was going to pass off smoothly! You promised!"
Peter started to develop a headache. A sulky CI was just was he needed right now! Neal's reproachful look and the whining voice wasn't helping either. "Neal, not now! I'm not in the mood for one of your tantrums!"
Named CI looked definitely like a wounded puppy right now. "I'm hurt! I think I fell and hit my head. And look, my favorite Devore suit is torn!"
Neal has been participating in the operation, disguised as a wealthy buyer for the stolen goods. Apparently, he has been just as surprised as everyone else by the ugly turn of events. However, he has been lucky. A little hole in the sleeve of his jacket seemed to be the only harm he suffered. While agents all over the place worked frantically to assess the material damage, secure evidence and help wounded team members, his consultant decided to crave attention.
"Caffrey, you're such a nuisance. If you can't make yourself useful here, go back to the Bureau, write your report and go home! I don't have the time or the nerves to deal with your antics. Get out off my sight! Now."
Nuisance? He had been called many a thing, but never a nuisance. The ex-criminal knew that low, stern voice good enough to understand his handler was more than mad. Today wasn't the day to pick a fight. Probably, it was in his own best interest to follow instructions for a change.
Back at the Bureau, Neal went straight to the restroom. He was in agonizing pain. His head felt as if an army of mini dwarfs was hammering away his brain. He soaked some paper towels in cold water and applied a cold compress. It helped to relieve the pain a bit, but unfortunately bending over the sink made him feel dizzy. Very dizzy, as in the restroom started to turn. Slowly, he sank down to sit on the floor. Oh yeah, these granite tiles have been quite hard when his head had hit them. Next time, he should ask Peter to ensure any undercover operation would be carried out in a room with thick carpet.
The graze wound at the shoulder wasn't too bad. It was certainly not his first gunshot or the first one he had to patch up on his own. He had everything at home to treat the wound, antiseptic, sterile bandage, plus a triple antibiotic ointment. He'd better finish the report for Peter so that he could go home to his apartment.
The White Collar offices were otherwise empty. It was Saturday, and the agents who weren't involved in taking down Almeida were off duty.
Jenny, the young agent who has driven Caffrey back to the office, was wondering why the handsome consultant took so long in the restroom. She knocked on the door. "Neal, are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'll be with you in a moment."
Neal concluded if Agent Burke refused to get him treated by the paramedics, that was his way of putting a defiant CI in his place. After all, it wasn't a life-threatening injury. The ex-criminal as been in worse condition, several times actually and recovered without seeing a doctor. Most likely, his handler was aware of that after years of chasing him. The young man couldn't shake off a sense of disappointment and betrayal.
On the other hand, Caffrey appreciated his current job and the benefits that came with it. This ill-treatment felt neither fair nor deserved, though. He might have been flippant every now and then, joking around, making even fun of his handler, but he has always delivered what he was asked for. Sure enough, he thought that Peter understood. Understood that Neal Caffrey actually had the deepest respect for his handler. More respect than he had felt in ages for anyone.
None of that! Whining had never helped to get something fixed. So, he'd do what Neal Caffrey was famous for: put up a smile and make things work.
He got up from the floor, slicked down his hair with water from the faucet. His tie would serve as a bandage for the upper arm to stop the bleeding. He grinned into the mirror. Showtime!
Jenny was relieved when the bathroom door eventually opened and the consultant came out. She was worried whether something might be wrong with Caffrey but didn't feel comfortable entering the men's room to invade his privacy.
He looked a bit pale. All in all however, he looked gorgeous, breathtaking, and a bit like one of those superheroes from the movies. Admittedly, she had a crush on him. But then, all the girls in the office swooned over him, except Diana, of course. Maybe even some of the guys were under his charm.
She hasn't worked directly together with him since she joined the White Collar division. So, being close to him, staring right into his face, she started stammering. "Are you... I mean you look... Have you... Hm. You took your tie off. I've never seen you without a tie!"
He threw his radiant, 1000 Watt smile at her. Jenny was far too young and inexperienced to see that it never reached the eyes, or notice the muscles tensing around the corner of his mouth. "It's Saturday. I thought business casual would do. Don't rat me out!" Having said that, he winked at her mischievously.
The young agent almost sighed before she regained composure. "Um, are you alright? Agent Burke called. He needs me back at the crime scene. If you don't need me here, I'm heading out."
Caffrey was actually looking forward to being alone in the office. No further need to put up a happy face whilst a splitting headache was killing him. "I'm fine. Don't worry. I'm going to be a good CI, write my report and put it on Peter's desk before I leave. Maybe, I'll take an Aspirin later on. Although, your company might be just the right remedy to make my little headache go away."
It took him more than two hours to complete the report. Staring at the bright computer monitor felt like torture, hence he couldn't concentrate on building sentences that made any sense. Eventually, he got the report completed, printed it, signed it, and put it on Peter's desk. Admittedly, not his best piece of work, but it would do.
The cab ride to his apartment seemed to take forever, even though he dozed off a few times. June wasn't at home. Caffrey couldn't remember where she was. He was positive she told him, but for the life of it couldn't recall whether she went to see her daughter or on a charity cruise. It has been only yesterday when they said goodbye.
Climbing up the stairs took all the energy he had left. By the time he had made it to his room, he was sweating and had developed a feeling of nausea.
°-° Peter's POV °-°
It was late in the afternoon when Peter Burke finally returned to the Bureau. It has taken ages until the crime scene investigation was completed. Anything and everything took longer than expected. The good news was, however, the agent who was taken to the hospital had to stay overnight, though wasn't hurt seriously.
They had to wait to interrogate the arrested criminal until the drugs wore off. He had to be sedated by the doc eventually. The White Collar team has started early today setting up the operation. As such, Peter has sent his team home already to enjoy the rest of the weekend. The FBI agent was supposed to finish the paperwork on the case. El was out of town for the weekend. No one was waiting for him at home anyway. But even though, he showed little enthusiasm to get started with that report.
Burke groaned seeing Neal's report sitting on the desk. As much as his consultant tried to avoid writing reports, once started, he came up with elaborate files. It was unbelievable how many words there were to describe the tie of a suspect, its knot, length, color, pattern, quality, and even the season when this specific tie was part of the ready-to-wear collection of the designer brand. And that was just about the tie. Suits, shoes, shirts, even belts were commented in detail as well. Peter thought that his CI's perfect observation skills in combination with the mission to drive his handler nuts was the reason why the reports were usually as long as a novel.
After a long and frustrating day like today, even a seasoned FBI Agent like Peter Burke had enough. Caffrey's sulky behavior had annoyed him to no end this morning. Was he really up for reading an epic report probably full of pouting complaints? This could just as well wait until Monday morning.
Surprisingly, the report seemed to be very short, only two pages were in the folder. That struck the agent a little odd. So, he sighed, sat down on the edge of his desk, and started reading the report. It was unusually incoherent, even missing punctuation marks. Important details, like time and place of the operation, were missing at all.
Peter was puzzled finishing the first page of the report. This was noticeably different from Neal's usual style. Something wasn't right here. Eventually, when reading the last section, the FBI Agent gasped for breath: "Almeida pulled the gun out of his bag and started shooting. I got hit on the shoulder. The impact caused me to fall backward. My head hit the the stone floor. It was a hard Italian granite stone floor. I don't remember what happened right after that."
Peter was shocked. Was that true? Never, not even for a second had he actually suspected his consultant having been injured this morning, shrugged off the complaints. Neal talked about falling down and a torn suit, but not about being shot. It dawned on him that what he has dismissed as whining behavior was actually his consultant being in a state of shock.
Where was Neal now? Probably, in the ER of a nearby hospital. Peter reached for his phone to call him and check. All three times, only the mailbox answered. Seriously worried about his friend, the FBI agent pulled the tracking data. Caffrey seemed to be at home. So far so good. On the downside, the tracking data showed he headed straight to his apartment at Riverside Drive after leaving the office, no stop at the hospital or a doctor.
Without any hesitation, Burke grabbed the car keys and his jacket to make his way to the elevators. The case report could wait until Monday morning, his friend not.
No one answered the doorbell. It seemed that neither June nor her staff were at home. On days like this, Peter was glad to have a key to enter the apartment. The main room was dark, curtains were drawn shutting out the afternoon sun. "Neal? I'm coming in!"
Burke switched on the light. Neal's white dress shirt was hanging over a kitchen chair; the sleeve stained with blood. Though no trace of his friend. He followed a light shining out of the ajar bathroom door.
Caffrey was sitting on the tiled floor, wearing pajama pants and a vest. There was a bandage on his upper arm that looked quite professionally done. His face was as white as a ghost, but he looked reassuringly conscious and alert. "Neal! How are you? You should be in a hospital!"
"Peter? What are you doing here?" The consultant was confused. He hasn't expected his handler to come looking for him after he more or less bundled him off earlier on.
The agent entered the room carefully, trying to prevent scaring the injured man who might still be in shock. "You frightened the heck out of me. I couldn't reach you by phone. I've expected to find you in an Emergency Room. You've been shot!"
That didn't make sense to Neal. His heartfelt anger showed when he finally spoke. "I told you that I was hurt this morning. You sent me away to write my report and go home! How was I supposed to know that this includes a stopover in a hospital? I'm not up for playing mind games right now. Just leave me alone. I promise on Monday morning, 9 am, I'm back at the office doing my job. It's not the first time that I was injured. I can manage on my own. Thank you."
Agent Burke was aghast, yet he understood the reaction.
"Neal, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You haven't said that you were shot, just complained about your torn suit and a headache. I didn't connect the dots. I would've dragged you to the paramedics if I had known. By no means, I would have let you go to the office at all! You're injured, needing medical treatment. I was so occupied with the crime scene, exasperated by the ugly turn the op took. Still, that's no excuse!. I should have listened to you, checked on you."
Peter seemed to be in genuine concern. Caffrey failed to remember his exact words earlier on. Maybe he hasn't been stating clearly enough that he got shot? On the other hand, what if this was only a dirty trick the FBI agent played? Mozzie always warned him not to trust the pigs. "So, what made you change your mind and come looking for me if you haven't believed I'm hurt?"
Peter crouched down to look him straight in the eyes. "I read your report. You stated quite clearly that you were shot and your head hit the ground full force. I know I can be pig-headed at times. But I would never send someone from my team away without proper medical treatment."
Neal felt still aggrieved, angry. So his response was heated. "I'm an ex-criminal, a CI, not a proper FBI agent. You told me more than once that I would be sent back to prison right away if I'm not delivering results."
The FBI agent gulped. He hasn't realized that the harmless banter had felt like a threat to his consultant. "You're a member of my team, every bit as valuable as everyone else. On top of that, as your handler, I have a special responsibility for you." He paused. After a moment, swallowing his pride, he continued, "And as a friend, I care for you. Come on, let's get you to the hospital!"
Neal finally seemed to believe him. "I was winged, that's all. I treated the wound. No need to go to a hospital. In my line of work, I've seen worse and survived."
Peter couldn't help smirking. "Whenever you wanna share details, I'm ready to listen!"
That raised a wry smile from the ex-criminal. "No, thanks. I don't wanna brag but I think it is fair to state that I'm a semi-professional in treating open wounds."
"I have to admit that dressing looks professional to me. So, why are you sitting on the cold floor?"
Neal groaned with annoyance. "After I threw up for the third time, I decided it isn't worth the hassle to go back to bed."
His handler came to the right conclusion. "You have a concussion!"
"Yes, I have a concussion, I've diagnosed that already. My head is throbbing, I don't remember much of what happened today. I feel dizzy."
Peter made up his mind. "You need to see a doctor. Come on. I'll bring you to the hospital. I'm not going to let you sit on the floor of your bathroom without medical attention."
The younger man shook his head. "A doctor can't help me with a concussion. All I need is rest. Preferably somewhere dark and silent like in my bedroom. Sitting in the waiting area of a crowded ER won't help me at all. You know there is no treatment for concussion. I've already taken medication to help with the headache and nausea. It's getting better. Having a doctor poking a bright light into my eyes won't improve my condition."
The agent was undecided. "You can't stay here alone. June isn't at home to take care of you. If you have to vomit again while sleeping, that can be very dangerous."
Neal had a different view on the matter and, of course, opposed vehemently. "Trust me, there isn't anything left in my stomach that I could throw up. All I need is my bed. Please, don't drag me to a hospital!"
Peter checked the box of prescription-only medicine. He didn't even want to know how this drug made his way to Neal's home medicine chest. It seemed to be a powerful painkiller to treat headaches. As a young athlete, Peter Burke had suffered a few concussions himself. Neal was right, the hospital wouldn't treat the concussion, just make a diagnosis and put him into a hospital bed.
Eventually, he decided in favor of his consultant. He went over to Neal, putting an arm around him. "Okay, let's get you off this cold floor. You're better placed in bed."
Neal nodded relieved. He felt lousy and unfit to fight with his handler any longer. Usually, it was impossible to change Peter's opinion once he had set his mind.
With Peter's help, he made it to his bedroom. He struggled to come to terms with the situation. It might have been a misunderstanding that his handler had ignored the injury and sent him away – but still, the rejection felt real. Undeniably, Neal felt sore about it. On the other hand, the agent seemed to be genuinely concerned, even appalled by the idea having dismissed his wounded consultant, refusing help.
Whatsoever, he found it comforting to have Peter's supportive arms to help him back to the bedroom. Peter was warm and reliable and strong. So, he gave in, accepting the helping hand.
Peter tucked the consultant into bed, making sure that he was covered with the blanket. Neal's skin has felt cold from sitting on the floor for hours. "Yeah, lie down, get a good rest, Neal. We'll see if you feel better in the morning. If you're getting sick again, shout and I'll help you to the bathroom."
His consultant was surprised. "You hang around for a while? You don't need to do that. I'm fine."
Burke wasn't having any of it. "Haven't finished the crossword puzzle in the paper yet. El's away. I can do that just as well here in your apartment, watching the sunset over Manhattan."
He sat down at the kitchen table, preparing for a long night. If Neal's condition worsened, he'd bring him to the hospital, no matter what. After a little while, when he assumed his consultant has fallen asleep already, he heard a soft voice from the bedroom.
"Tell me, am I really nothing else but a nuisance to you?"
Peter chuckled. "I won't deny that you can be a nuisance every now and then. But you're so much more than that. I like having you on my team. You're a real asset. Plus - don't kid yourself, I'm going to deny that I have ever said this if you quote me outside of this room - I reckon you to be a friend. And now: Sleep!"
Neal woke up in the middle of the night, head still hurting, pain in his upper arm biting, but much better than earlier that day. He needed a moment to remember what happened. To his surprise, he heard a faint snoring from the main room.
Still feeling light-headed he moved slowly towards the living room. Peter Burke had obviously crashed on his sofa. Which was way too small for him. Neal hadn't expected that. The agent has done his part. He didn't have to stay.
He stared at the sleeping agent, touched that Peter cared enough for him to spend the night on the uncomfortable sofa just to look after him. Before Neal went back to bed, he threw a blanket over the sleeping agent. Things were never really bad when you've got a friend with you.