CRIMINAL
by
Lacadiva
Rating: PG-13 for violence.
Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me, but to Jeff Eastin and USA Network.
Summary: Elizabeth and Neal are shot in a jewelry heist. Peter thinks Caffrey is to blame. After all, he is a criminal…
~WC~
He demanded the Paramedics tend to Elizabeth first. The threatening look in is wild, concerned eyes made it clear just what kind of fresh hell the young medics would suffer if they dared deny is request.
They worked fast, saying little in response as Peter continued to bombard them with urgent questions.
"Please, sir, step back and let us do our work," one of them firmly pleaded and quickly resumed the work of shouting out the dark haired woman's vitals.
Peter stepped back obediently but reluctantly – this was the professional…no, right thing to do. He could do nothing to help Elizabeth at the moment. This wasn't his purview.
He noticed shattered glass that once provided crystal clear protection to showcases once filled with such bejeweled items as earrings, cuff links and watches. Now it littered the floor in thousands of tiny shards and fine white powder that crunched loudly under his feet.
Strange, he thought; the things you notice when under stress. When someone you loved could be dying.
This was an image that would forever be branded into his memory: Sweet Elizabeth laying unconscious upon the cold tile floor of the upscale jewelry store. Beside her, close to her, Neal also laid bleeding and fighting desperately to speak, to breathe.
Holding El's hand.
A second emergency medical team raced in bumping past Peter unapologetically to attend to Neal. The EMTs gently repositioned the man's body away from Elizabeth, breaking their contact. They opened his shirt, cutting it away quickly. The fine linen was wet, heavy and saturated with his blood. His skin was stained and shiny-slick around the wound.
No. Wounds…plural…Peter noticed now. Two bullet wounds. He winced involuntarily.
Sympathy and empathy wrapped around his heart, threatening to move him to feel something for the man he once happily called his friend and partner. He fought the sentimentality rising up in his mind. That would only feed his already serious case of myopia when it came to Neal Caffrey. He had to stand firm.
Neal Caffrey was a criminal. And this is what criminals did. Create havoc. Spread sorrow. Engender grief, chaos, confusion and loss. They take that which they do not deserve and leave others bereft, without.
The medics at Neal's side worked faster and more frantically than those with Elizabeth. It was more than apparent that Neal's condition was far worst than his wife's.
'Good,' Peter thought angrily, teeth grinding. The reason she lay upon the floor with paramedics bandaging her arm, checking her pupils, calling her name was, by all appearances, the fault of none other than Neal Caffrey.
The EMTs began shouting orders at one another, cursing as dark blood oozed profusely from Neal's wounds when they attempted to search for exit wounds. Neal cried out, begging them not to move him again. They quickly corrected their misstep and fought against time to stabilize their patient. Neal's eyes opened wide as if he'd seen some vision of heaven, or, more likely, thought Peter, a glimpse of the hell that awaited him for his life of crime. Then, he fell unconscious. It scared the agent to see anyone endure such physical pain.
Peter felt a moment of guilt struggle against his anger, but left the moment to address later when he heard a voice behind him.
"Peter."
Jones was suddenly at Peter's side. Before the Agent could speak, Peter said, "I want to see surveillance videos, inside the store and out. I want every inch of this place dusted, every inch of it, and…"
"We're working on it, Peter," Jones assured him.
"I want to know everything that happened from the moment my wife walked into this store. And pull every bit of tracking data, for the last two weeks, on Neal's anklet. I want to know every street he walked down, every threshold he crossed and every person he spoke to."
"Is Elizabeth going to be okay?"
"She'd better be," Peter said between clenched teeth. "For Neal's sake."
"What do you need?"
Peter looked Jones in the eyes. "I need you to find out what happened here. Don't talk to me until you know. And find Mozzie," he said, as if the sound of Mozzie's name brought additional pain. "If this scam of Neal's went sour, he's probably on the run."
"You don't think…? Peter, this doesn't look like Caffrey's style," Jones ventured cautiously.
"Until I know better, Caffrey's the reason my wife is lying on the floor unconscious."
"How bad is he?" Jones asked, gesturing towards Neal.
"Not as bad as he'll be when I'm finished with him. Get this place cleared out and let's get to work."
"We've got it. Trust us. Go to the hospital with El. We'll call you the minute we know anything."
Peter nodded. He appreciated Jones more than he could say at that moment. As the Paramedics raced the gurney carrying Elizabeth to the store's exit, Peter followed closely.
Jones watched as the medics then placed Caffrey upon a gurney, I.V.'s in his arms, blood covering a good deal of him, and carried him away.
The Agent breathed in a deep ragged breath. It didn't look good.
~WC~
A FEW HOURS LATER
Surely this was the bottom. This was devastation, the very depth of its meaning. Ruination, hopelessness, destruction. His heart had been leveled…
Peter Burke could barely breathe. His eyes burned, his chest hurt, his empty, acid-filled stomach churned. He sat wringing his bloodstained, blood-sticky hands until the skin beneath the stain began to feel raw. Anything to amplify the magnitude of his pain to avoid the thoughts in his head.
A better man, a better husband, would have protected his wife. A better man, a stronger man, would have seen the signs and taken action immediately.
A better man…
So much guilt and self-accusation.
A better man, a smarter man, would have realized the depth of trouble Neal Caffrey represented and banished him from his life long before things got out of hand.
Things could not be more out of hand than this, he mused.
Somewhere beyond those double doors, his wife lay bleeding on a table. He didn't know how bad it was, couldn't see the wound. He was pulled away from her so quickly once they arrived the hospital that he had no time, no opportunity to see for himself.
And no one had talked to him. Not yet.
How had this happened? What was she doing in that jewelry story in the middle of the day, the middle of her workday? They had sat at the breakfast table hours early that morning and traded portions of the paper and chatted about the mountains of work waiting for both of them at their respective jobs. Talked about it over his favorite cereal, great coffee and those little chunks of melon El had loved so much and demanded he eat more often.
Elizabeth never made mention of going to or needing anything from a ritzy jewelry store. It wasn't her style. It was not a client, as far as he knew, or a potential client. She would have told him if such a place had contacted her for event planning. Instead, he gets the call he never wanted to hear: that his wife was hurt and in danger…that there had been a robbery. Shots had been fired. He would never be able to shake from his mind's eye the image of her lying on the floor and bleeding, as he stepped over the threshold.
And Neal, bleeding profusely, gone pale, lips quivering as he tried spit out some lie, spin the truth into a plausible excuse to keep himself from going back to jail.
"Sorry…" was all Peter could understand. And then Neal lost consciousness.
Peter was positive Neal was guilty, guilty as sin. Had to be.
After all, Peter reminded himself once again, Neal Caffrey was a criminal.
Criminal. The word reverberated in his head. Criminal. And the greatest crime he had committed was fooling Peter into believing he could ever be reformed, or trusted, or be a friend.
He was a criminal, and it was clearly Neal's fault Elizabeth was there with him when the robbery went down. It had to be Neal's fault. What business would El have there unless Neal had concocted some plan to steal something and had tried to use El to accomplish the con?
And now Peter's wife would pay for Neal's folly.
Peter's stomach turned at the thought. How could he be so wrong, so easily fooled and finessed by his C.I.? Neal spoke the language of lies like no other. Deflect. Steal. Cheat, obfuscate, inveigle, use, abuse.
Criminal.
Guilt and responsibility taunted him – he should have stayed at the crime scene and lead the investigation. No good agent worthy of his badge would leave a fluid situation, a crime scene still hot with fresh clues and evidence, proof and DNA. But he reminded himself that Jones was there. Diana would be there, too. They wouldn't let anything fall through the cracks. They would report to him before the night was over and present him with the very evidence that would convict Caffrey and put him away for the rest of his thieving life.
They were through, he and Neal. Next stop, prison. Solitary confinement at Ryker's, if he had his way.
He wanted to feel relief at the thought, but all Peter could feel was sad. Sad that all his efforts did so little to rehabilitate the criminal. Sad that he had extended his hand in friendship, and this was his payback.
Lies, plots, schemes, cons…
"Agent Burke?"
Peter stood up so fast his head swam.
"My wife…how is she?" Peter's own voice sounded hollow in his ears. What if…what would he do if…
"She's fine," the Doctor said.
The words did not register with Peter at first.
"She's fine?"
"She's awake, alert, and asking for you."
Gratitude welled up in Peter so hard and fast that he thought he'd explode.
"The bullet wound was superficial," the doctor said, continuing. "She'll have the tiniest scar on her right upper arm."
"But…she was unconscious. And there was so much blood…her dress…her hands…"
"She lost consciousness from a bump on the head. That gave us more cause to worry, but as I said, she's conscious. She'll have quite a headache, and perhaps a little trouble remembering the incident, but she'll be fine."
"Can I see her?"
"Shortly. We're prepping a room for her right now. We'd like to keep her for a few hours, make sure everything's good."
"Of course," Peter coughed out. "That's just…that's just great."
"A nurse will let you know when your wife is all situated. Are you okay, Agent Burke?"
"Yeah," Peter said quickly. "It's just…all that blood. I thought she…it looked as if…"
"Apparently most of it wasn't hers. Your forensics team will no doubt be able to sort it all out."
"Yes. Thank you, Doctor."
As the doctor walked away, it occurred to Peter to ask, "What about the man she came in with. Neal Caffrey…any word on his condition?"
"I'll ask the nurse to check for you. Why don't you just sit down, relax. I'm sure everything will work out fine."
Peter nodded, and took the Doctor's advice. He breathed deeply, gratefully.
Elizabeth was going to be okay.
Peter stood, stretched, located a men's room sign and followed it. He washed the dried blood from his hands and tried not to think about it as evidence being washed away. Once done, he followed a smiling nurse to a bank of elevators, and rode two floors up and took the long walk to the south wing where Elizabeth was resting.
She looked his way and beamed the moment he cracked open the door.
"Hi, hun," she said quietly.
"Hi, hun," he said with a shaky voice. He went to the bed and took her hand, kissed it.
Before he could ask, she said, "I'm fine. I my head hurts, but I'm fine."
"Your arm…you were shot..."
She turned to look at the small white bandage on her arm. "The doctor said it's just a scratch. I barely feel it. If I don't move it…"
Peter nodded, but he didn't believe her. She looked so frail and tiny in the hospital bed. But she also looked radiant and warm and…
"Tell what you remember," he said. It was more a demand than a request. He needed to know.
"Honestly," she said, "it's all kind of a blur. I can't remember much of anything. I remember having breakfast with you…"
"You don't remember anything that happened before you lost consciousness? The jewelry store? The robbery…"
"The doctors said I might have a little trouble remembering things at first. It hurts just thinking…"
"Then stop thinking," Peter said, gently stroking her hair. "Just rest."
"Only if you promise not to worry."
"Can't promise you that," he said honestly.
"Wait…" Memory stirred, making her look up to the ceiling. She searched the off white tiles until she found an image and put a name to it."
"Neal…"
"What do you remember?" He was anxious to hear, anxious to know. Anxious to indict.
"I remember Neal…he was hurt. Sweet heart…"
Peter tried to calm her, touching her face, holding her hand.
"Is he all right?"
Peter said nothing at first. Resentment flared hotly in his chest. Why is she so concerned? How could she be so concerned for the man who was responsible for her being there?
"Peter, please tell me he's okay…that he's not…"
"He's not dead, El. At least he wasn't…I don't know anything yet."
"Then you have to go check."
"Neal will be fine. Neal is always fine."
"This isn't like you!"
"I was much more concerned about you!"
"I'm fine. The doctor said so. You need to check on Neal! You need to…oh…oh boy…"
"El!"
"It's nothing, just a little dizzy…"
"You're getting yourself all worked up!"
"You think? Go to Neal. He needs you."
"But you need me. Neal is…"
"I'm not talking to you until you talk to Neal."
Elizabeth adamantly turned her head and readjusted in the hospital bed, as if preparing to sleep.
"El?"
She did not answer.
"I'll be back."
She turned to him smiling now. "I'll be here."
~WC~
He found the Duty Nurse. According to the chart she found upon the desk, Neal was resting in post-op.
"What's his condition?" Peter asked.
"Are you family?"
Peter showed his badge.
Moments later, after successful negotiations with the Duty Nurse, and a promise that he would keep his visit short, Peter stepped into the room where unconscious Neal lay attached to monitors, I.V.s, and all manner of unidentifiable medical equipment.
Neal was only partially covered. Thick white bandages stained with blood, Betadine and other fluids were wrapped around his midsection. According to the monitors, the nurse had told him, Neal was in stable condition. He would pull through, but it would be a slow and painful processes.
It hurt to see him this way. Those bright blue eyes shut, lids swollen, his dark hair matted with sweat and splayed about his forehead and the pillow. The paleness of his complexion…the fluids being pumped into his wounded body….
Peter pulled up a chair, close to the bed and sat for a moment. He listened to the steady percussive beats of the various monitors, keeping time with Neal's vitals. Keeping time with his life. Peter took a deep breath.
"Neal…"
He'd heard that people could still hear sometimes, even when unconscious. He wasn't sure he wanted Neal to hear what he had to say, but he knew he had to say it.
" Neal…how do I say this? I want you to know…I want you to know that, as of right now, we're through. It's over. This friendship, this partnership arrangement. You put my wife…MY WIFE…in jeopardy for the last time. She could've died today. And I would've…. I don't know what kind of something-for-nothing, hair-brained scheme you tried to pull this time…but you used my wife. She cared about you, more than you'll ever understand or deserve. And you used her. You betrayed her trust, you put her in harm's way. And your little con backfired.
"So here you are, an inch away from life support…and I don't care. I feel nothing for you, Neal. Nothing."
Peter looked away, as if Neal could see his reddening face, see the lie.
"No more Sunday dinners. No more coffee chitchats or stakeouts. That full immunity thing? Considered it revoked. Protecting you is the stupidest thing I've ever done. You don't need protection. It's time to take responsibility for all the pain, all the suffering you've generated these past five years. It's over, Neal. Over.
"You're a criminal, Neal. I let myself forget that. I was beguiled by your intelligence, your enthusiasm. Your likability. I forgot…you're a conman. Conmen know how to trick people into liking them, trusting them. You sure did a job on me. I fell for it. Hook, line and sinker. Walked right into it. Trusted you. Made you family. Considered you a friend. You must have been laughing at me the whole time. No more.
"You're a criminal. From now on, that's exactly how you're going to be treated. You deserve whatever you get from this. If I have my way, you'll never see the light of day or breath fresh air again. As soon as I get confirmation of your complicity from Jones and Barrigan, I will slap the cuffs on you myself. Then, I can finally rest. That's all."
Peter rose and lingered. The words seemed harsh, especially in light of Neal's helpless condition. But he did what he needed to do. Said what he needed to say. Now the process would begin to sever his deal with the Justice Department and return Neal to prison, where he belonged. Better to just rip the bandage off.
He thought he saw Neal's hand move, but realized quickly it was probably just an autonomic response, an involuntary muscle reaction because of the I.V. needle in his arm.
Peter headed for the door, relieved that he had said all that he had to say, grateful to get this behind him so that he could move forward, move on. Life without Neal Caffrey was going to be…different.
He turned a looked one last time at unconscious Neal, then left.
If he had looked closer, he may have noticed the single tear streaming down Neal's pale cheek.
END CHAPTER ONE
Thanks for reading! If you were moved at all, I hope you will kindly review. Chapter two will be up in a few days.
Thanks.
