Disclaimer: I do not own the TV show White Collar or any of the characters.
Peter Burke was not having a good morning.
At first, it had just been small things. A hole in his dress sock, so that his toe poked through and he had to throw them out. Then he splashed coffee onto the paper as he poured a mug for breakfast, soaking through half the pages and leaving a mushy mess. And Satchmo, despite always being on his best behavior, still had a shedding season. Peter was still picking dog hair off his sleeve as he kissed Elizabeth goodbye and headed out the door. With his luck, he managed to hit nearly every red light he could on his way to pick up Neal.
"Hey, Peter. I got some of June's special blend for you."
Neal shut the car door behind him and set a to-go cup in the console, next to Peter's leg. The smell of rich dark roast filled the car, and Peter turned to look at him.
"You're trying to tempt fate."
"What?"
"Nothing." Peter merged back into traffic and reached for the cup, just as the car in front of them tapped the brakes to avoid running a red light. Peter hit his own, stopping a few inches behind the car and slopping hot coffee out of the hole in the lid and onto his hand.
"Ow! Damnit." He just managed to avoid dropping the cup, wincing as the hot coffee bit into his skin and turned it pink.
"Here, let me- "
Neal reached to take the cup from Peter's hand just as the light turned green. Behind them, a car horn honked. Hot coffee dripped onto Peter's leg.
In that moment, Peter Burke wished he didn't have to uphold the image of a law-abiding officer and role model. Because there were a few choice words he wished he could have said.
A few hours later, as he sat at his desk after their last briefing, Peter finally felt himself relaxing. His hand had recovered after a brief soak in the cold water from a sink, and the dog hair was mostly off his suit jacket. He cast a brief glance up from the neatly stapled packet in his hands and looked out into the bullpen. Agents studiously typed on computers, or chatted over file folders, but the majority of them were on lunch break or cloistered neatly into their own spaces. Peter looked over at Neal's desk, watching as Neal made notes on the papers in front of him.
His gaze went back to the notes on his own desk. Ian Reynolds, his team's latest target, was a notorious art connoisseur and wealthy patron of some of the more prestigious art institutions. However, they'd received a tip from an anonymous phone source earlier that week that Reynolds was considering expanding his market into forgeries. They'd dealt with him once before, back when Peter was only a few years into the bureau, but Reynolds had claimed he hadn't known the paintings were forged. They'd been able to find nothing to prove the contrary and Reynolds had gone back to his lifestyle free of any charges they might have made.
But now things were different. Now they had Neal, who, though Peter would never admit it to his face, amazed him almost daily with his knowledge and ingenuity when it came to white collar cases. He'd been invaluable to the bureau on many cases, but on this one in particular he'd spent countless hours going over the paintings coming up for sale at Reynold's next art party, analyzing the pictures they'd collected from their fake buyer profile.
Peter rolled his shoulders and stood, feeling his back crack. Office chairs were not forgiving to all the sitting his job required. Checking the clock, he saw it was only a few minutes before noon. There was time to go walk to a nearby deli and get a sandwich, or find a food cart down on the street. He could use the break. And so could Neal, if the hand running through his CI's hair said anything about it. He walked to the door and raised his arm, his fingers curling.
"Neal?"
A moment later, Neal's head came up. Peter pointed two fingers at him and crooked them. Neal dropped his papers on his desk, plopped his fedora on top of his rumpled hair, and jogged up the steps. Peter held open the door to his office, and Neal dropped himself into the visitor's chair with a heavy exhale, raising an eyebrow.
"What's up?"
"Have you finished looking over that last set of photographs for number seven?"
"The Van Goh? Yeah." Neal flipped his hat off his head, then twisted it neatly around in his fingers before putting it back again. "I'm still not seeing anything yet. He really may just be a rich guy with really scattered taste in art."
"We're not giving up just yet. Keep looking."
"Is that why you called me in here?"
"No," Peter said, draping his suit jacket over the back of his chair. It was a nice spring day outside, with the sun shining lazily through the scattered clouds. "I was going to take lunch out. I think we could use a break."
Neal's face broke out in an easy grin. "Great. I actually found this nice little sandwich shop a few blocks down that does homemade sauces. They'd probably have something as foul as deviled ham if you wanted to check."
Peter leaned forward and tapped the brim of Neal's hat, ignoring the snarky comment. "That sounds like something to try. Come on."
Neal rose and followed Peter to the door, doffing his hat sarcastically. "Now, or at your leisure?"
Peter held up his phone. "Let me just send Elizabeth a quick message. I'll meet you over by the elevators and you can show me this place of yours."
"At your leisure, Peter." Neal turned so he was walking backwards, giving Peter that easy grin.
He was still grinning as he turned to go down the stairs, but his heel went over the edge of the first step and before Peter could even register what was happening, Neal went down, hard. Peter surged forward even as the few agents down in the bullpen looked up, hearing the scuffle and then thud of something falling. He breached the distance in four long strides and looked down.
The stairs from the offices to the bullpen weren't very long, maybe eight or ten steps. But they were hard, and uncarpeted, and his heart leapt into his throat when he saw a bright red smear on one of the bottom steps, right where Neal was stirring slightly, a crumpled heap of limbs as he lay curled on his left side. The fedora lay on its side a few feet away.
"Neal!" Peter bounded down the stairs, crouching down next to his CI. He gently shook Neal's shoulder. "Hey. Neal? Are you okay?"
"I don't know." Neal rolled onto his back. "My arm hurts."
"Okay," Peter said, trying to remain calm. The side of Neal's face was smudged with blood. "Just be still for a moment. Take it easy." Jones hurried over, a handful of paper towels in his fist.
Neal, who apparently hadn't heard what Peter had just said, abruptly sat up, his face a pale and ghostly white. His nose was streaming blood now, and he wiped at it with his left hand. His right arm hung limply at his side.
"Here, Caffrey." Jones held out a paper towel, and Neal blinked at him. His pupils were huge, wide and dark against the crystal blue of his iris. A drop of blood dripped on the floor while Peter waited a moment. When Neal made no movement to take the paper towel, Peter reached out, took one, and held it to Neal's face.
"Ow." Neal's face crumpled, and he pulled away from Peter, glaring at him in betrayal. "Ow! Stop it, Peter."
"What hurts? Can you walk?"
"My wrist." Neal cradled the offending limb. "My arm. Everything. Probably?"
"I'm taking you to the emergency room. It's not negotiable," He added, as Neal made to open his mouth. "You just fell down the stairs. The only reason I'm not calling an ambulance is because you're conscious."
"Okay."
Peter had been expecting more of an argument. He decided not to question it, on the off chance that Neal decided to be irrational. He looked at Jones, and together they got Neal to his feet, giving him another paper towel to try and stem the bleeding. There was a dark, bruised area starting to form over the bridge of his nose already. He swayed for a moment, and Peter steadied him, leaning against him as he wobbled. Diana met them at the door, coming back into the office with an armload of papers.
"Caffrey, what the hell happened to you?" Her hand fluttered up, and then back to her side, an aborted movement in the direction of Neal's face.
"The stairs happened." Peter reached around Neal to press the button for the elevator. "We're going to the hospital."
"Do you need anything?"
"Can you call Elizabeth and let her know I'm probably going to be home later?" The elevator doors opened, and Peter steered Neal through them. He was becoming increasingly more pliable. Peter guessed it was shock.
"I'll get it done, boss." Diana leaned to the side. "Hang in there, Caffrey."
The elevator doors slid closed, and Neal leaned back against the wall, easing his weight off Peter with what sounded like a whimper. Peter reached out an arm and rested it on Neal's back, unsure what else to do. He doubted there was much of Neal that didn't hurt at the moment. The ride down to the parking garage was a silent one, broken only by Neal's short breaths.
When they reached the garage, Peter pulled Neal out of the elevator, grateful he'd found a nearby parking spot that morning, and set him as delicately as he could in the passenger seat before getting into the driver's side and starting up the engine, pulling out into traffic and heading towards the nearest hospital. Thankfully there was one fairly close.
"Talk to me, Neal." His eyes flicked over to where Neal sat slumped low in his seat, a wad of paper towels held delicately to his nose. Neal's head rolled back against the seat.
"'Bout what?"
"How's your arm feel?"
"Think my arm is broken. Broke it once when I was a kid." Peter signaled and took a left, his eyes focused on the midday traffic and the careless pedestrians. The car seemed to inch forward.
"How'd it happen that time?"
"I fell out of a tree." Neal pulled the towel away from his nose. "I think it's stopping."
"Keep that on your face." Peter hit the brakes as the light abruptly switched from yellow to red.
"Ow." Neal commented, and Peter winced.
"Sorry. We're almost there. Hold on a moment."
He got through the intersection and turned once more, pulling up outside the emergency doors. He parked sloppily and got out of the car, opening Neal's door and helping him get up. Looking at Neal's face, he felt awful for not calling an ambulance. His CI's face was pale and taut with pain, his eyes glossy and distant as he leaned on Peter.
"Hurts."
"I know, but we're almost there. One foot in front of the other. Come on." Peter slowly guided Neal towards the doors, relived when they slid open and a pair of orderlies met them halfway with a wheelchair.
Two hours later, Peter was sitting at Neal's bedside, one hand gripping a permanent marker while he contemplated Neal's cast. Neal himself was complaining to Elizabeth, who held in her laughter as best she could. It was a losing battle.
"'Lizbeth. Make him stoooop." Neal's impressively bruised face rolled towards Peter. He'd come dangerously close to breaking his nose, but the doctor had determined it was only bruised. Once Neal was off the heavy painkillers, he'd probably be upset about the stormy shades of blue and purple that decorated his face. But for now, Peter was enjoying this softer, dopey side of Neal. He'd managed to flirt with every nurse that came by, and the doctor who had casted the break. She'd laughed when Neal had asked for a lollipop, but indulged him. Neal had made sad eyes at Peter when there were no green ones, but now his tongue flashed bright red as he spoke.
"What's wrong, Neal?" Elizabeth set down her magazine, and moved the blanket to cover the CI's sock, where it poked out of the sheets.
"His marker smells pokey."
"It's a permanent marker, Neal. Of course it stinks." He considered Neal's arm some more, and then began to write. "Why'd you pick blue for your cast?"
"To match my eyes." Neal blinked sleepily, his face relaxed and warm.
"Only you'd try to match that with something. I don't think you can get a suit jacket over it, though." Neal's face fell, and Peter patted his leg. "You can match it to your tie."
Neal's face immediately lit up again. "Are you signing my cast?"
"I'm not giving you that kind of power." Peter made one last mark and capped his pen with a flourish. "There. I'm all done."
Neal's head rolled to the side, his eyes staring hazily at the cast. He squinted.
"Is that a sandwich?"