The lights, they always look the same. On television, in the movies, in person. Standard-issue hospital lighting is static thick and hums; a constant companion to the long-term and terminal.
Neil can't find any comfortable position underneath the sodium-arc in the hard-backed plastic and metal; he's not sure he wants to, really. The beep-beep-beep of a heart monitor falls in staccato half-time with Mozzie's breathing and for the sixth time in his life he believes (maybe) that there's a God.
The bullet, two centimeters too far, glancing off a hardback about The Philadelphia Experiment rendered only a coma and not death.
Only a coma.
He times his visits to avoid Peter, every day, for a week until there's a flutter of eyelids and a flurry of staff and a confidant awakening under that starchy white light.
A smile, a "welcome back", a new nervous habit; Neal buys a pack of cigarettes on the way back to June's and considers smoking them all down to the filter, on principle.
They end up in the East River along with the last of his resolve.
-
Elizabeth composts.
How she convinced Peter to turn a corner of their already-tiny Brooklyn-issue yard space into a composting pile, he'll never know.
That's where Neal finds her, on hands and knees, dirt everywhere, gardening. His head peeks over the edge of the metal grating. He's pathetic, can't take the chance that Peter is home, can't go through the front door.
"Elizabeth," he croaks and even then, it's like a dam bursting, or something equivalent on a much grander scale or something else entirely. There's really nothing more he can take, and there's no one to catch him when he breaks down.
She pauses, stands and doesn't bother with preamble. "Oh, Neal."
That's all he needs, the dip in her voice and her fingers brushing against his in the spaces the metal forgets.
-
Elizabeth goes her part, brushes the hair out of his eyes, steeps a bag of Earl Grey and waits for it all to come pouring out. When it doesn't, she doesn't push and he's grateful. When it's over, she doesn't tattle to Peter either, and it's a blessing.
He's strangely stoic when it comes to his first meeting with Peter. "So it's rehab for four months then?"
Peter nods, knows he should add something and is feeling more than slightly vindictive. "That's after the stint in the ICU and who knows how-"
"Neal, I'm sorry." And Peter says it like he's pained, like he's waited a millenia to say it. The words are heavy, leaden and they land on his eardrums with a finality that he's not ready to accept. There's forgiveness that he's not willing to grant and there's other things too and so he holds them in his gaze and waits.
There's the people milling about in the bullpen and the rush of November wind against the glass of Peter's office so high-high-high up and there's the thudding of the blood in Neal's head as he tries to wait just a little longer, just a little longer.
Let it sting.
His fingers linger on the door frame as he's about to slip from the office. He can't help the placation, "I know."
But the blame, it needs somewhere to rest.
-
They review the shooting over and over, at Mozzie's request, because that's what Mozzie likes to do. He likes to solve things.
Neal indulges only because it's one of those "this is it" things, it's part of the natural progression. They have to talk about this, it has to happen, and if anyone is going to figure out the who-what-why Neal wants it to be him.
It's the least he can do.
Mozzie has a tiny glass jar in his hand, shakes it and inside the bullet rattles around. Tiny, almost minutiae really, rinsed clean of his blood and tissue. So innocuous. "Suit comes by every day, you know."
There's a forced 'afterthought' in his voice; Neal appreciates the attempt at subtlety but says not a word. There aren't any words to say.
"Peter stops by every day." Mozzie reiterates, shuffling his feet beneath a starchy off-blue blanket. Antiseptic, foreign. Neal hates it here.
Peter stops by, Neal thinks.
Let's leave it at that.
-
They drink coffee that tastes like it's three days past stale and they stare. At one another. For long, long moments. The opposite of a pissing contest, whomever speaks first is the most guilty. Whoever speaks first is the strong one.
Foggy, overcast, the threat of rain looming but neither of them suggests they move inside the cafe. If it rains, it'll pour, Neal decides and takes a long sip.
Punishing himself.
"Listen," Peter says and it sounds as though he's a teacher getting ready to bestow a lesson. It's too much. This disposition, it's the only way he knows how to be.
No. "I can't," Neal responds and gets to leave, winning the battle, and all.
"I've found something," the agent calls after his once almost-partner. Out of his briefcase, Peter produces a thick manila folder, busting with papers. "Do you at least want to see what I have?"
There are things that Peter knows about him. There's this intrigue that he can't help but be caught up in, a character flaw perhaps but he's already made up his mind. Neal pretends to turn the notion over in his mind once or twice because he doesn't have to think about forgiving Peter. He was never really convinced that he blamed him in the first place.
But it was convenient.
Neal settles his body heavily in the chair, as though he doesn't want to be there. There is no bluff to be called, even if Neal wants there to be.
He's done trying.
A fraction of a touch, really, but Peter reaches out and touches Neal's hand, trails fingers from the center of his hand to the valley between index and thumb. He says, "I'm sorry" and it's rough and it's real.
They work and the sky holds off the storm for awhile longer.