Peter's voice may have been silent the rest of the way to the hospital, but his brain chattered endlessly, like trying to hear a phone conversation in a crowded bar. He attempted to zone out to the rhythmic patterns of the siren and the constant blips on Neal's heart monitor, to little avail. Instead, he found himself transfixed by the audible indicator of his partner's status. The agent followed the little green pixels across the screen as they danced left and right, up and down on the monitor. As long as it kept beeping and lighting up, he could stay reasonably calm.

When they arrived at the emergency room, Peter followed the gurney through several doorways, flashing his badge threateningly at anyone who tried to refuse him access. He was finally stopped by the radiology technician when Neal was brought back for x-rays.

"Sir," the technician informed him, holding his hand up for emphasis. "There's a woman in the waiting room asking for 'that agent abusing his badge'."

Peter sighed. "That's my wife," he answered. He rubbed absently at his forehead. "I need to know how my partner is doing," the agent insisted.

"We'll update you as soon as we know anything," the technician promised, gesturing towards the door.

Elizabeth rushed up to her husband when she saw him walk into the waiting room. "What happened, hon?" she whispered in his ear as they embraced.

"I didn't see," Peter replied softly. He pulled back to arms' length, looking his wife in the eyes. "Hired muscle hit him in the head with something – hard. He's been out nearly half an hour."

Elizabeth rubbed her husband's arm soothingly. He's really worried, she noted. It's sweet how much he cares about Neal. "What did the doctors say?"

"Nothing yet," he answered, obviously frustrated. "I heard the paramedics talking about concussions, but they said he was stable."

"That's good," she replied with an encouraging smile. "You know, the world is probably a safer place while Neal is unconscious."

That broke the tension. Peter snorted lightly. "Yeah, you're probably right," he acknowledged. The couple sat down in a pair of uncomfortable, poorly-upholstered chairs and began the wait for news on their friend's condition.

The Burkes were not waiting long before the agent's phone buzzed in his pocket. Burner phone number eight was returning his message. I'm not going in there, Suit, it read. Peter gave his wife a knowing glance, which she returned sympathetically as he rose from his seat.

"Mozzie's here?" she asked. He nodded. "See if you can coax him inside," she added as her husband headed outside.

He found the little man on a park bench several yards away from the hospital entrance. The agent cleared his throat to make his presence known.

Mozzie turned around at the sound. "You're uncharacteristically cryptic today," he announced.

"Couldn't risk an intelligence leak," Peter responded teasingly. "Those phone numbers could have belonged to anyone."

"Touché," the eccentric con man replied. A pregnant pause hung between the two men before he continued. "So, how serious is it? What exactly happened?"

"Head trauma," the agent began. "Almost an hour ago. Haven't heard anything yet."

"I could plant a bug…" He trailed off.

"No thanks, Moz," Peter refused gently. "I suppose I'll go wave my badge in the nurses' faces again."

"You and your brute force," Mozzie chided. "I prefer finesse." He gestured fluidly with his hand. "Let me know when I can see him," he called as Peter walked back inside.

"I will," the agent called back, slipping through the automatic doors, the smell of sterility and industrial cleaners enveloping him once again.

When he reached the waiting room, Elizabeth stood up and waved him over. "The nurse has been asking for you," she said. "They have a bit of a … situation, and they need you." She motioned for the nurse to come over.

"Agent Burke?" the nurse addressed him; he nodded in reply. "We need to perform an MRI to assess the extent of the damage to Mr. Caffrey's brain."

"You need my consent for that? Do whatever you have to," Peter replied.

"No, it's not that," she continued. "He's wearing a GPS tracking anklet."

The agent sighed. "He's a felon, but he's not violent or dangerous in any way, I assure you."

"Agent Burke," the nurse interjected. "We have to remove the anklet in order to do the MRI. If you stick metal in that machine – well, it's basically a giant magnet, and it could hurt him or damage our scanner, not to mention distort the image."

"Oh," Peter responded. "I'll have to call the Marshalls, but I can unlock it for you."

"Please make that call quickly," she instructed. "The sooner we get the scans done, the sooner we can gauge his condition and treat him." The nurse walked back towards radiology, leaving Peter on the phone with the United States Marshalls, requesting permission to deactivate detention tracking anklet 9305A. He followed her back to the MRI suite after he finished the call.

Someone had changed Neal into a hospital gown and laid him on the MRI table. On a wheeled stand next to him were an IV bag and an assortment of medical monitors, attached to his body at their other respective ends. If he hadn't been so still, Peter would have guessed his partner was merely sound asleep. The doctors had taken him off the oxygen, he was slightly relieved to see, and his head wound had been bandaged. He'd probably need stitches later, but the brain injury was obviously the more pressing condition.

Peter slipped his hand into his pocket and fished around awkwardly for the key to Neal's anklet. He slipped the key into position, and the anklet deactivated and fell loose with a beep of protest. He paused for a moment to pat his consultant's leg affectionately; that was when he noticed the goose bumps.

"Where did you put his clothes?" Peter asked the nurse.

"They're in the bag over there in the corner," she answered, pointing towards a table that had a white plastic bag on top of it.

Peter dug through Neal's clothes, taking care to avoid touching his dirty boxers, finally pulling out a pair of dark socks. He held them up for the nurse to see. "Is it okay if I put these back on him?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Sure."

The agent started with the left sock, feeling the woman's eyes judging him as he did so. "He looks cold," he muttered as he fumbled with the right sock. He looked up at the nurse, saying "his appearance is very important to him."

"Whatever you say, Agent Burke," she chuckled. "We're going to start the scan now. We'll tell you when we get the results."

"If he wakes up without the anklet, sedate him until I can cuff him," Peter requested.

"I thought you said he wasn't dangerous?" the nurse asked.

"He's intelligent, well-connected and ridiculously charming," the agent replied with a smirk, as the woman caught on. "I can't risk him running away, especially not in this condition."

"Alrighty then," she said as Peter headed back to the waiting room.

He sat down next to his wife with a sigh. "How is he?" she asked.

"Still unconscious," he answered. He pressed the tracking anklet into her palm. "They couldn't scan his brain with that on him."

"What's wrong with his brain?" she countered.

"Don't know yet," her husband quickly responded. "But it is Neal's brain…" he continued softly.

Elizabeth smacked his arm lightly. "Peter…"

He wrapped his arm around his wife's shoulder, pulling her close. "Mozzie wouldn't come in."

She leaned her head on his shoulder. "You tried," she whispered.

"He doesn't like hospitals," the agent rationalized.

"You know that's not what he's afraid of," his wife countered. He squeezed her shoulder in agreement. "He doesn't like that it's Neal in the hospital."

"I don't like it either." His voice was almost inaudible.

"I know, hon," Elizabeth affirmed.

"Agent Burke?" an older woman in a white coat asked.

Peter stood up. "Are you Neal's doctor?" he questioned. She nodded.

"We have the MRI results," she informed him. "Let's talk in my office." She gestured down the hallway. The Burkes followed her down the corridor, desperate for information.