Leonore09- Thank you for the feedback and the advice. I tend to get ahead of myself by rushing into the heat of the story without building the fire. Please continue leaving thoughts? "Ambulance is on the way, but there's a blizzard." Neal spoke softly to Elizabeth.
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"Of course there is," she choked out, exasperated. "Of course there is."
"Hey-Hey. He's going to be alright. He's gonna be fine."
"I'm healthy.." His voice was quiet yet defiant, strong, the essence of Peter Burke.
"What was that, Hon?" Elizabeth practically lurked across the kitchen at the sound of his voice, her hand finding his. She had taken to pacing, though she was never more than a few steps away from her ailing husband.
It had been about fifteen minutes since the ambulance had been phoned. Peter, being Peter, hadn't wanted to lie down. At El's insistence, he had sat on the floor, leaning against the wall. Elizabeth wanted him to rest, but Peter insisted that they talk, keep up the conversation. Probably best, Neal had said. Keep him awake, alert, calm, keep him with us..
Those words hadn't been meant for Peter to hear, and so he'd pretended that playing 'Go Fish' was something he was just dying to do.
Dying.. maybe not the best choice of words, he thought sadistically.
"I'm healthy. I work out.. I eat right. This doesn't make sense." A thin sheen of sweat was coating Peter's face, his rosy cheeks. He could tell that Elizabeth was ready to give him a pep-talk, but he didn't need it. Lamenting on what seemed to be a freak health accident, something out of the blue, wasn't going to fix the problem.
Peter looked at his wife, the despairing look in her eyes jabbing at his heart more than any heart attack ever could. She was falling apart in front of him. He placed a clammy hand on hers—he wouldn't have been surprised if she crumbled beneath his palm. "It's okay, Hon," he comforted, his voice rough.
Neal felt like he was intruding on a moment, yet he cleared his throat anyhow.
"I've put some BAYER aspirin in here—dissolved it so it should be easier to swallow. Drink this."
These were the first words that Neal had spoken directly to Peter in fifteen minutes, and Peter startled a bit.
Peter nodded gratefully, his hand shaking almost imperceptibly, almost, as he reached for the glass. Neal's eyes bore into his as he placed his artists' hands on Peter's, encompassing the glass to help Peter drink. Neal understood that Peter needed to feel in control, that he wasn't the type of man to sit back and play the part of a weakling, of a victim. So Neal aided Peter as he drank the aspirin-water.
Peter shifted a bit; it wasn't that it was uncomfortable, but the position was awkward. Noticing Elizabeth and Neal eying him, he shook it off. His eyes were feeling heavier now..
"Go fish."
"Huh?"
Neal forced himself to smile, though the smile didn't reach his eyes.
"You asked if I had any sevens. Go fish—and no falling asleep on us. It's rude," he playfully quipped.
Peter ghosted a smile.
"Yeah, Hon. I'm having a hard enough time keeping Neal from looking at your cards as it is." El bantered with a small chuckle.
"Hey!" Neal playfully squatted her hand.
Peter grinned at the two now. His fingers felt clumsy as he reached for the deck.
Pain was etched in the lines of his face as they continued their game.
Elizabeth told Neal the story of how she and Peter had met. Neal paid apt attention, laughing at Peter's awkward attempts to woo his now-wife. She would trail off occasionally, leaving Peter to fill in the gaps. Peter suspected this was planned, a way of keeping him alert and in the story, but he didn't mind. He loved reliving his courtship—as nerve-wracking as it had been, it had rewarded him with the single greatest accomplishment of his life—the companionship of his true love.
Neal spoke of "a friend he knew" who had pulled quite a few heists. He told the stories animatedly, pausing for dramatic effect, lowering his voice, shouting as the action picked up. Of course, the "friend" was Neal. Peter and El found themselves laughing in amazement at the situations Neal had gotten himself in, smiling in disbelief, scratching their heads at the appropriate parts. Neal was a good story-teller, and he was distracting Peter from the pain pumping through his body and Elizabeth from the concern that stole the color from her cheeks.
They moved on to a game of "Would You Rather".
Would you rather piss Hughes off or Diana?
Hughes. The partners were mutual on that one.
From Elizabeth to Neal: Would you rather give up your hats for a year or tack on another year to your FBI sentence?
Why, add another year of course, he'd retorted playfully.
From Peter to Elizabeth: Would you rather have Mozzie house-sit for us for a week or not go on a vacation for a year?
Mozzie could house-sit, of course!
Peter's answer had been very different than his wife's.
The three continued their game for another ten minutes, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the ambulance.
Peter faded in gentle waves; the concerned duo huddled in the kitchen didn't realize it until his momentary pause to think turned into an agonizing minute, until it slurred into a gentle slap on the face, a pleading call for a response.
"Peter?"
Neal, his hands fluttering across Peter's body like a hummingbird that was afraid to land, afraid to touch, for touching would mean this was real...
Elizabeth, just the opposite, her hands finding every molecule of her husband, feeling every inch of his flesh, of his person, willing the life and health and light from her fingers, as if her very hands could heal.
Peter, their rock, the man who had showed Elizabeth what true love was, what a working couple could be, how complete a family could be, a man, his wife, their dog, and their surrogate con.
Peter, the man who had made Neal's life hell, caught him twice, only to bring meaning to that very life, to give him friendship, family, and an unconditional sense of belonging that had always eluded him, a type of belonging that Mozzie insisted didn't exist for guys like them.
But it was real, it was warm, and it was his. It was tangible in the anklet that once represented being trapped but that now represented something much greater—the anchor was no longer holding him in place but was now holding him to a life that he dared not dream of. It was tangible in the god-awful deviled ham that Neal had eaten on a dare. It was felt in the banter of two men who understood one another's minds, or in the need to protect the other.
But Peter wasn't responding anymore.