Thanks so much to everyone who took the time to review - especially to those who were anonymous, since I couldn't thank them personally. This story took me over a year to write, so it's really gratifying to receive feedback.
Senseless Chapter 2
Peter felt lightheaded as he eased himself stiffly into the car. It had been an extremely long day, and the intensity of the last few hours had eroded his normal strength, cutting to the bedrock of his coping capacity. He leaned back wearily, not wanting to see the departure of the tram, or witness the figure of his best friend leaving forever.
He tried to swallow past the sudden knot in his throat. He knew the hollowness he was feeling inside was merely a taste of the emptiness that loomed on the horizon if Neal had left. Had Peter just made the worst mistake of his life, not pushing harder to make Neal stay? He'd told Kramer, 'if you box him in, he'll run,' so following his own advice, he'd given Neal space to make the right decision. But maybe Neal wasn't in any condition to make a decision of that magnitude. Maybe, Peter should have made it for him. Maybe, banging his own head on the steering wheel a few times would help.
Why was he sitting here passively? If he left the tram terminal and drove around on the bridge, he might intercept Neal on the other side. His friend wasn't going to make it far with that head injury. He might have already collapsed, and Peter could scoop him up and cart him off to hospital.
But Peter still didn't move, some kind of desperate faith keeping him rooted to the spot. It occurred to him, very belatedly, that his career was probably over. His superiors would take a dim view of his championship of an apparent murderer. Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to care.
The car door opened, and the vehicle dipped as someone slid into the seat beside him. Peter kept his eyes closed, not wanting to reveal the tears of relief that prickled behind his lids. When he could trust his voice, he said, "I knew you'd make the right decision."
"I wish you could have shared that insight with me." There was too much exhaustion to allow asperity into the words.
"Then why did you stay?" Peter asked softly, shamelessly taking advantage of Neal's vulnerable state. The young man was always more open when tired or injured.
"You were right. There will be plenty of opportunities to run, but only one to stay. I just couldn't bring myself to leave..." It seemed like he was going to say more, add something to the last sentence, but Neal broke off with a pained half-gasp that Peter had never heard before and would pay good money not to hear again. The CI's hands were hovering near his head as if he wanted to grab it but even the slightest of touches would be too painful.
"Dammit, Neal. The next time you tell me, 'I'm fine' when you're actually so far from it, a telescope wouldn't help you find it, I'm...I'm going to sit you down in front of an all-day marathon of Tiles of Fire."
"Noted." It was no more than a whisper, and Peter thought it slurred around the edges.
He switched on an interior light. "Let me look at your head."
There was a general assenting noise, but Neal made no attempt to remove his cap. Peter reached out, using both hands to minimise the tug on the scalp, and gingerly plucked it off to reveal a sodden, bloodstained bandage.
He thought he'd rather exceeded his quota of 'dammit, Neals' for the day, and his friend probably didn't want to hear any explosion of emotion in his fragile state. Gritting his teeth to prevent that or any other expletive escaping, he managed, "Hospital, now."
As Neal flinched minutely away from the harsh tone, Peter grasped him gently by both shoulders. "Easy, kid. I'm not mad at you, but that's got to hurt."
Neal managed a shrug without using his shoulders. "You've always said that I was so hardheaded nothing could hurt me there."
"I guess I got my anatomy wrong. Your skull appears to be vulnerable. It's what's underneath that must be resistant to learning certain concepts." His gentle hands belied the sharpness of the response.
A heavy eyelid lifted sufficiently to reveal a baleful bloodshot eye. "Now I remember why I decided to stay. Without a regular dissection of my character and constant sarcasm, my life would be a wasteland of boredom."
Peter gave a quick nod of relief and satisfaction, and the corners of his mouth quirked. That was better. A Neal who was griping and sarcastic wasn't straying too close to coma territory. Peter wanted to stand solidly between Neal and the concept of brain damage, but for now, he'd have to settle for keeping his friend alert and functioning until he could get medical help.
"I know that medical wisdom is to slap another pad over one that's been soaked through, but gravity has nearly taken care of this one, so I'm just going to replace it." Peter took another sterile bandage from the first-aid kit. "Here, hold this in place, and don't let your brains leak out."
Neal looked up at him plaintively. "Don't let my brains leak out, Peter."
Peter tried his best to resist the appeal in those cerulean eyes and snorted. "I'm not sure it would make an appreciable difference if they did," he said absently, caught up in the logistics of trying to fasten a bandage to someone's head. "Actually, it's not your brains you should be worried about, but your hair. They'll have to shave a good portion off to get at that cut."
That earned him the strongest reaction he'd had all night. Neal's head came up, almost smacking Peter in the face as the younger man stared in horror. "No hospital," he declared definitively.
"The alternative is that I shave your whole head and stitch it myself." Peter finished his ministrations and took a moment to assess his partner. "Wow, Neal, that's an interesting shade of white."
Neal seemed to forget the previous conversation in pursuit of this new distraction. "Eggshell, ivory, pearl, magnolia?"
"Gray," Peter decided.
"That's not a shade of white, you Philistine. Although you could see white as a shade of achromatic grey."
Peter leaned over and fastened the seat belt over his friend. "Shades of Grey. Isn't that a book?"
"Yeah, Elizabeth's read it. You should ask her about it sometime."
"I'll put it on my to-do list,' Peter promised dryly.
Neal closed his eyes, his body slowing slumping. "Hey, stop that. Neal, listen to me. Tell me about different shades of grey and...and chiaroscuro. Everything about it."
Peter slipped into gear and started for the hospital, hectoring and cajoling all the way, prompting if Neal faltered and seemed about to fade into unconsciousness. He counted it as a win, albeit a marginal one, that Neal was still talking, sporadically and mostly unintelligibly, when they arrived at the hospital, the conman clearly worn to his last reserves.
Peter's knuckles were white as his hands gripped the wheel, but he resisted the temptation to race through the entrance to the emergency room parking lot and slam on the brakes. Out of deference to Neal's injuries, he slid in carefully. Neal was now quiet and so utterly still that it sent a bolt of panic flashing through Peter, fear tingling in his extremities.
"Neal...Neal." He snapped his fingers in front of his friend's face. "Don't pass out," he ordered. "Come on, stay with me just a little longer."
Hazy blue eyes blinked owlishly at him, and Peter patted him encouragingly on the shoulder. "I'll be right back."
A yell for help and a flash of his badge brought assistance running, and soon Neal was loaded on a stretcher and heading into the ER. His eyes were closed and his skin sweaty and pale. It was a testament to his stamina and endurance that he had stayed on his feet all this time. Peter had seen before the way that Neal's pain and weakness were eclipsed by his stubbornness, determination and sheer bullheadedness, helped by an edge of adrenaline. But now that the young man had promised to stay and face the charges, he was no longer in flight mode, and his energy had drained as if someone had pulled a plug.
Peter kept pace alongside the stretcher, worried eyes fixed on his friend's lax features, contributing relevant information when asked. However, at the swing doors to the ER, a flat palm on the chest stopped his progress and forcibly separated them. "Sorry, Sir, you can't come in here."
Under different circumstances, Peter would have pushed the issue, plying badge, authority and his legal standing as Neal's handler to stay with his partner. Only the knowledge that he could protect Neal better by staying outside and making phone calls allowed him to acquiesce to his exclusion.
He exhaled slowly and allowed his shoulders to slump, drawing in every ounce of patience he didn't feel. His first instinct was to call El, both because her voice always grounded him, and because she would be waiting for an explanation for his earlier hurried conversation. However, he had another more important call to make if he wanted to justify Neal's faith in him. He needed to concentrate to marshall effective arguments, and the hospital was too distracting, so he retreated to his car, leaning against the warm metal of the hood. It was an unsociable time to wake someone, and maybe not strategically smart when he wanted a favor from that person, but it couldn't wait.
He took a last steadying breath and dialed. "Reese, it's Peter."
There was a slight hesitation on the line, then his boss spoke, voice slightly thick from sleep.
"Peter, has Agent Barrigan brought you up to speed on the situation? I have to say, it's not looking good."
"Actually, Sir, it isn't as bad as it looks."
There was another pause, then, "Enlighten me."
"Neal didn't run." Peter winced as he said it, realising that the statement lacked both accuracy and credibility.
"So I am to believe that Neal is sitting in his cell, concealed by an invisibility cloak." The words were as dry as dust.
Peter pursed his lips in chagrin. It was a stupid misstep, an uncharacteristic mental clumsiness brought about by stress and exhaustion. He scrubbed a hand roughly over his face to clear the cobwebs from his mind. "It would be more precise to say that his intention was not to evade the police or to escape justice."
Understandably, Hughes still sounded doubtful, although he dialed the sarcasm down a notch, which Peter hoped was a positive development. "Keep going."
"Neal has a bad head injury. He's suffering from a nasty concussion and significant blood loss. I find it reprehensible that NYPD didn't take him immediately to a hospital."
"I agree that it is a matter of concern, and I'll have it looked into, but Peter, that hardly excuses his actions."
"He's totally disoriented and barely coherent. He can scarcely be held responsible for his actions when he can barely remember his own name." With only the smallest pang of guilt, Peter realised that he was applying Neal's own method of manipulating information. Nothing he was saying was an outright lie, but with selective reporting of facts and muddying of the timeline, he was conveying an impression that wasn't entirely true. Maybe Kramer wasn't so far off the mark when he told Peter he was becoming Neal. It was almost funny how little the concept currently bothered him, partly because he believed the converse was also true, but mostly because he believed that Neal was, in his own way, honorable, loyal, caring, brave and smart as a whip and there were worse things to be compared to.
Neal had taught him that justice and the law weren't necessarily the same thing and that sometimes it was cowardice to be satisfied with the latter at the expense of the former. Right now, justice dictated that Peter bend the truth a little to save a friend.
"Do you have him in custody?"
"Yes, Sir. We're at Mercy Hospital where Neal is undergoing treatment. However, as I said, Neal wasn't trying to escape. He came to me. He came to my house." Again, it was a solid slice of truth, just not the whole pizza.
Peter could almost see the paradoxical look of exasperated forbearance on his boss's face as he asked, "What is it you want me to do?"
Peter felt a surge of relief spiced with triumph. "I would appreciate it if you could call the Marshals and NYPD and explain the situation."
"Sell them the situation, you mean."
Any bubble of satisfaction Peter was feeling was popped by the sharpness of Hughes' tone. The senior agent had not reached his position of high authority in the New York office by being a pushover.
Peter persisted. "I'll have a medical report on your desk by noon. This is all verifiable."
There was a deep sigh at the other end of the line. "Even if this works, you've barely scratched the surface of the trouble he's in. The charges are serious and the evidence compelling. You need to give some thought to cutting your losses on this one, Peter. How many times are you going to ruin your career for this kid?"
Peter suppressed a surge of anger at the suggestion he abandon Neal to the system, sacrificing his partner for something ultimately as insignificant as a job. There was also a strong sense of deja vu summoned by the words which it took him a moment to pin down. Then he remembered that he'd made a similar suggestion to Neal concerning Kate on their first case together. Neal had been about as appreciative of the advice as Peter was now. It was a disturbing parallel on many levels.
Peter couldn't deny he was immensely relieved that Kate was out of Neal's life for good even if he regretted the manner of that departure and how much it had hurt Neal. However, he was aware that Neal would still deny the accusation that she had damaged his life with the same vehemence that Peter would for Neal.
Peter concentrated on the most obvious difference. His career might have suffered several setbacks, first with the literal explosion of Mentor in their lives and, more recently, with Neal's abrupt departure for sunny, unextraditionable climes on the heels of Peter's vouching for his character. However, on the flip side of the coin, it had been Neal's capture that had originally launched Peter's career on its meteoric rise, and Peter was under no illusion as to where to lay the credit for their unequaled closure rate.
Separately, Peter and Neal were smart, two volatile elements, but put them together with the catalyst of a challenging case, and a new compound was formed with explosive results.
Peter had no intention of getting into a discussion about the relative benefits that Neal had afforded his career when there were more important issues to argue. "Reese, you know as well as I do that Neal is no murderer. Violence and guns have never been his MO." Peter had mostly kept Neal's dexterity and proficiency with weapons out of his reports. Neal might be adept at their use, but his aversion to them still stood.
"However, he has a history with Fowler that cannot be ignored," Hughes pointed out.
Peter was unsure just how much his Boss knew about that checkered history. The details of their final confrontation had also failed to make it into his reports, and that had been Peter's first major omission on his friend's behalf. He'd had a front row seat to Neal's devastation at Kate's death, and understood how grief could drive a man to uncharacteristic actions, and, ultimately, no harm had been done. Fowler himself had been in no position to press charges, and Diana had been willing to abide by Peter's decision.
"Nothing that would justify murder," Peter insisted staunchly.
"Did Caffrey give you an explanation for his presence in Fowler's apartment?"
Peter recognised a trap, intentional or not, when he heard one. "He's in no condition to be answering questions at the moment. He said he didn't do it, but any other testimony now is impossible with his head injury."
"It's not our case, Peter," Hughes warned him. "We have to let NYPD conduct their own investigation."
He continued to issue dire warnings of the consequences of interference, but Peter was no longer listening. A little blond nurse, her hair tucked up in a bun, had come running out of the hospital, looking around, clearly searching for someone, and intuition told Peter it was him.
"I have to go." He shut the phone abruptly and strode toward the nurse.
"Are you Peter?" she asked tentatively. It was just three words, but the phrasing of the question and the use of his first name spoke volumes.
"That's me," he confirmed, already moving back to the hospital, panic thrumming through every nerve. "What happened? Is he all right?"
He spared the nurse a glance, but he was already forging his own way into the ER, an unstoppable force in jeans and a t-shirt. He had experienced first-hand the unpredictable tragedy of even a surprisingly innocuous head injury. A young class mate of his at Quantico had slipped and hit his head on the obstacle course. There had been no blood, and the cadet had even finished the training exercise, but by that night, he had slipped into a coma and five days later, his parents had pulled the plug. Apparently, there had been epidural bleeding which had quickly led to ultracranial pressure, which had compressed the brain stem.
With creeping horror, Peter remembered that one of the main symptoms of this type of injury was the 'lucid interval' when the victim appeared totally normal before descending into unconsciousness and, frequently, death. The memory caused Peter's throat to close and his heart to accelerate as if gearing up for a coronary.
Neal couldn't die! Peter's feelings of loss, during Neal's impromptu flight from Kramer, had coiled painfully round his heart, worry and misery slicing deep, but at that time, Peter had been sure with a grim and determined certainty that he'd find a way to reunite with his partner. The thought of Neal dying, of him never coming back, was too painful to contemplate. The young man had infiltrated his life and was inextricably entwined in it like ivy around an oak, roots planted deep, enmeshed in the fibers of both family and work. They shared an interdependence, a symbiosis that benefitted both, and to have that ripped away would tear Peter apart in the process.
The little nurse, trotting to keep up with his urgent stride, waved aside the security guard who had previously prevented Peter's entrance into the inner sanctum of the ER. That was providential because Peter wouldn't have hesitated to sweep him aside, the urge to protect closely knit to a fierce desire to rip up every threat in his path.
As Peter slowed to get his bearings, the nurse slipped ahead. "This way." He followed her past several small rooms shrouded with privacy curtains. Considering it was now the early hours of Sunday morning, the place was bustling, and Peter was forced to temper his headlong pace in order to dodge the streams of industrious personnel. It was an anomaly to see people merely standing, crowded tensely outside a room, and Peter knew instantly that Neal was inside.
His dive for the room was intercepted by a young man who introduced himself as Dr. Kernsey. "You're Peter?"
Peter pulled out his ID with a practiced movement. "Agent Peter Burke. Is he all right?" His attempt to move forward was adeptly blocked.
"Before I can discuss his medical condition with you, can you explain your relationship with Mr. Caffrey?" The doctor glanced down at the notes he held.
Peter restrained his impatience. "He's my partner and friend. You'll find me listed as his next-of-kin, and I am authorized to make medical decisions for him if he's incapacitated. Now, can you please tell me what's going on."
"We've been unable to assess his condition properly."
"Why not?" Peter braced himself for the answer. He should have told them to make sure that there were no windows or alternate exits in Neal's room. Even barely conscious, Neal could pull a disappearing act, but that explanation was preferable to some alternate scenarios he could imagine.
Kernsey hesitated before answering cautiously. "Mr. Caffrey is agitated."
"He was completely out of it when I brought him in. He didn't have the strength to lift a paintbrush to scratch his nose. What happened?"
"We're not sure what triggered his unsettled behaviour, but it seemed to be some sort of traumatic flashback, either to the attack in which he was injured or to some other situation when he felt threatened. I was leaning over him to take some readings when he cried out, rolled off the gurney, then scrambled underneath it before using it to barricade himself into a corner. Despite his injuries, he was remarkably quick. Nothing he was saying made any sense, and I'm not sure he knew where he was. Your name was the only thing that was intelligible. Keeping personnel in the room was causing him more distress, so I pulled everyone out."
Peter nodded grimly. "I'll go in and calm him down."
"You need to understand that with this level of disorientation, he may not even recognise you. Also, although he's shown no signs of violence so far, he might lash out in panic, so be careful."
"Neal would never hurt me," Peter stated with complete confidence. "Please keep everyone out until I have the situation contained."
Peter took a fortifying breath and gripped the curtain, slipping slowly inside with an economy of movement, not wanting to give Neal cause for alarm. He wasn't sure what he expected to see, but the heartbreaking sight inside robbed his lungs of breath, the air around him suddenly thick, hot and impossible to breathe.
It wasn't a large room, little more than a cubicle, but Neal was plastered to the wall on the far side. Blood was everywhere, drying on Neal's face and dripping down from his head wound. His lips were pressed so tightly together that they were merely a pale slash in his ashen face. His eyes, glassy with shock and pain, were unfocused as they darted around the space, searching for a tangible threat.
It was hard to believe that he hadn't collapsed in a heap on the ground, but his feet were set strongly on the tiled floor and his back against the wall, so his body was braced between two planes of the room. He reminded Peter of a tightly wound, injured snake, too weary to strike and lacking venom, but still ready to stick a fang in anyone unwise enough to venture close in an attempt to unwind him from his protective coil.
In reality, Neal's only defense was the emesis basin he held in front of him like a shield which might have been funny if it weren't for the knuckles of the hand grasping it blanched a desperate ivory white. A miasma of distress seasoned with the residue of terror lingered about him like a second skin.
Peter didn't move except once to press damp palms on his pants' leg. He was hoping that Neal would acknowledge his presence without having to take further action, but that was looking increasingly unlikely. Visual cues weren't working, so he'd try talking. He took two cautious steps further into the room. "Hey, Buddy."
There was no response. "You know, when this is all over, I'm going to show you the definition of 'fine' in the dictionary, since I don't think you grasp the true meaning of the word. If I'd known how badly hurt you were, we wouldn't have been standing around talking. I wouldn't have been offering you choices. I would have grabbed you by the scruff of the neck and dragged you here if necessary."
Neal gave no indication that he heard a word. He seemed to be on the shore of unconsciousness, capable only of listening to the crashing of its waves as they rolled in to claim him.
Peter tried one more time, choosing something guaranteed to spark a response if Neal were capable of comprehension. "Do you remember the time we broke into the bank together? I think that was the most fun I ever had. We should do it again some time."
Neal didn't even blink an eyelid. "Damn it, Neal, you really are out of it aren't you? We've got to beat this, because I can't imagine working with anyone else now. Despite the fact that you're more irritating than a bed full of bugs, you're the best partner anyone could ask for."
As he delivered the speech, Peter slowly approached his friend, gently pushing aside the gurney that separated them. Sight and hearing had failed, which left touch as the only viable sense with which to reach his partner. His hand hovered uncertainly, not sure how best to make contact. He remembered the doctor's warning that Neal might lash out, but Peter was more concerned that he might hurt his friend with an incautious touch. He thought it was probable that if he broke Neal out of his reverie, the injured man would crumple entirely, because there was nothing keeping him upright except sheer will.
Finally, Peter's hand closed around Neal's upper arm, a good position to restrain or support as necessary. A tremor ran through Neal's frame, seemingly the prelude to a tectonic collapse, but the young man merely strengthened his stance, tightening his grip on the basin.
Peter brought up his other hand, warding it away carefully. "Easy, tiger. Death by vomit bowl would be an embarrassing way to go."
"Pe..Peter." Neal's voice was wrecked, weak and husky, far from his usual melodious tenor, but he dropped the emesis basin and grabbed at Peter as if he were the only piece of driftwood in a raging river. Peter automatically brought up his other arm behind Neal in support, the practical embrace completed with excellent timing, since Neal's legs buckled, and Peter was forced to gather him in, countering the force of gravity that tried to yank his friend out of his arms, bracing him against his own body before the young man could injure his head further by hitting it on the floor or wall.
Neal was muttering something incoherent, but Peter was concentrating on keeping them both upright. His eyes fell on the abandoned gurney, which wasn't surprising since it occupied nearly half the space of the room. He needed to maneuver Neal's dead weight over to it in such a way as to minimize the jostling of his injury.
"Okay, just relax," he instructed, cushioning Neal's head against his chest to hold it immobile. He took a moment to stabilise himself, then reached down with one long arm to scoop Neal up behind the knees, cradling him into a bridal carry.
"Don't get any ideas," he grumbled, holding his partner securely, despite the fact that Neal's compact frame was heavier than he expected. "There are no thresholds in sight."
Luckily, it took only three deliberate steps to reach the gurney where he deposited his burden with exquisite care. His attempt to straighten up afterwards was thwarted by a hand wrapped securely in his jacket, and he desisted immediately. "Easy kid," he soothed automatically, catching the errant hand in his to ease the stranglehold. "I'm not going anywhere."
Neal was squinting up at him in an effort to counter the haloing effect of the fluorescent lights. For that moment, his expression was stripped of his usual defenses; there were no masks in place, no facade to hide behind. He was unguarded in a way Peter had never seen him before, showing profound relief tinged with wonder but also desperation.
"P'tr...thought...dead." Neal's speech was too slurred and distorted to be easily understood, and this progressive deterioration of his symptoms caused a terrible tightness to constrict Peter's chest.
He patted Neal's shoulder awkwardly and tried to offer the reassurance he thought his friend was seeking. "You're going to be fine. You are not going to die. You may be dented, but you're salvageable. The doctor's going to come in and examine you and you'll..."
A yank on his jacket pulled him closer to the gurney. "N't me...you."
Peter frowned, trying to interpret that cryptic utterance. "Me? Neal, I'm fine. I'm not the one in the hospital. Well, I am, but just because you're here. You're the one who looks like a wardrobe reject from a Friday the 13th movie."
Neal shook his head minutely. "W's blood, bl'd, you gone."
It wasn't just the tripping over vowels and the drawing out of words that made the speech incomprehensible - the concepts behind them seemed totally confused. Peter couldn't figure out if this was an accusation that Peter hadn't been there to protect him, but that seemed to be a projection of the agent's own feelings of guilt, or if Neal's injured mind had crossed certain wires and was confusing him and Fowler.
He patted Neal's shoulder. "Your brain is so scrambled right now. Look, I'm sorry I wasn't there to stop this before it all happened, but if you're somehow getting me confused with Fowler then I'm insulted, but you get a free pass on that for now because, at the moment, your brain cells seem to have parted company with your cranium and gone AWOL. I'm going to get the doctor."
It might not have been the most solicitous response, but in Peter's experience, Neal tended to respond better to sarcasm than sympathy. Another attempt to leave Neal's side resulted in another tug on his jacket. "Or I could stay."
"D'n go. Dang'rous. Ring, h'd t' r'ng."
Neal's forehead was covered in a thin layer of sweat, a slick background for the rivulets of blood that trickled down from sodden locks of hair. Peter wiped at one with his thumb, rerouting it before it could drip into his friend's eye. This uncharacteristic vulnerability was triggering every protective instinct Peter had, and the mention of danger ramped them even higher. Up until then, he had been too busy dealing with the fallout of Neal's arrest and then his injury to consider the possibly lethal consequences of Neal being a witness to a murder.
He placed a hand on either side of Neal's face. "I know this is very confusing, but it will all make sense once the doctors have sorted you out." Sensing Neal's imminent dissent, he overruled it gently but firmly. "Neal, you need to trust me. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I will stay with you, but we've delayed this long enough. The doctor has to check you out now."
He could feel Neal's acquiescence in the relaxation of muscles under his hands, and he raised his voice slightly. "Dr. Kernsey, could you come in now, please."
Neal's eyes slid shut as the young doctor entered, and Peter would have thought his partner had lost consciousness if it hadn't been for the hand still gripping his clothing. He himself kept a grasp on that forearm, telling himself it was to prevent Neal from taking another stop, drop and roll under the gurney. His gaze remained intently fixed, with palpable concern, on his friend's face. Neal's only reaction was a flinch at the light shone to check the reaction of his pupils.
"I'm just conducting a quick neuro exam, but I've seen enough to have me worried, so I've already booked you in for a CAT scan." The words were directed at Neal, but were more for Peter's benefit, since Neal now seemed to have ceded his battle with consciousness, even his tenacious fingers finally losing their grip on Peter. It didn't occur to Peter, however, to relinquish his own hold.
"Doc, this evening Neal witnessed a murder, and now I have reason to believe his own life might be threatened. I'm going to need to stay with him at all times."
Kernsey didn't even pause to consider that, preparing Neal for transportation. "That's no problem in theory, but the best I can do for you during the CAT scan is a position in the observation room. Actually, it's a good idea for you to be there. If he becomes combative again, you can talk to him and calm him down.
A nurse pushed aside the curtain, and the gurney started to move. Peter kept pace, then, realising that the doctor wasn't accompanying them, broke step to ask one last question of the man. "There's something else I need to talk to you about. Do you have a minute?"
"I've got a couple more patients I need to see, but I'll catch up with you."
It seemed like an easy time line to follow, yet shortly time would lose all form and function, splintering off in jagged, incoherent fragments that punctured as they darted past. Peter remembered that there had been the observation room for the CAT scan, Neal's inert body looking small and vulnerable strapped to the examination table. It had only taken about ten minutes and then, in a blur of activity, Neal was gone.
Peter couldn't say if he'd been sitting in this room with its pastel walls and bland artwork for a minute or a day.
He'd been agonising about losing Neal to prison or life on the run, but it appeared that there were worse things ready to steal his friend away from him. Epidural hematoma. The words were rhythmic, almost poetic. Neal could probably have told him if they were assonant or consonant or onomatopoeic, but Neal wasn't available right now. Instead, the eight syllables swarmed destructively like a pathogen in the bloodstream, shutting down higher reasoning and creating a crawling, neon paralysis of fear.
Peter hadn't moved since someone kind, but ultimately invisible, had led him to the waiting room. He'd been sitting in the plastic chair, immobile, his arms resting inertly on his knees, staring at what could be construed as an abstract pattern on the tiled floor. He was constrained not only by the news, but also by his own helplessness.
Peter Burke didn't do helpless. When El had been kidnapped, he'd shouted, even screamed, then come up with the best damn plan to save his wife from one of the smartest villains he'd ever encountered, improvising as needed along the way. When Neal had been forced on the run, hunted by a sociopathic, but sanctioned, bounty hunter, Peter hadn't hesitated to break the rules, go off the reservation himself to rescue his friend and bring him back under his own personal protection in New York.
There was nothing cerebral or practical that he could offer Neal now. He couldn't even keep his promise to stay with him, since he had no knowledge of where his partner was except the vague location of 'surgery'. Peter was left with the antithesis of the action he craved - waiting.
Waiting was something else Peter Burke didn't do. On a slow day, he conducted surveillance, devised strategies, investigated, double-checked his findings, researched, staked out suspects, interviewed witnesses, brainstormed with his CI, and at the end of a long day, he went home to his beautiful wife.
The passivity of waiting chewed relentlessly at his nerves, further developing the coruscating sense of guilt that he hadn't taken action earlier. His body gave a clonic jerk at infrequent intervals, as if to express its own frustration at his inactivity.
He had a reputation for being unflappable under pressure, whether he was under verbal fire from an aggressive defense attorney or literally under fire with a gun held three feet from his head. He had learnt that, by staying calm and controlled, he could get the job done and keep his team safe, but it seemed that the converse was true as well. Working, keeping his focus, allowed him to maintain a measure of emotional equilibrium. Without that focal point, his vaunted composure was slowly unraveling, fraying painfully in untidy strands of guilt, grief and panic, with only a fading hope providing the stitching to keep him together.
It had occurred to him that he didn't have to suffer through this ordeal alone, that there were people whom he should call, who deserved to know what was happening, but despite the sign on the wall informing him that he was in a cellphone-permitted area, the devise remained unused in his pocket.
He wasn't sure exactly why that was, but even if self-analysis had been a strength of his, he was too sleep-deprived to pinpoint the reason. It was partly because he wanted to have more definitive news before burdening anyone else with the knowledge, but there was something else too, murkier and more amorphous that he couldn't grasp, but which was shaded with failure and misery, paradigms of duty and responsibility.
He wanted to talk to El, she was his raison d'etre, his anchor, but an anchor only helped you to stay tethered in a storm, prevented you from being swept away by strong tides. It did nothing to help keep you from sinking. The Captain might go down with the ship, but he didn't invite more passengers on board to visit Davy Jones' locker with him.
Maybe it was that simple, that he just he couldn't deal with anybody else's grief on top of his own. The constant high level of stress throughout the night had scraped his nerves raw and drained his normally boundless supply of energy. He was holding the staunch remnant that was left in reserve for Neal. He had none to spare to bolster the morale of his team.
Despite his exhaustion, he had to resist the urge of the part of him that was all Federal agent to launch his investigation. He yearned to start the work of clearing his friend's name and to find the person who had dealt him such a grievous injury. But Peter, the friend, had no intention of being evicted from his vigil, and no logic or even the drive of revenge could remove him.
He ended up sitting all alone, carved like a statue out of granite, his grief a foreign object lodged deep inside - the man of action doing nothing, simply waiting to find out if his friend would survive, and, if he did, would there be irreversible brain damage - would he still be Neal Caffrey?
