Scapegoat Ch 3

Peter fumbled for his phone with one hand while keeping the other on Neal, unconsciously needing the assurance that he was still breathing. However, before he started to dial, bloodstained fingers wrapped weakly around his wrist.

"Don't, Peter, please."

Peter temporarily abandoned his attempt to call for help in favour of restraining his friend, who was trying to sit up.

"Damn it, keep still. You're bleeding all over the place. Keep still!"

In the end, Neal won the struggle, mostly because Peter was afraid of causing more damage. He inched back to rest gingerly against the wall, eyes closed, hand tucked back against his injured side. Peter half-knelt beside him, still poised to use his cell phone.

A sliver of pained blue regarded him from under heavy lids. "Would you think it was cliched of me if I said it was just a scratch?"

Peter was in no mood for humour. "You get a scratch from a cat, Neal. When it's from a gun we call it a bullet wound, and it needs immediate medical attention. That's why I'm taking you to the hospital."

"Come on, Peter, you have to have experience with things like this. What do you do if you come across someone who's hurt?"

"I take them to the hospital," Peter responded testily.

Neal's fluent tongue seems to have deserted him, and he was floundering. "You must have some medical training from the FBI. What does the FBI manual instruct you to do?"

"Take them to the hospital. Can you see a pattern here, Neal?"

Neal's fingers plucked forlornly at a tear in his slacks. "I can't go to the hospital. They have to report gunshot wounds."

"So do I," Peter pointed out shortly.

"Peter, you can't, not now. You don't understand what's at stake here." Neal's eyes were overbright in his ashen face, pleading.

With a grunt of frustration, Peter looked around the room, then strode over to pick up a small hand towel that looked clean from the kitchen. Folding it into a wedge, he returned to Neal's side.

"Enlighten me, and if you can explain it to me without bleeding to death that would be a bonus."

Neal eyed the cloth a little fuzzily, then gory fingers shakily reached out to take it. Gingerly placing it against his side, his face, already drawn, turned several shades paler.

Hearing the tight rasp of Neal's breathing and seeing the contortion of pain in his expression, Peter's own emotions rose in a tidal wave for which he was totally unprepared. It was as if the sight had broken a dam, and now all the fear, helplessness and consequent anger washed through him.

"Damn it Neal, I can't do this. I'm an FBI agent, not a doctor!"

"Did you just misquote Star Trek at me?" Neal's voice was thin and raspy. He strove for his usual carefree smirk, but managed only a grimace.

Peter stared at him incredulously. "You're lying there bleeding. What makes you think I'd be quoting Star Trek at you? This isn't a joke."

Neal hung his head. "Sorry, I think I'm a bit..." He gestured vaguely with the hand that wasn't holding the makeshift pressure pad in place. The slump of his shoulders made him look utterly defeated.

Caffrey could drive Peter crazy faster than Superman could leap tall buildings, but he could disarm him just as fast.

"We need some help with this. Maybe June...damn it, she's away isn't she." Peter considered calling El, but even if she weren't so busy, he didn't want her caught up in this mess. Plausible deniability was for wives too. "I don't suppose Mozz holds some type of degree in medicine?" he ventured hopefully.

"Mozz is...he's not available at the moment. He's...doing something for me out of town."

That was a really suspicious statement, and the cynical side of Peter almost asked if Mozz was away hocking diamonds, but he wasn't ready for that conversation yet. He needed to focus on treating Neal's injury.

"You have to do it." Increasingly hazy eyes blinked trustingly at him.

As if that wasn't number one with a bullet on Peter's list of worst ideas he's ever heard. But he'd followed the mathematics of the situation, and, once everybody else had been subtracted from the equation, that left him. He needed to follow his own favourite advice and 'cowboy up.' He dragged up everything he could remember about bullet wounds from memories of scanty first-aid courses.

"Okay, here's the deal. I will assess your injury. However, if I deem it life-threatening or beyond my capabilities to treat, I will take you to the hospital if I have to knock you out and carry you. Got it?"

Neal took a good look at the tight lines around his friend's mouth and the set of his jaw and nodded agreeably. "Got it." There would always be time to renegotiate the arrangement if it didn't work out in his favour.

Peter eased the young man out of his jacket, turning him slightly toward the light before carefully lifting up the torn sweater. The copper tang of blood stung his nostrils and its warm stickiness clung to his fingers, but, to his immense relief, the bullet wound, while not a scratch, wasn't as serious as he'd originally feared.

The bullet had hit Neal at a strange downward angle, and Peter suspected his friend had been diving out of the way or off a building. It had glanced off a rib then punctured just slightly below the rib cage and almost immediately exited. There was no danger of internal damage, but he was sure the rib was broken.

Neal's eyes were closed again, but every muscle was tense in anticipation.

Peter sat back on his heels to deliver his summation. "I'd much rather a professional looked at things, but for now, I think we can clean it up and trust you won't keel over dead before morning."

There was a slight quirk of a smile. "That's so encouraging to know."

Peter tried to maintain a matter-of-fact attitude. "Where does June keep her first-aid kit?"

Neal didn't seem to register the question, his mind increasingly clouded by blood loss and pain. Peter gently grasped his friend's shoulder to recapture his attention. "Neal?"

As hazy blue eyes finally wandered over to meet his and acknowledge his presence, Peter repeated his question. "I need to know where the first-aid kit is?"

Neal's swallow clicked on a dry throat. "Bathroom, one floor down."

Leaving the young man in this confused condition trampled on every one of Peter's protective instincts, but he had no choice.

"Neal, I have to go downstairs. I will be as quick as I can. Do not move. I don't want the bleeding to start again. Just stay right here. Do you understand?"

Neal squinted up at him. "Sit, stay," he summarised succinctly. That touch of Caffrey humour did more to reassure Peter than his own diagnosis.

Peter rifled through the medicine cabinet with no regard for privacy or tidiness, knowing that June would place Neal's welfare above such petty concerns. He shoved the medical supplies into his pockets, then grabbed an armload of towels and headed back up the stairs.

For once, Neal was exactly where he'd left him, and, for once, that obedience was almost discouraging. Peter dropped the towels beside him and hurried off to finish his preparations. When he returned to Neal's side, he was surprised to find his friend not only conscious, but also slightly more alert. He held out a couple of painkillers.

"These are the strongest I could find. Take them with this milk; it'll help them stay down."

Neal regarded the white pills with disfavour and made no move to take them.

"Are you feeling nauseous?"

There was an almost imperceptible nod. Peter grimaced sympathetically. "Yeah, but you need to take them. They'll take the edge off and help you sleep."

"Actually," Neal told him confidingly. "I was thinking of bypassing sleep in favour of passing out."

Peter chuckled. "That's a plan, but if you can hold out until you're on the bed, I'd appreciate it. I happen to know you're heavier than you look."

Neal took the pills unsteadily while Peter fetched some hot water. He wanted to give the injured man one last chance to choose the sensible option of a medical professional.

"You do realise that I know far more about causing bullet wounds than dressing them." He paused thoughtfully. "Actually I know more about forensic science - you know bullet holes in dead guys than..."

Neal cut him off. "You really haven't got the bedside manner thing down, Florence."

Peter decided not to take affront at what was definitely a true statement. "I believe in truth in advertising. Just want to make sure you know what you're letting yourself in for when you decided that this is preferable to a nice, comfortable, medicated hospital treatment."

Neal didn't respond, but his expression clearly stated that he felt he had no choice. With a grim nod of acknowledgment, Peter got started.

He picked up a pair of large, sharp scissors. Neal's eyes widened as the large blades were brandished in front of him, but then he merely tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. The implicit trust in that gesture made something in Peter's chest tighten.

He cut away the torn sweater with the heavy scissors, not wanting to jar the broken rib. He cleaned the area as carefully as he could, keeping his touch as light as possible, but he didn't want to draw the ordeal out any more than he had to. He could feel Neal's heart kicking against his ribs, his breath short and hitching with each inhalation. Anger began to seep in, and he grabbed on to it tightly, even though he knew it was a cheap replacement for the guilt he felt at hurting his friend, even inadvertently.

"Who did this to you?" he demanded curtly.

The answer was slow in coming and slightly slurred. "A man with a gun."

"You can do better than that."

"I didn't stop to ask his name, Peter. I was busy ducking." Neal was simply too tired to summon up any real irritation in his response, and Peter realised this was another conversation that should be shelved for a later time.

He tried to finish as fast as he could, but Neal had moved past pale and into gray by the time Peter was done, though the young man had stayed silent, barely flinching. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and tremors coursed through him almost continuously.

"It's done. Let's hope we can get some antibiotics into you before it goes septic." Peter wrapped a hand around the back of his friend's too-warm neck and squeezed gently, attempting to offer comfort and support even if his words were less than reassuring. Neal was almost completely limp, the shudders periodically shaking him the only sign of life.

Peter eyed the bed calculatingly, regretting the fact that he hadn't moved Neal there before patching him up. The broken rib precluded such crude tactics as dragging him the few yards or the strenuous alternative of a fireman's lift. For a moment, he contemplated the couch which was considerably closer, but it would offer an uncomfortable night even without injuries. It had to be the bed, but to make the move feasible, Neal needed to actively participate.

He shifted his hand slightly, bracing Neal's drooping head. "The floor's not the best place for a nap. You need to get up." He tapped him gently on the cheek, but there was no response. Hating himself for what he was about to do, but acknowledging the necessity, Peter summoned his most authoritative tone. "Caffrey, on your feet, now!"

Dazed eyes opened with a start, and Neal obediently worked himself into a more upright position on shaky arms. Faced with that uncomprehending compliance, Peter found it impossible to maintain his hard-line approach, but he went with the momentum, looping Neal's left arm over his own shoulder.

"You can do this, buddy. One, two, up."

The involuntary cry of pain wrenched from Neal's throat was a harsher punishment for Peter than anything he himself could have devised, but he couldn't relent now. "Just a few more steps," he encouraged. "Keep going."

The short, shallow pants, each breath tinged with a moan, revealed the extent of Neal's exertion, but despite his best efforts, Peter was essentially carrying him. Conscious of the strain they must be putting on the young man's broken rib, the few yards felt like a mile to Peter, but they finally arrived at their destination, where Peter lowered him gently, then manhandled him into lying on his uninjured side, two judiciously placed pillows ensuring he'd stay in that position.

"Damn it! What the hell am I doing!" Peter glared at Neal's unconscious body, but his friend was impervious to that expression while he was awake, so it was hardly surprising it wasn't very effective when he was asleep. It did help to relieve Peter's feelings.

He knew that, consciously or not, Neal depended on him to curb his impulsivity, to provide a brake to his outrageous schemes. But Peter was operating in a knowledge vacuum, and until he knew what was going on, anything he did could exacerbate the situation. He needed information, but Neal had been in no condition to provide it that evening.

With a last check on Neal, Peter stumbled to the bathroom. He scrubbed his bloody hands and waited for them to stop trembling. After several deep breaths, he splashed cold water on his face while deciding his next move. Every instinct still insisted that he take Neal to the hospital. Returning to the bedroom, the rise and fall of Neal's chest assured him that his friend was still alive, but his face was covered with a light sheen of sweat, and his face periodically twisted in spasms of pain. This sight added another mental tally to the pro column of his mental decision making process of whether or not to take Neal to hospital. It was only the competing picture of the young man in an orange jumpsuit that stopped him from dialing for an ambulance.

At a loss to know what else to do, Peter dragged a chair closer and resigned himself to a sleepless night keeping watch over his injured friend. Exhaustion, however, foiled his best intentions. His eyes slipped inexorably closed, and sleep pulled him under.

Pale light from the rising sun woke him a couple of hours later, and he checked on Neal in a panic. He was relieved to discover that, although Neal was still too warm and flushed, the sweating had stopped. He still shivered intermittently, but it was barely noticeable now. Peter was confident that once Neal woke up, he would be well enough to talk, and he had a feeling that their conversation would be very interesting.