Hello all! Thank you so much for the continued support of my story! :) It has been longer than expected for this update, so it will be longer for you all!
Genre: Angst/Tragedy
Rating: STRONG T
Characters: Mostly Peter and Neal. But we will here from his EMT/Doctor lady, Dixie Isles (Yes she is a reference to Rizzoli and Isles)
Parings: None
Warnings: Mentions of torture. Oodles of blood. BS doctor stuff. Real happy stuff. You have been warned, I do watch House… haha
Inspiration tunes: Clocks, by Coldplay.
Disclaimer: My writing could never compare to the works of the marvelous Jeff Eastin.
Question for Readers: Besides White Collar, what else do you like to watch on TV?
In Case you were wondering : The expression coup de grâce means a death blow intended to end the suffering of a wounded creature
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Here sat the exhausted Peter Burke. In a miserable excuse for a chair, inside a stuffy hospital waiting room, waiting somewhat patiently for news about his consultant. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes.
After arguing with the two orderlies, and nearly putting a bullet through one of their heads with his Glock, he had wound up sitting in a dingy plastic chair, instead of being in Neal's room to comfort him. Just his luck.
He had called Elle a few hours ago, to give her a status report on Neal. She had heard the tiredness, and worry in her husband's voice, but she didn't address him about it, knowing full well the depth of Peter's concern for his friend. She had asked him whether or not he wanted her there, but he said no, hoping his wife could catch up on her sleep. Jones and Diana had dropped by as well, to give him an update about the other two victims, and also had asked to stay with Peter. He sent them both home, for it had been a long evening for everyone involved.
He checked his wristwatch, yawning. It's hands read 3:24 am. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, determination fueling him to stay awake to be there when his friend arose. He sipped his coffee, which he had ordered straight black. It burnt his tongue, and tasted faintly of dishwater. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, setting the cup of steaming liquid on the floor by his feet. It was worse than the FBI's version of so called "coffee."
A TV glowed, nestled in the upper right corner of the room, broadcasting Late Night with Jim Fallon without volume. No one seemed to be paying any attention to the hilarious man, talking to famous Mark Harmon, yet seemed to be focused on their own personal matters of grief and worry. Elevator music seeped through the walls of the tiny quarters, lulling Peter to sleep. He refused to succumb to its quietly sweet melody, and wordless symphony of violins.
He sighed, his eyes flickering to the other members of the area, scanning their faces for signs of what they were dealing with. There were two others in the room that he two notice of, both displayed signs of depression and fear for their loved ones. Anything to keep him from sleeping and provide him with some other form of entertainment. He had beaten his high score of Angry Birds three times in a row. The birds deserved a break.
An elderly woman sat two seats away from him, grasping a blood spattered camouflage army cap and rosary beads in her shriveled, arthritic hands. She was slouched, bent over with her feet not quite reaching the bottom of the white tiled hospital floor. She was muttering something to herself that was presumably the Hail Mary.
Across from him sat a pale young man, grasping the hand of a sleeping blonde haired little boy, as if he may never again wake. His other hand twisted the silver wedding band around his ring finger continuously, a sign of deep anxiety. Tears rimmed the man's eyes, and he was continuously swiping them away, afraid to show weakness in the public eye. Deep purplish bruise like bags etched themselves under his reddened eyes. The man was disheveled, as if he hadn't slept in weeks. Peter reached down and picked up the battered and well loved teddy bear that had fallen from the sleeping child's arms, and placed it in his father's lap.
"Thanks." He whispered, his voice raspy with sorrow. Peter's eyes lingered on the man's face, ashen and white. Pity rose in his heart. He wanted to assure the man that everything would be alright, yet not knowing the condition of his own consultant, he wasn't sure what to say.
A young, red-haired doctor dressed in pink scrubs hurried into the waiting room, sneakers squeaking on the freshly polished floors.
"Family of Neal Caffrey?" She called out, pushing the red bangs from her forehead, glistening with sweat. Her face was heart shaped, her eyes were an electric blue lightly dusted with a splash of makeup. Laugh lines formed webs at the corners of her eyes, demonstrating that the horrors of the trauma center hadn't phased her ability to have a good time in life. Her skin was a porcelain white, and seemed almost translucent, her pink scrubs washing her out even more. She was small in height and build, curves appearing around her chest and hips. She opened a folder attached onto a clipboard in her arms. She pulled a pen from her ponytail, uncapping it with her teeth.
Peter rose, his bottom sore from the chair, movements lethargic. He grunted, pulling his badge from his wrinkle slacks' pocket.
"He's my criminal consultant. I'm Special Agent Peter Burke." He spoke quietly.
She stuck out her latex gloved hand, but then pulled back, realizing that they were still bloodstained. Bile rose in Peter's throat as he realized that it was most likely Neal's.
"I'm Dr. Isles. You can call me Dixie." She gave an awkward wave. She peeled the gloves from her delicate, petite hands, and tossed them into the trash bin behind Peter. "I can assure you that the 'criminal' part of his title does not affect my treatment of him. I have treated serial killers before." She rambled for a bit, before she realized that Peter was waiting for her to get to the point.
"So you are probably wondering how he is doing." She read from her notes, flipping through the pages, eyes racing over them. "Okay, Patient had extensive injuries including a bullet wound, stab wound, and tons of cuts and bruises that also required attention and stitching in some cases. The main concern that I am having right now is blood loss, and the stab wound to the stomach. Neal hasn't been taking in his medicine properly because of it and I am worried that it might have penetrated part of his digestive system, and we are going to do a bit of surgery to eliminate that possible danger." She looked up from the pad of paper, staring directly at Peter. She seemed to be reading his facial features to tell how he was taking this information. She opened her mouth to speak again.
"Agent Burke, Mr. Caffrey is a trauma patient. Not only has he experienced physical injuries, but he will have emotional injuries as well. From what one of your agents and yourself have told me, the man who captured and tortured Neal was a major part of who he is. This experience will leave him in fear that he will eventually turn out to be like this man. Also, Neal is experiencing Rapid Eye Movement, and his hands are shaking lightly, which suggests that he is stuck in some sort of nightmare, which he will remain in until he awakes from his coma."
"How.. how long? Peter asked, embarrassed by his stuttering. He wiped his sweating palms on his pants.
She smiled understandingly, "Time will tell Agent Burke, but it looks promising that he will wake up. We are currently moving him to ICU, and you will be able to visit him soon, perhaps after the surgery. I will come and get you, and we will go together. Does that sound like a deal?"
"Yes, thank you Dr. Isles." He reached out to shake her hand. He sighed in relief.
Her face lit up as she took his hand, and she smile brightly. "Please call me Dixie. I am happy to help all my patients to make a full recovery, and to also make it as painless as possible. And here is my business card, you can reach me anytime. I know a number of great therapists that can aid Neal in his recovery process." She pulled a white card from her breast pocket. She turned and walked out of the room, prepared to debrief other waiting loved ones desperate for news.
He sighed once again, resigning himself back to the chair. He ran his hands through his hair, and leaned forward, staring at the tiny white card.
What if the roles were reversed? Peter wondered to himself. He laughed shortly as he pictured Neal flashing his charming smile as he flirted with the pretty doctor. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand and pocketed the card. He leaned back in the chair, and placed his hands behind his head. He would rest his eyes, maybe for just a minute.
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She waltzed into the tiny medical suite. She was greeted by the steady hum of machines and sound of a patient's life continuing. She went and stood beside her patient, taking his hand lightly, intertwining her fingers with his. She looked over him, observing the various tubes and bandages on his body. A tube was thread into his throat was helping him breath. This would frighten him when he woke up, yet was essential because he couldn't breathe on his own at the moment. He was half naked, covered only by a blue hospital blanket, bandages on his shoulders, and encircling his torso. He had a muscular build, a fighter she thought to herself. She felt as if she could watch him for hours, interested in the mystery he held behind his closed lids.
"Hello, Neal Caffrey. I am Dr. Isles, well Dixie. You don't know me yet, but I look forward to meeting you once you wake up. I am going to be helping you get better." She murmured.
She leaned down, studying his face. "Mr. Burke cares a lot about you. He wants you to heal quickly. I take it that he is a good friend of yours. He saved your life, you know. It is interesting to see that kind of concern for a criminal. I hope you can explain it better to me, because frankly I am a wee bit intrigued!" She laughed heartily.
She paused, her voice becoming serious. "I want to help you Mr. Caffrey. I want you to know that you are safe here, nothing can hurt you."
She leaned forward and brushed his cheek with her finger tips.
"Have a great night Neal." She whispered, before dislodging her fingers, and exiting the room.
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Alright, I have no poem for you sorry :( But please do review! :)
Comments, concerns, or questions?
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