"You should loosen that tourniquet again for a minute."

Peter nodded, fumbling with the belt. His fingers felt like they were barely even attached to his body, and it was getting hard to concentrate. Despite the tourniquet and the bandage, he'd noticed a continued slow flow of blood from the wound, and the evidence was all around him as he sat in a large, red puddle. And it was making him so tired.

He closed his eyes, just for a minute…

"No, Peter, stay with me. You have to stay awake."

Peter forced his eyes open, aware that Neal was now trying to get the belt tightened again. But the younger man seemed to be struggling with his movements too. "Keep talking," he said wearily. "It's keeping me awake."

"I think I've already told you just about everything."

"No." There was something else he'd wanted to follow up on… "San Francisco. What happened there?"

Neal got the tourniquet back in place and sank down against the wall. "I met Randy."

"Randy? The gem guy?"

"Different Randy. This one owned a small art gallery. I got a job there – cleaning, setting up shows, whatever odd jobs he needed done."

"This was when you were twenty going on seventeen?"

"Yeah. There was one night, I'd been there late setting up a new showing opening the next day, and one of the paintings just grabbed my attention. Randy sometimes offered some classes there, so he had supplies in a back room. I got a canvas, and just started painting what I saw."

"Your first painting forgery?"

Neal nodded. "At some point, I fell asleep, and Randy found me there in the morning. I thought he'd be mad… but instead, he started taking me to some of the bigger museums in the city. And he'd ask me if I could copy certain paintings."

"So that's how it all started?"

"Yup. I'd paint, he'd take the finished canvases, and I'd get some money."

"Simple."

"I really didn't know at first what he was doing with the paintings. I just knew I was a seventeen year old in the big city, and I was making money with my art. But eventually, I started seeing articles in the paper about museum break-ins…"

"Added up two and two?"

"Well, I wasn't a mathlete like you, but yeah, things kind of added up. I finally asked Randy what was going on, and he told me – and then he told me we could make a whole lot more money. A few weeks later he took me to Europe for the first time. The museums were bigger, the paintings older and more fabulous. He taught me how to age a painting, and eventually I started going out with his crew. I learned to pick pockets, pick locks, bypass security systems, crack safes."

"All those highly useful skills in life."

"You seem to find some of those skills useful now. And the thing is, Peter, they all just came so naturally to me."

Peter just nodded. "So what happened to Randy?"

"It was about two years later. We'd just gotten a big score in Oslo, and we crossed over to Belgium to lay low for a little while. We were staying in Antwerp, and the second day, he just disappeared – along with most of my money."

"What?"

Neal offered a sad grin. "I haven't always had the best luck with partners," he said softly.

"Including your current one?"

"I'd like to think there's still hope there. I mean, I trust him, and maybe someday he'll trust me, at least a little bit."

"Neal…"

Neal held up his hand, struggling to his feet. "Do you hear that?"

There was something, very faint…

"Here!" Neal was shouting, trying to shake the cage doors. "Down here!"

Peter tried to get to his feet, but he didn't have the strength. He slid back into the corner, pounding against the wall with what little reserve he had left.

Neal bent over, nearly falling, and took off his shoe, reaching up to use the footwear to pound on the doors. "Here! We're here!"

There was muffled sound from above, and then the most wonderful sight…

The outer door to the elevator shaft opened and a figure, fully cloaked in firefighter gear, leaned down. "Peter? Neal?"

"Jones." The name came out as little more than a sigh as Neal slumped back to the floor.

"Hey, are you guys hurt?"

"Peter's been shot."

The figure leaned in a little farther, reaching down to try and open the inner gate doors.

"They're stuck," Neal said. "I can't get them any farther apart."

The figure disappeared again for a moment, and there was the sound of more voices coming from up above. And then a new voice came to them.

"The fire department is sending in equipment," Diana called. "We'll get you out. Just hang on."

Neal crawled back over to where Peter was sitting, collapsing alongside. "You'll be all right," he whispered, holding out his hand.

"We will," Peter said, taking his partner's hand. "We will."


The news from the doctors was mixed. Both men had suffered some smoke inhalation, but were expected to recover without any lasting effects.

Peter's leg wound had led to a major loss of blood, but the bullet injury itself wasn't considered major. The projectile had missed the bone, and Neal's makeshift tourniquet had stemmed enough of the blood loss, while still allowing some flow to the rest of his leg. It took a couple of days to get his blood level back up and stabilized, and a couple more days for him to start some rehab and get back on his feet, with the aid of a walker, and then crutches. But five days after the explosion, he was released to home care under the watchful eyes of Elizabeth and Satchmo.

Neal's injuries, though less visible, were more serious. It took four hours of surgery to repair the internal injuries, and even then the peritoneal tears had allowed bacteria in where it shouldn't be and he developed a serious infection. To give his body the best chance to fight back, the doctors kept him sedated for a week, while pumping him full of powerful antibiotics. Throughout the next week, a parade of people kept vigil.


Pain. Light stabbing at his eyes. It hurt, and he wanted it to stop. He wanted to keep his eyes shut, and make the pain go away…

In the end, keeping his eyes shut didn't make it hurt any less, and he gave in to the alternative. His eyelids fluttered, opened, closed, and then opened again.

It took a moment for his vision to clear. A white ceiling, guard rails on his sides, tubes everywhere, machines beeping…

Hospital.

He vaguely recalled getting this far a time or two before, but this time waking up seemed to work.

There was a sound off to his right and, almost as though moving in slow motion he turned his head that way. "Peter?"

The agent was already getting to his feet, somewhat encumbered by the crutches. He finally tossed them aside and hopped on his good leg until he was at the bed. "Hey. Welcome back."

Neal nodded, swallowing against what felt like a wad of cotton balls in his throat. He wanted to say so many things, ask so many questions, but in the end only one word came out. "Water?"

"Yeah, let me get the nurse, make sure what you can have." He stabbed at the call button on the side of the bed.

"How long?"

Peter hopped a couple of steps toward the door, looking into the hallway. "You've been here eight days, Neal. You've had us kind of worried."

Just then the charge nurse – short blond hair, dressed in the ICU's standard teal colored scrubs – came into the room, smiling as she saw Neal's eyes open. "Good to see you awake, Mr. Caffrey. My name is Teri."

"He was asking for water," Peter said. "I wasn't sure what he could have."

Teri nodded and moved to the sink, pulling a styrofoam cup out of the cupboard. "You can definitely have water," she said, starting to fill the cup. "We'll just want to make sure to track your intake and output for a while yet, make sure your kidneys are really recovering."

"Kidneys?"

Peter hopped back to the bed, leaning against the rail. "You did a pretty good number on yourself, buddy. Between the initial injury, and the infection you developed, you've given us a few scares."

Teri snapped a lid on the cup and inserted a bendable straw into the top. She stopped at a whiteboard by the door, noting the amount of liquid, and then brought the cup to the bed. Sliding one hand under Neal's neck to support him, she lifted his head slightly and held the straw to his lips. "Just go slow," she warned.

His lips wrapped around the straw and he sipped greedily, ignoring the slow warning. But it turned out to be too much, and he started to cough.

Not knowing what else to do, Peter laid a hand on Neal's shoulder, offering moral support, if nothing else, until the younger man's shuddering coughs stopped.

As Neal leaned back against the pillow, Teri held the cup out again. "Want to try again, but slowly this time?"

Neal nodded. "Sorry."

"It's pretty common, actually. You feel like you're dehydrated. But it's only your mouth and throat. The rest of your body has had plenty of fluids," she explained, pointing at the IV pole.

Neal nodded again, and leaned toward the straw. This time he managed to take small sips, swallowing between each one. It still felt like he wanted to just guzzle the precious liquid, but the slower intake didn't make him cough. And, after a few sips, he was feeling better.

Teri set the cup aside and checked the readings on the monitors. She made a couple of notes on a chart and then started for the door. "I'll get some ice water sent in," she promised. "That'll feel even better on your throat. Just remember to sip slowly."

"So how's he doing?" Peter asked.

"Everything's looking better. I'll let Dr. Lynds know that Mr. Caffrey is awake. I'm sure she'll be in as soon as she can."

"Thanks." Peter turned back to the bed, pulling a chair up close to the bed so he could sit down.

"How bad?" Neal asked, watching.

"On the mend. I lost a lot of blood, that was the worst thing. But they fixed me up and kicked me out of here three days ago."

"That's good." Neal closed his eyes, struggling to get his thoughts in order. "What's wrong with my kidneys?"

"Hopefully, nothing. Look, the doctor will explain it better. You had some major internal bleeding going on, and you developed a massive infection. It was affecting a lot of your organs. But the last results I heard, everything was looking better."

"Is everything else still there and working?"

Peter gave a small laugh. "Yeah, you're still in one piece. And working, as far as I know." He leaned closer, laying a hand on Neal's arm. "Do you remember what happened?"

Neal opened his eyes and looked over. "Yeah, I think so. At least most of it. That old building, the counterfeiting, the explosion, the elevator."

"Yeah, I guess those are the highlights."

Neal reached out a trembling hand for the cup of water, taking a couple of sips. "Hope I don't have to pick any locks anytime soon," he said scowling at the shaking appendage.

"Hey, you've been on your back for over a week, and your body's gone through a lot. But I don't think you'll have to plan a breakout from here."

"Mozzie might disagree."

"He's been here, you know."

"Mozzie came here? I'm… amazed."

"There have been a lot of people here, Neal. You haven't been alone. But I'm kind of glad I was the one here when you woke up."

"Yeah, me too."

"We talked about a lot of things in that elevator. Do you remember?"

Neal nodded. "Want to know why I told you all of that?"

"I assume there was more to it than just that I asked?"

"You've asked before, Peter."

"True. All right, why?"

"It was important to me that you got some of those answers." Neal paused for another sip of water. "I've never told anyone most of that."

"Not even Mozzie?"

Neal shook his head. "I trust Moz – but not like you. I wanted to prove that. Show you that I really do trust you."

"By showing me what's behind the curtain?"

"Yeah. The shaky infrastructure behind the fancy exterior." He paused, struggling to get his eyes to focus on the other man. "I'm not a victim, Peter. That wasn't why I told you any of that."

"And I wouldn't think that you were. The Neal Caffrey I know is a survivor."

"Yeah, I…"

"Neal!"

They turned their attention to the door as Elizabeth walked in, two cups of coffee in her hands. She handed one to Peter, set the other down, and leaned in carefully over the bed, giving Neal a gentle hug. "Oh, I'm so happy to see you awake," she said, leaving him with a soft kiss on the forehead.

"He had to quit faking sooner or later," Peter grumbled through a smile.

Ignoring her husband, Elizabeth brushed Neal's hair back, her touch tender. "How are you feeling?"

"I've been better," Neal admitted. "But I guess I've been worse too."

"Yeah, you had us kind of worried."

"Sorry."

"Well, you saved my husband's life, so I'll forgive you this time. Just don't scare us like that again."

"I'll try."

"Well, I was never really worried," Peter said. "I own your ass for another two years, Caffrey, and you did not have permission to die."

Neal smiled and closed his eyes. "Right," he said, trying, but failing, to stifle a yawn.

"Get some rest, Neal," Elizabeth said, her fingers wrapping in his. "Someone will be here when you wake up again."