Getting to the hospital wound up taking a little longer than Neal had planned. It was Sunday morning, so traffic wasn't the issue. But he had barely made it into the house before June was there; from her worried look, he was pretty sure Mozzie had been there, and shared the news with her.

The warm, silent hug she engulfed him with was another clue.

His suspicion was confirmed when Mozzie appeared from the kitchen, three mugs of steaming coffee in his hands.

Despite his initial determination to get in and out of the house as quickly as possible, Neal found himself led to the dining room table, where he filled his friends in on the details he knew. They cried together, drank coffee together, hugged.

In the end, June took the keys, and the alarm code, and promised to go get Satchmo. He would be a guest on Riverside Drive until Peter was home and able to care for him. Mozzie left with a promise to check every street source he could locate in the vicinity of the park and where the town car was abandoned. He also had a lead on finding Bucky, which had been his previous assignment.

Showered and changed, Neal felt a bit more like himself. June met him at the door with a bag filled with sandwiches and a thermos of coffee. She also handed him the keys to the Jag, telling him he needed to be mobile. She'd make arrangements for another car for herself.

It was just before nine o'clock when he parked in the hospital lot, a few minutes after when he approached the desk in the ICU. Technically, visiting hours there didn't start for another hour, but when he checked with the nurse – fully ready to lie, con, or bribe his way in - she smiled and said that Dr. Brooks had cleared visitors for Peter's room outside of normal hours.

Neal stopped in the doorway, looking inside. Nothing much seemed to have changed from late the night before. The monitors still beeped softly, registering breathing, heart rate, blood pressure. Peter's right leg was elevated, the heavy cast protruding out from under the blanket. The agent appeared to be sleeping, or at least he had his eyes closed. But beyond that…

Beyond that, Peter looked somehow smaller, broken. There was a sadness to his features that was heart-wrenching, and a little frightening. Peter had always seemed so strong, always there for others. To see him like this was more than a little disconcerting.

Of course, the world as Peter had known it – as Neal had known it – had ended the day before.

He walked in, setting the bag from June down on the counter just inside the door. Then he approached the bed and sat down, reaching for his friend's hand. "Peter?"

At first there was no reaction, but then Peter's eyes slowly opened and he turned his head. "Neal."

"Yeah. Told you I'd be back. How are you?"

Peter raised his other hand, pointing shakily at the IV drip. "Not in too much pain, thanks to that," he said. Then his hand tightened around Neal's. "Tell me… tell me what I saw last night wasn't real."

Neal wrapped both of his hands around Peter's holding tight. "I wish I could, Peter. I truly wish I could. But it would be a lie."

"And you don't lie to me," Peter whispered, his voice cracking.

"No, I don't, Peter. I would do anything to make yesterday not have happened, but I won't lie to you."

"Appreciate that," Peter replied, closing his eyes again. "I don't think I could handle any lies."

"No lies from me," Neal promised.

They sat like that in silence, long enough that Neal thought Peter was asleep again. But then the older man spoke. "El's not coming back."

"No, Peter, she's not."

"But the baby…"

"She still has a chance, Peter."

The older man breathed a sigh of relief. "I was hoping at least that part was real."

"The obstetrician, Khalil, was supposed to do some tests this morning."

Peter nodded, opening his eyes again. "I asked them to let me know when they were going to start. I don't think they'll let me go, but maybe you could be there."

"Yeah, if they'll let me." Even if the last thing he wanted to do was spend more time in that room…

"Dr. Dolan left a release of information form with the nurses. I signed it this morning, and put your name on it. Neal, I know I'm asking a lot."

"Peter, whatever you need."

"I just… I need someone else to know what's going on. I may not be thinking real clearly."

"How's your head doing?"

"Hurts," Peter admitted. "But not as much as inside here," he added, tapping his chest.

Given the pain and emptiness Neal was feeling, he could only begin to guess how much deeper the hurt went for Peter. "What can I do for you, Peter?"

Peter turned his head to look straight at him, a desperate plea in his eyes. "Tell me what happened. I can… I can only remember a few bits."

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"We were at the park. El and I were leaving, I think?"

"You were. I was walking back to the van with you."

"And then…" Peter paused, shaking his head. "Then it's mostly a blank."

"Are you sure you're up for this, Peter?"

"Neal, I have to know!"

Neal nodded, staring down at their joined hands. "You were walking around to the other side of the van," he started. "Elizabeth dropped her folder, and I bent down to help her pick up the papers. When I looked up, I saw the car coming. I yelled, and you tried to jump inside the van. Then there was a crash. You hit your head on the gear shift, and your right leg was trapped. They had to get the Jaws of Life to cut you out."

He could feel Peter's hand trembling under his own, and he knew that most of the pain in the older man's eyes wasn't physical. "What… what happened to El?"

"The impact drove the van forward," Neal replied, and now it was his voice that was none too steady. "She was pinned against the truck in front of you. Her head… her head hit against the truck."

Peter was quiet for a long moment. "Was the driver drunk?" he finally asked.

"We don't know. The car drove away."

For a moment, the analytical agent was back behind Peter's eyes. "The van was smashed that badly, but the other car was able to be driven?"

"It was a town car," Neal explained. "They tracked it on traffic cameras, and found it abandoned a few blocks away. It was one of the armored executive models."

"Who was it registered to?"

"I don't think they know yet. The license plate was stolen, and the VIN was filed off. The tech team was trying to recover it."

"So it was a hit and run."

"Yeah. But Peter, I'm pretty sure it was deliberate. That car was aiming right for you, and it never slowed down or tried to swerve."

"It might be related to a case?"

"Maybe. That's the working theory anyway. NYPD agreed to let the FBI techs take the town car for analysis, in case that's the situation. Jones and Diana are working that angle. Hughes was going to join them today."

"What about traffic cameras? Maybe the car is on video…"

"Peter, they're already working on that," Neal assured him. "It's the weekend. I don't know how many agents they've been able to get called in."

Peter nodded and sighed. "I guess they know their jobs in evidence recovery."

"If there's anything to find, those guys will do it."

"Yeah."

Peter fell silent then, and Neal didn't really know what else to say. There were no words of wisdom he knew of for a situation like this.

It was a couple of minutes before Peter spoke again. "Neal, someone should take care of Satchmo."

"I already did. I went over last night, after I left here. And I crashed on your couch for a few hours, so I fed him again this morning. June's picking him up today. She said he can stay with her until you're back home."

"Thanks." Peter turned his head away, swallowing hard. "He was just this little yellow fur ball when we got him. El picked him out at the shelter, and she named him. She always…"

"She liked jazz," Neal said softly, when Peter's voice trailed off. "She always had good taste in a lot of things."

"Always," Peter agreed.

Silence fell again, broken when the door opened and a nurse walked in. This one was a man, and Neal hadn't met him the day before. His hospital ID said his name was Roy.

Neal took the opportunity to retrieve his hand, stepping back out of the way.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Burke?" Roy asked as he checked the readings on the various pieces of equipment.

"The pain is coming back a little, and that cast itches," Peter said, pointing to his leg.

"Dr. Larkin is doing rounds and should be here soon. He'll be able to check the prescription for your pain medication. And we'll ask about the itching. Sometimes having your leg elevated like that can cause itching, or tingling. Maybe he can approve putting your leg down for a while." Roy paused to check the levels on the IV bag. "What about your head?"

"Hurts a little, but things are clearer now. I still don't remember much detail about yesterday though."

"That's normal, given the concussion," Roy assured him. "It's likely that some memories will come back, but not necessarily everything."

Peter nodded. "Neal was just filling me in on what happened. Some of it seemed a little familiar."

"Just don't worry too much about the memory gaps, Mr. Burke. You need to give yourself time to heal." Roy stuck a thermometer under Peter's tongue, quieting his patient while they waited for the reading to be finished. "Do you have any nausea?"

Peter shook his head.

"That's good." Roy retrieved the thermometer, nodding his approval. "Your vital signs are definitely improved, and stable over the last few hours. Dr. Larkin has requested some cognitive testing. If that goes well he'll probably approve moving you out of ICU and onto the general medical floor later today."

"That's really good news, Peter," Neal said. "I brought the charger for your phone. I know you can't use it in ICU, but I'm sure there are people you need to call."

Peter nodded. "El's family…" He choked back a sob. "What do I tell her family?"

Roy had carefully backed away, making some notes in the electronic medical record; Neal kind of wished he had that option. "Let's see what the tests on the baby show," he suggested.

Peter sighed. "Yeah," he whispered, as a single tear slid down his cheek.

Peter's eyes closed, and Neal had no idea what to say. He settled for going to the small patient closet, rummaging until he found Peter's cell phone. It was dead, though apparently undamaged, so hopefully it was just the battery. There were two open outlets near the small sink by the door, so he plugged in both his and Peter's phones to charge.

By then, Peter's breathing had evened out; apparently, the combination of pain medication, physical injury, and emotional crushing had taken its toll.

Neal settled himself on one of the chairs, pouring a cup of coffee from the thermos June had provided. He nibbled on one of the chicken and cashew salad sandwiches he usually salivated over, but he still wasn't much interested in eating.

Peter had always been the strong one. Thinking back, Neal could remember Peter's arms holding him back as he tried desperately to run into the flaming inferno that Kate's plane had become. Peter's rock-steady shoulder as Neal had sobbed when the reality of his loss had become too apparent even for him to deny. Peter providing the stability Neal had needed to recover when he got out of prison again. Peter's calm yet insistent words that had kept Neal from shooting Fowler. Peter working past his personal disappointment and anger when Elizabeth was kidnapped, giving Neal the second chance that he hadn't expected. Peter, going against everything his training told him, and giving Neal the signal to run when Kramer was closing in. Peter, risking his job to bring Neal home. Peter, helping Neal to traverse the web of lies and intrigue that surrounded the discovery of his father, and his past.

Some little voice in the back of his head warned that Peter had also failed him at times, jumping to conclusions and hiding things. But Neal silenced the whisperings, simply refusing to grant them space in his conscious thoughts. He and Peter had weathered all of it, and come through stronger.

None of it mattered in the least right now anyway.

Thinking about all of the times Peter had been there, with a quiet strength, made it even harder to see the man who was lying in the hospital bed now. But it also made Neal more determined to be the strong one now, whatever it took.

When Dr. Dolan stepped into the room a little later, motioning for Neal to follow, he went. They made their way back toward the long-term care wing, and Neal steeled himself to be there for Peter, for Elizabeth, and for the baby that might wind up being the reason Peter pulled through all of this.

Peter was awake, and conscious of his surroundings, for several minutes before he actually opened his eyes. Somehow, the darkness seemed safer.

When he did look around, he quickly noticed that he was alone in the room. Much of what had happened the day before was still a fuzzy blur, but he was fairly certain that Neal had really been there earlier.

Then again, with no real time reference to go by, he wasn't altogether sure how long he had been asleep this time.

His right leg was still bothering him a little – whether it was itching, or tingling, as the nurse had suggested, didn't really matter. He tried shifting a little in the bed, but all he succeeded in doing was setting off some kind of alarm.

The door opened, and the male nurse he remembered from earlier came in. "I just tried to move a little," Peter admitted.

Roy nodded, reaching for the IV line. "You just got a little kink in this, so the fluids weren't flowing as they should. Happens all the time."

"Did I miss the doctor?"

"You did, but not by much. Dr. Larkin is actually still doing his rounds here in ICU. I'll let him know you're awake."

Whatever Roy did, the alarm finally stopped – something Peter's head very much appreciated. "My friend who was here earlier, do you know where he is?"

"Mr. Caffrey? He went with Dr. Dolan a while ago."

"Were they doing the tests on my wife?"

Now Roy hesitated for a moment. "I believe so," he finally said. "Would you like me to call down there and ask him to come back?"

What Peter really wanted was to be there himself. No, what he really, really wanted was to wake up and find that he had eaten something that had a given him a really bad dream. The worst dream ever…

He shook his head. "No, I want someone to be there."

Roy nodded in understanding. "I'll check on the doctor," he promised. "In the meantime, do you think you could eat something? Or at least try some juice?"

Peter considered that for a moment. He really couldn't say he was hungry, though he supposed he should be. But he wasn't sure that the empty hole he could feel inside of him could handle much right now. "Maybe a little juice," he finally said.

"I'll be right back," Roy promised.

There wasn't much Peter could do except wait, so he stared at the ceiling tiles. There was some kind of pattern there…

He hadn't figured it out yet when the door opened again. But it wasn't Roy coming back. Instead, Neal walked in, a plastic cup of orange juice in one hand and some papers in the other.

"Roy said you wanted this," Neal said as he pulled the rolling table over and set the cup down. He adjusted the flexible straw and pushed the table into place over the bed.

"Thanks." Peter reached for the cup, fighting the way his hands were shaking. He hoped it was from the drugs. But he managed to lift the cup and sip through the straw by himself, negating the need for Neal's hovering. "What's that?" he asked, pointing at the papers.

Neal unfolded one and held it out. "Your daughter," he said softly.

Peter's hand seemed to be shaking even more as he reached for the page. It was a printout from an ultrasound, and he could clearly make out the bent fetal shape. "They did the tests?" he whispered.

Neal pulled up a chair and sat down. "They did. I just came from there. Dr. Khalil will be stopping by in a little bit to talk to you. But Peter, everything they said while I was there sounded really good."

"But El…"

"No change, Peter. I'm sorry."

"I guess I just need to accept it…"

"Peter, if there was ever a cause to break down a little, this is it. No one could blame you."

"I'm scared, Neal," Peter admitted. "I'm scared if I do that, I won't find my way back."

Neal's hand wrapped around his, squeezing tight. "That's what you've got me for, Peter. You always find me."

"Yeah, I do," he whispered.

"Mr. Burke, I'm Dr. Larkin."

Peter looked over at the door as the speaker walked in. Dressed in the ubiquitous white lab coat, worn over pale blue scrubs, Larkin was fairly short, probably a good four or five inches under six feet. His closely cropped hair could reasonably be described as salt and pepper, with the salt beginning to take the lead. Black framed eyeglasses gave him a scholarly appearance.

All in all, Peter decided, the guy looked like a doctor.

He gave a small nod in greeting. "Doctor."

Larkin looked across the bed to where Neal was standing by the window. "And you are?"

"Neal Caffrey. I'm a friend of Peter's."

"Is it all right if he stays?" Peter asked.

Larkin nodded. "If you approve it, that's absolutely fine."

"There's a lot going on," Peter replied. "I'd like someone else to know, in case I need help."

"It's good to have a friend who can do that for you," Larkin said, looking at Neal. Then he turned his attention back to his patient. "I'm sorry I missed you earlier," Larkin continued, scanning the chart notes. "So tell me, how is your head feeling?"

"It still hurts a little," Peter admitted. "Not as much as before. And things don't seem as foggy in my mind."

"That's good news." Larkin was leaning over, shining a small penlight in his eyes. "Your pupils are also reacting to the light more than the history shows. Another good sign. How's your memory today?"

"Better, I think. I still don't really remember the crash itself. But I don't have the feeling that I'm missing big chunks of memory elsewhere."

"Well, you did suffer a Grade III concussion, which is the most serious. Fortunately, most people recover from the physical symptoms within a few days."

"So I'll get my memory of the accident back?"

Larkin pulled up a chair next to the bed and sat down. "Mr. Burke, the brain is a funny, complex thing. The fact that you don't remember the exact moment of trauma could be physical. But it's often the case that people block out traumatic events as a means of self-preservation."

"You mean I might not remember."

"It could go either way. It's absolutely not a concern at the moment from a medical standpoint. And, although I understand how difficult this may be to put into practice, my advice to you is to worry about it as little as possible. These first few days, the best therapy is rest – physical and mental."

"Hard not to think about it," Peter whispered. "My wife…"

"I do understand," Larkin said, his voice gentle. "And I am very sorry about your wife. My primary concern, however, is to make sure that your own health isn't jeopardized."

"Of course," Peter said, without feeling. How the hell was he supposed to care about his health when El was gone…?

"How's your leg feeling today?" the doctor asked, intruding on Peter's thoughts.

"Not a lot of pain, but I imagine the drugs are responsible for that. It's really uncomfortable though. The elevation angle, and it's itchy."

Larkin added a couple of notes, nodding. "What I'd like to do, Mr. Burke, is some cognitive testing. That will help determine how much the concussion is still affecting you. The head injury is the main thing keeping you here in ICU. If the tests indicate that we can move you to a general medical unit, I'll order a new set of x-rays as part of that move. The severity of the injury to your leg dictated the elevation, mainly to keep the correct pressure applied. We may be able to change that based on the updated x-rays."

"Thank you."

"As for the itching, there is a steroid combination that can help. But it's not something I can prescribe while you're still under observation for a brain injury."

"So I guess I need to pass your test."

Larkin smiled and stood up. "Yes, that's exactly true. The good news there is that you seem to have been following this conversation just fine, and that's part of the test. I'll have one of the nurses set up for the rest of the testing. It won't take long."

Peter nodded. "Thank you, Doctor," he said, watching as the physician walked out into the hall.

"You are sounding a lot better, Peter," Neal offered, walking closer to the bed.

"Last night, even this morning, it was like there was a fog in my head," Peter admitted – even though he hated saying the words. "It's almost clear now."

"That's really good, Peter. If they move you out of ICU, you can probably get rid of a bunch of these machines."

"Wouldn't mind that." Peter shifted in the bed, this time making sure not to cause a kink in the IV line; he'd had enough of those alarms.

"So, all you have to do is pass this test. Being a mathlete and all, I bet you aced exams all the time."

"Only math."

"Maybe this test will have lots of numbers."

"Maybe." Peter sighed and closed his eyes. "What do I say when they move me out of here and I can make phone calls? What do I tell El's family?"

Neal sat down, and Peter felt the younger man's hand wrap around his. "One step at a time, Peter. Let's get you through this test first, and then we'll figure it out."