Senseless Ch 10
Indecision had never been one of Neal's faults, and once Peter had moved deeper into the danger zone, it wasn't even that difficult a choice to make. The image of Agent Rowe, crumpled and lifeless on the floor of the elevator, was freshly and indelibly inscribed in cruel and caustic lines in his memory. It was a savage reminder of mortality - that a gun, a badge, an inspiring motto, and all the best intentions in the world didn't protect from an incoming bullet. This time, it would be Peter lying in a broken, bleeding heap. A full-bodied shudder burned through Neal, his skin clammy, and he knew that he would do absolutely anything to make sure that didn't happen.
Peter was irreplaceable and unique - in the Bureau and in Neal's life. Few agents would have had the integrity to keep their word to meet a felon in prison, never mind the vision, compassion, and courage to accept the deal Neal proposed. He knew from direct personal experience the suspicion and even abuse he could receive at the hands of lawmen - at best he was an expendable tool, at worse a low-life scum unfit for association with law-abiding folk and one to be returned to jail with all due expediency.
Peter had accepted him into his team and his family, treating him as an equal member of his elite squad and welcoming him into his home, asking nothing more than the CI follow the terms of his parole. Yet even there, he'd covered for Neal time and again, shielding him from everything from vengeful former associates to the consequences of his own impulsive decisions, and frequently casting the same umbrella of protection over his friends. Neal now had a home and a life that he would fight for, and they both centered around Peter. He might be wedged between the proverbial rock and hard place, but his next move was easy to determine.
In the hopes that echoes would help prevent the gunmen from pinpointing his location, Neal cupped his hands around his mouth and directed his shout at the ceiling. "Peter! T-two men with guns!" The words fell into the darkness like a stone into a pond, ripples of sound reverberating outwards in waves of consequences. Neal squeezed his eyes shut, muscles tensing in expectation of the retribution of hot lead.
There was a snarl of fury from below. "That son-of-a-bitch. Where is he?"
True to form, the cowardly cohort immediately recommended a quick exit. "We've got to get out of here. Come on!"
Neal focused on sounds from the corridor, waiting to take his cue from Peter. To his surprise, the footsteps he heard seemed to be retreating back to the elevator. Perhaps Peter wasn't alone. Neal had assumed that his friend had returned from the operation at the docks and, finding his CI missing, started searching. It didn't even occur to him that the agent was fleeing the scene. Peter's protective instincts were as dependable and powerful as the rising sun and as constant as a heartbeat. Comprehension dawned as a plangent alarm started reverberating with shocking abruptness. Given the circumstances, the delight he felt at the unexpected move was inappropriate, but a swell of affection for his friend and mentor rose in his throat, disguised as a chuckle.
No unnecessary heroics or quixotic schemes for Peter. He worked through problems with pragmatism and practicality, reserving extreme actions for a last resort. Neal's attention was dragged back to the gunmen below him.
"What the hell are you thinking? If you spray bullets around now, it'll be obvious that Caffrey had nothing to do with the murder. You'll ruin the boss's plan. I'm leaving. Now."
The killer stayed long enough to utter one last threat. "I'll be back, Caffrey. This isn't over."
Their rapidly departing footsteps masked Peter's return. "This is the FBI. Identify yourselves. Throw down your weapons and lie on the floor."
Neal waited a moment to be sure he was alone. "Peter, I think they're gone. There's a d-door in the b-back, but I can't see anything, so it may be a trap."
Peter's voice was sharp and intent, its owner in full agent mode. "Are you in a secure position?" At Neal's assent, he continued, "Are you hurt?"
"I'm f-fine. I got away b-before they could do anything. But, Peter, they k-killed Agent Rowe."
There was a pause and then, "Understood. Neal, listen to me. Hold still for now. Backup is on its way. Until then, don't move. If you sense something is wrong or you hear anything, tell me at once."
Silence settled in once again, but this time it wasn't oppressive. The threat hadn't entirely vanished, but now the environment registered as secure because Peter's presence triggered his perception of safety. The darkness actually lulled him to sleep, exhausted muscles twitching as electronic impulses misfired with the release of stress. In hazy semi-consciousness, he dreamed he was back in a coma, unable to move and lost in the paralytic black universe. The frantic repetition of his name woke him what was probably only minutes later.
"Neal, Neal, where the hell are you?"
The bright beam of a flashlight swept by him, the light clawing unexpectedly at his eyes, causing his head to pound in a fretful, uneven rhythm that seemed to drive all logical thought from his brain. Sensation returned slowly, but it didn't seem like an improvement of the situation since he hurt all over, his skin prickling with the pins and needles that took up residence with the return of circulation. At the next frantic call of his name, he recognised Peter's voice, and his memory slotted back into place.
He raised his left arm and waved it tentatively in the air. "I'm up h-here," he croaked.
The light oscillated wildly along the wall and ceiling, searching him out, settling eventually on his hand, bathing it in brilliant white.
"Neal?"
His disembodied hand seemed to offer little reassurance to Peter, so Neal tried to sit up. This turned out to be a much harder proposition than he expected, partly due to the numbness of many body parts, and partly due to the unnaturalness of the position when one was squashed between a pipe and a wall. He regarded it as something of an achievement when he succeeded, but his only reward was the dazzling light shone straight in his eyes and the violent exclamation of, "Damn it, Neal!"
The voice was sharp, but Neal recognised it, from an overabundance of experience, as the anger of profound relief, so he merely shielded his eyes with his forearm, wondering, not for the first time, when 'Dammit' had become his first name. Maybe he'd forgotten this rechristening along with his memories of meeting Fowler.
His lack of a verbal response led Peter to assume the worst. "Neal, you told me you weren't hurt."
"I'm not!" Neal protested.
"Then why did you just lose consciousness for several minutes. You sc...well, I had no idea where you were."
"I didn't lose c-consciousness. I think I just f-fell asleep."
There was a pregnant pause. "Because that's a natural reaction to people trying to kill you."
Neal still couldn't see his friend as he was concealed behind the coruscating fringe of light, but he was familiar with Peter's sarcasm under stress. "S-so, did I m-miss anything important?" he asked lightly.
There was an exaggerated sigh from below him. "To recap events from your naptime - Diana and Jones are out trying to find footage of your escaped hitmen, I was trying to find your silent and possibly deceased body and, hopefully, someone somewhere is trying to find me a light bulb because taking in the surroundings two feet at a time is no way to investigate a crime scene." The light flashed around in illustration of his point, then pointed back at Neal. "And how on earth did you get up there - levitate?"
Neal was once again forced to raise his arm to protect his eyes. "If you'd just quit b-blinding m-me..." He waited until Peter lowered the beam with a word of apology before continuing, "I'd p-point out the n-nifty little climbing apparatus over there, although I hate to destroy your b-belief in my super-human p-prowess."
He ignored the grunt of skepticism that said more clearly than words that Neal was overstating Peter's opinion of his abilities and concentrated on moving. He reversed his direction and started crawling back towards the junction of pipes he'd just indicated.
"Hey, what, whoa, where are you going? Just wait right there until I get a ladder."
"Effectively th-that is a ladder," Neal pointed out. "I climbed up it in the d-dark, so, with you shining the flashlight on it, I can certainly climb b-back d-down."
Peter knew just how capable his young friend was in the athletic department, so he kept his reservations concerning Neal's present level of health to himself. He was well acquainted with his CI's stubbornness, concealed though it usually was with a bright smile and seemingly ready acquiescence. He stood off to one side, using the flashlight to illuminate in turn each of the 'rungs' on the improvised ladder. It was immediately obvious that Neal wasn't moving with his typical sprezzatura. There was a constant tremor in his right leg, which transferred itself to his foot as it sought out a new foothold.
Peter saw the whole disaster start to happen as if it were in slow motion. Halfway to the ground, a muscle spasm hit Neal's hand just after he'd transferred all his weight to the appendage. The cramp made it impossible to maintain his hold and, after a futile grab with the other hand, he toppled over backwards. Peter had a split second to automatically move to catch him and to think, 'Oh damn, this is going to hurt,' before 160 pounds of best friend crashed into him like a flailing cannonball, the impetus sending both of them crashing to the ground.
He lay, partly stunned and definitely winded, splayed out like a starfish, his fish impression bolstered by the opening and closing of his mouth as he fought for breath, the process not helped by the weight still on his chest. Neal was shaking slightly, but Peter might have been more concerned if he weren't fairly sure that at least part of it was laughter. Finally, he managed to speak, the words interspersed with gasps for air, which somewhat spoiled the dry tone.
"Well, you didn't stick the landing, but major points for style from the Russian judge. I loved the double somersault with a twist, but the last time I saw that performed, it was over a pool not solid concrete."
It was more of a snorting snuffle than a laugh, but since the flashlight had rolled away from them and was now helpfully illuminating a peeling section of pillar, Peter allowed his mouth to quirk up in an answering grin that Neal would never see. It seemed like a long time since his friend had felt like laughing.
Peter couldn't help chiding. "It really isn't funny. Do you realise what could have happened if you'd hit your head?"
"I wasn't in any d-danger." He thought Neal waved an airy hand in dismissal, but he couldn't actually see it. However, he could hear the amusement in his friend's voice. "You c-caught me, d-didn't you? After all, it's what you do b-best."
"So, that makes me, what...5 and 0?"
"At most 4 and 0. D-don't inflate your record."
Peter waggled a reproving finger. "Oh, no. This was worth bonus points. Any catching that involves you using me as a cushion deserves a double score. Now, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to get up before my team acquires more blackmail pictures of me."
Neal rolled off him, a maneuver that seemed to involve more elbows and knees than one bipedal organism should possess. Peter stifled a groan. His violent encounter with the floor had exacerbated the vicious pain in his shoulder, and it was tempting to lie still a little longer. However, there were too many tasks that needed doing, so, with a wince, he sat up and grabbed the flashlight.
"Let me take a look at your head. I want to make sure you haven't knocked another hole in it." Peter knew better than to trust his friend's self-assessment on his physical health, and he'd noticed that Neal was a strange color under the artificial light. To his immense relief, a quick examination showed him it that wasn't blood darkening the young man's face, but dirt. "You're a mess," he pointed out unnecessarily.
Neal's teeth flashed unnaturally white from the grubby face. "Urban c-camoflage," he explained.
"Dammit, Neal." This time the words were hoarse as if they were drying out his throat as they escaped. He reached out with his good arm, wrapping it round his friend and pulling him in. It was immediately apparent just how much weight, especially muscle, Neal had lost in the last few weeks; he felt frail, almost skinny, and although the laughter had stopped, the shaking hadn't - little twitches and tremors shook him almost continuously. Peter held on tightly, as if letting go would mean losing him to the darkness once again. The younger man wavered momentarily, always surprised at being the recipient of genuine affection, then relaxed into the embrace, a short, punctured sound escaping from the back of his throat.
The journey from the docks to the hospital had provided enough time for Peter to work his way up from worried to frantic. Calls to Neal's room, Agent Rowe's room, the Physiotherapy Department and Hospital Security had turned up nothing, so Peter had ordered the Head of Security to put the hospital on lockdown. When they arrived at the hospital, the sight of Neal's empty room caused the edges of his vision to darken, narrowing his focus to the stark white sheets, rumpled and abandoned on the bed. Neal had disappeared, his fate uncertain, and that realization had momentarily crowded all other thoughts from Peter's mind, horror clenching his stomach.
The fear that he was too late, that Neal was dead, ran like a burning undertow in his mind, threatening to pull him under if he even acknowledged the idea, so he couldn't allow himself to dwell on the possibility. He had quickly established Neal's last known movements and organized a thorough search of the hospital with the personnel he had. He'd also ordered Security to pull up footage to try to find any trace of his errant CI after he'd entered the elevator. Upon learning that Neal couldn't have accessed the sub basement, Peter allocated that area to himself to search, remembering his friend's ability to hotwire the elevator at Nova, an action that had saved Peter's life.
His relief in finding Neal alive in the basement had been absolute; he'd momentarily sagged against the wall, knees sapped of all strength. When backup arrived and Neal had no longer answered calls, Peter had been plunged back into the misery of uncertainty, unsure if his CI had been kidnapped while the agent stood uselessly in the corridor, or if a further blow to the head had plunged Neal back into a coma.
Right now, Neal was slumped against him bonelessly, his head resting on Peter's collarbone. It offered the older man the reassurance he needed in the steady pulse of life against his chest and the warmth emanating from the trembling body. It told him that Neal was alive and safe even if not completely healthy as was shown by his inclination to resume his nap using Peter as a pillow. With a sigh, the agent rested his head on his friend's. He was exhausted, his body protesting the emotional and physical pace he was forcing it to pursue. He was tempted to follow Neal's excellent example of extending that precious moment of peace by falling asleep, but ingrained responsibility reminded him once again that this wasn't a good time.
He straightened up reluctantly. "Hey sleepyhead, I need to get you checked out by a doctor."
Neal gave an indecipherable grumble and, deprived of the support of Peter's chest, wavered dizzily. Peter put out a hand to steady him, but it changed to a more investigatory prod. "You're bleeding!" he said in an accusatory tone.
"Hmm?" Neal had forgotten that he'd removed a layer of skin as he'd attempted to wriggle over the pipe. "S-scratches," he explained succinctly.
In investigating the claim, Peter accidentally revealed the bloody handkerchief wrapped around his own injury. Neal's hand shot out and tried to grab the flashlight. For a moment, they wrestled for possession, then Neal let out a slight cry of pain and Peter relinquished his grip immediately. It didn't take him long to realise his error even before Neal's smug reminder of, "Conman here," rubbed it in.
He threw a half-hearted scowl, but its intended recipient was oblivious, his attention focused on the sluggishly bleeding cut on Peter's hand. "That n-needs stitches," Neal observed.
"Well, when I arrived at the hospital, my attention was otherwise occupied," Peter pointed out dryly. "However," he conceded hurriedly as Neal turned his attention to the agent's leg injuries, "maybe I should have said, we both need to be checked out by a doctor."
He hauled Neal to his feet, bracing him as he swayed. The younger man's legs seemed as wobbly as a new-born colt's, and there were beads of sweat clinging to his hairline, smearing the dirt as he rubbed his forehead with his sleeve. Peter would have called for help if his phone wasn't lying in pieces in a far-off warehouse. As it was, they started a drunken, staggering progress towards the elevator. They were spared the long struggle by the return of Diana, who had the foresight to bring, not only a wheelchair, but also a doctor. Peter recognised the emergency doctor who had admitted Neal.
By the light of the elevator, the physician looked at them with indecision, clearly unsure which of the two required his attention first. Peter pushed Neal gently into the wheelchair, keeping a hand on his shoulder to restrain further movement, which didn't prevent verbal protests.
"Please check him over, Doc. I can't see any obvious injury to his head, but he seems abnormally sleepy."
"I'm not the one bleeding over the floor," Neal chimed in.
He received unexpected support from Diana. "Face it, Boss, the only reason you haven't jumped to the front of the treatment line is that everybody looks good compared to Neal right now."
As the three of them started arguing, the doctor held up his hand and commanded silence. "Since I'm the only one here whose job description lists triage, why don't I handle this? Since Mr. Caffrey has recently suffered a severe head injury, I will check him first. Unless I find something that is of immediate urgency, I will then ask you..." he turned to Diana, "...to take him up to his room where his own doctor will assess him further. Meanwhile, Agent Burke will accompany me to the Emergency Room where I will treat his injuries."
It was a plan that met with the approval of all parties, but some elements got postponed as Neal remembered to tell Peter, "I heard the killer drag Agent Rowe's body out of the elevator. It has to be around here somewhere. We have to look for him."
"We'll check it out while the doc looks you over." It wasn't hard to find the dead agent. He'd been deposited in the nearest unlocked room. Rigor hadn't set in yet. Despite the pain in his leg, Peter crouched down next to the body. He said nothing, but Diana could read the regret in the tightness of his eyes and the tension of his jaw. Darkness crept over his face like storm clouds building on the horizon. She could guess at the tenor of his thoughts and, as much as she wanted to offer comfort and relief from the responsibility he obviously felt, she didn't try to offer trite condolence.
"Was he married?"
Peter gave a slight shake of his head. "Two divorces, a couple of children from the first, both grown up now."
Diana was surprised by the extent of his knowledge. "Did you know him well?"
Peter pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. "Not really, but I worked a few cases with him when I was a rookie. He was a decent guy. I should have briefed him personally, made sure he understood there was a real threat here."
"Boss, let me take care of this. You go with the doctor."
"No, I want you to stay with Neal. I need someone I trust with him at all times. After he's been checked out, get a statement from him. Catching the people who did this is all we can do for Mike now. I'll arrange for his body to be picked up."
Dr. Kernsey gave Neal a preliminary clean bill of health, but insisted he followed up with his neurologist, sending him off with Diana. Peter left the basement with relief, but the Emergency Room wasn't his favourite location either. Fourteen stitches, one tetanus shot and one lecture on the need for prompt wound care later, he left. He returned to Neal's room to find his friend asleep, his skin now clean, but washed-out and looking almost bruised against the sheets. He threw a questioning, concerned glance at Diana.
"He's okay," she reassured him. "The doctor said it's a natural reaction to stress at this point in his recovery. Escaping from hired killers wasn't on his list of approved activities yet. Here's his statement. If he was any less intrepid or a fraction slower..." Her sentence trailed off, its conclusion vivid in both their minds but not needing to be voiced.
"Thanks, Diana. Go home, get something to eat and have a nap, because I'll need you back here. I want two people guarding Neal at all times, one outside the room checking IDs and one inside. I'll see you back here at 4."
After she left, Peter relished the silence and stillness. He breathed in deeply, sucking the antiseptic air into his constricted lungs and forcing himself to relax. He ached internally and externally, both his emotions and muscles twisted into hard, tight knots. He felt like a punching bag, as if he'd been absorbing body blows all day. The memory of the fear he'd felt at Neal's disappearance lingered like residual poison in his system, leaving him unsettled and off-balance. He fixed his eyes on Neal, hoping to banish the crawling disquiet with the reminder that his partner had survived the newest attack, but Neal's unnatural stillness was too reminiscent of his recent coma, it was more unconsciousness than sleep.
Restlessness urged Peter to pace the room, but the pain in his leg set up a convincing counter-argument. Abused muscles and contusions had stiffened his body, like the tin man frozen in place. The doctor had offered him an oil can in the form of strong pain killers, but Peter had only accepted over-the-counter levels of ibuprofen, knowing he couldn't afford the soporific effects of anything stronger. Restiveness won out over physical discomfort, and he hobbled to the door, working the kinks out of his leg as he moved. He hoped that his back-up agent had arrived, but the chair placed outside was still empty. Peter pursued his lips as another wave of regret hit him. He settled for glaring suspiciously and indiscriminately at every unfamiliar face that passed by.
He'd had the vague intention of making phone calls without waking Neal, but after reaching into an empty pocket, he was reminded that his phone would not miraculously reconstitute itself from its component parts, and he retreated back inside to use the bedside phone.
Neal still hadn't moved; in fact, he barely seemed to be breathing. Peter found himself longing for the days when machines consistently beeped the rhythm of the heartbeat. He slipped his fingers round Neal's slim wrist, finding immediate reassurance in the warmth of his skin even before he located the steady push of the pulse against his fingertips. He gave Neal's shoulder a gentle pat of approval, satisfied at least temporarily that his friend was merely resting. It helped settle his scattered thoughts, and he mentally prioritized his extensive list of tasks.
He started by calling Hughes, who had taken over as FBI agent in charge at the docks. It was a painful call to make, knowing that Reese was friends with Mike Rowe, and Peter made no effort to spare himself blame for the tragic events that had transpired. There was a pained sigh and a single invective, but it wasn't Hughes' first loss in his long career, and for now, he concentrated on the professional ramifications of the attempted hit on Neal, agreeing to Peter's proposal of the double watch on Neal.
His next call was to hospital security for the double purpose of checking their progress on their cameras catching the would-be assassin and updating them on the new precautions for their patient. He wanted very limited personnel access to Neal, with photographs for the agent outside the door to check against the hospital IDs carried. Agent Blake arrived near the end of this conversation, and Peter brought him up to speed on the new procedures, briefing him thoroughly.
Peter rewarded himself for this work with a call to El. He immediately reassured her that, bar scratches, he and Neal were unhurt. He'd learnt from experience that it was easier to understate injuries and judiciously edit the severity of the situation on the phone, then explain more thoroughly later in person. He reported that the case had make significant progress, but there had been an incident at the hospital and, for safety reasons, Neal would no longer be allowed civilian visitors, which meant she would have to stay away from the hospital, as would Mozzie and June. He overrode her immediate protest, citing policy, and softening the blow with a promise that it was probably temporary. The truth he could admit only to himself was that he was happy to have an official excuse to keep her away from a volatile and potentially dangerous situation.
There were probably other calls he needed to make, but he was talked out, the avalanche of words sucking his mouth dry. Not quite able to abandon his work ethic, he opened up his computer and started working on the extensive reports generated by the raid on the docks. Yet, after half an hour, his patience with the written word was also exhausted, the type-face swarming, thousands of random letters tattooed on the flip side of his heavy eyelids.
A distressed sound from Neal had Peter reaching out a comforting hand, weeks of sitting by this bedside making the gesture automatic and natural. He was startled as his arm was knocked aside by Neal jack-knifing upright with a gasp. Peter caught him by both shoulders, knowing from experience that a spooked Neal was a Neal on the verge of bolting.
"Easy there. You're safe." It wasn't an inspired speech, but even unconscious, Neal had responded to it, and now was no different.
His muscles relaxed, although his eyes flickered around the room, quickly assessing his location before returning to meet Peter's. Ashy shadows were smudged dark under those fever-bright eyes and, above his flushed sheet-creased face, his hair was plastered to his forehead.
"S-safe in the territory of long n-needles and the culinary d-delights of jello," he said with what Peter felt to be a lack of appreciation.
"Well, it's that or not-so-safe in the territory of the sartorial elegance of orange jumpsuits and a cellmate named Bubba. Does prison food beat hospital food?" It wasn't intended as a threat, but as a reminder of the realities facing them.
Neal put on his brightest, fakest smile. "Yay, hospitals!" he cheered with blatant insincerity.
His reflexes were improving nicely, as evidenced by his accurate capture of Peter's wrist as the agent released his hold. The neat bandaging was inspected. "How many st-stitches?"
"Enough for me to feel like a darned sock." Peter deflected Neal's worried scrutiny with further reassurance. "I'm fine. You're the one in the hospital bed, remember?"
"I get the feeling that's an error on the part of the m-medical p-profession."
Peter, hoping he didn't look as bad as he felt, shook his head. Partly as a method of distraction, he brought his friend up to date on the events at the docks. He realised, half-way through, that his narrative was similar to that which he'd given El - heavy on investigative details, but light on the whistle of bullets. It wasn't that he lied to those he loved, but he'd learned the wisdom of minimising the danger of such operations. However, since Neal was almost invariably in the thick of the action with him and had often heard the expurgated versions he offered his wife, it was an exercise in futility since Neal was quite capable of filling in the blanks Peter left. The agent looked into the knowing eyes and abandoned his attempts at editing, allowing himself to relive the experience.
The brilliant blue was clouded and grave with concern by the end. "That was too close, Peter." In an effort to lighten the mood he added, "You need me b-back out there with you to keep you out of trouble."
"Is that what you do?" Peter's expression was amused. "Keep me out of trouble?"
Neal waved an airy hand. "Well, it's a m-mutual thing."
"A partnership thing," Peter confirmed fondly. "This is a good thing, Neal. The gun smuggling," he clarified.
"You think it's enough to quash the m-murder charge?" Neal asked hopefully.
"The murder charge has a gigantic helping of extra crispy reasonable doubt with extenuating circumstances on top. The higher the prosecutor aims, the more likely he is to fall. However, if he goes for manslaughter...I don't know. I still don't think you'd serve time, but if anything goes on your record, the Board could see it as invalidating your deal. You would go back to serve the rest of your sentence. Even then, you'd probably serve less than a year with good behaviour and an excellent report from your handler."
"A year... 365 d-days." It was said experimentally, as if Neal were testing it against some measure of tolerance. Peter could practically see, as if looking into Neal's mind, the stark, yet obsessively neat, rows of tally marks on a prison cell wall.
"Hey," he gave Neal a nudge to bring his attention back to him. "Don't start marking the days off yet." A momentary blankness in Neal's eyes betrayed his surprise at the accuracy of Peter's insight. "I haven't finished yet. This case is just starting to break open and, with the right application of pressure, we're going to figure out where Fowler fits in and who took him out."
Having experienced the force of persistence that was Peter Burke firsthand, Neal believed him. He allowed the agent to gently bully him into eating a little of the supper that had been placed on his bedside table a little earlier, and he cheerfully called Peter a hypocrite when he rejected Neal's offer to share the less-than-tempting meal. The doctor hadn't admitted Peter, so clearly his injuries hadn't been severe, but blood loss and possibly a modicum of shock showed in his uncharacteristic pallor, and he sat with an unnatural stillness that suggested a close correlation between movement and pain.
"Hey, Peter." Neal aimed for casualness, but knew he overshot into suspicious unconcern. "I'm going to sleep like a log t-tonight. Why d-don't you go home, see Elizabeth and get a good n-night's sleep yourself."
"You trying to get rid of me? Do you have a hot date or something?"
Neal dropped the pretense of nonchalance and moved smoothly into the more familiar territory of insults. "Apparently n-not. You look terrible. I know that style isn't your thing, but b-blood shouldn't be an accessory to any fashion. Oh," he added as an afterthought, "and you smell like rotten fish."
"So pajamas are the height of sartorial fashion now?" Peter wasn't fooled by this approach either. "Neal, I'm fine and I'm not leaving. Our agents are spread fairly thin right now and besides, I'll feel happier if I can keep my eyes on you."
As tired as he was, Peter knew that there would be no rest for him that night unless his senses could constantly verify that Neal was safe. He didn't miss the little slump of relief from his friend that told him the feeling was mutual.
"Peter, I'm really sorry about Agent Rowe. If I could have d-done something to help, I would have, b-but it was so quick."
"There may be some blame to go around for his death, but none of it attaches to you. He was there to protect you, not the other way around. There was nothing you could have done, and you did everything right. Your job in a firefight is always to keep your head down and find a safe place. You kept yourself alive under extreme circumstances and I'm proud of you. You showed both ingenuity and courage. I can't imagine that..." He broke off suddenly, his gun appearing seemingly unbidden in his hand as the sound of sharp voices could be heard outside. "Neal, get in the bathroom."
Peter wasn't surprised when he reached the door to find Neal at his shoulder instead of tidily tucked away in the bathroom. With a free hand, he pushed the younger man more securely behind him. The door opened inward, so he flattened them both against the wall before reaching out to yank the door open. The vociferous conversation outside the door had given him a good idea of what to expect, but he was taking no chances. Agent Blake was stolidly blocking the entrance of an increasingly irate Detective Samuelson. Peter glanced both ways up the corridor to make sure this wasn't someone's idea of a diversionary tactic.
"Detective." Wind blowing off an Arctic glacier would have been warmer than Peter's greeting. "Some warning of your visit would be appreciated." Without looking behind him, he jabbed an imperative finger towards the bed in silent command. Only the sudden lack of a warm presence at his back told him Neal had obeyed.
Samuelson's choler clashed with his hair. "I don't know what you're trying to pull, Burke, but we agreed that I had access to Caffrey."
"After an attempt on Neal's life..." Peter stressed the words. "...we've been forced to tighten security. Only members of his protection detail and selected member of the hospital staff are allowed inside this room. We're not trying to deny you access, but we'd appreciate advanced notice before you arrive. Also, if you intend to ask Neal any questions about Garrett Fowler's death, you need to wait until his lawyer is present."
"That's not why I'm here."
Peter waved him in, remaining behind him at all times. Neal was lying in bed, barely propped up, his arms outside the covers by his sides. Peter had no doubt the pose had been selected to convey the impression of complete harmlessness. He looked like a corpse laid out for viewing by the family. Despite recognising the intent behind it, Peter's heart lurched involuntarily at the sight.
"Keep it short," he directed the NYPD officer. "It's been a long day and Neal's exhausted."
"I'm sure he is." Samuelson directed a skeptical look at the figure on the bed and turned back to Peter. "I hear you lost a man today, Burke."
Peter's jaw tightened at the reminder. "Yes, Special Agent Michael Rowe was shot during the performance of his duty this evening."
"Yeah, so I heard. He was shot from behind. I guess he turned his back on the wrong person."
A series of small lines etched their way onto Peter's face, creasing his brow and bracketing his mouth with a frown. His tone was similarly furrowed. "If you've come here to point out the failings of a dead man, you can turn around right now."
"Th-that's n-not what he m-means." Neal's gaze hadn't left the cop, locked on with sniper focus. "He m-means m-me." The sharpness in his eyes contrasted strangely with the softness of his voice and his stutter was more pronounced, not an affectation, but a reflection of internal stress.
For once, Peter didn't immediately pick up on Neal's implication. Was he saying that Neal had turned his back on the wrong person? That didn't make any more sense than the original suggestion.
Samuelson's laugh was incredulous and mocking. "You really have a blind spot the size of Sing Sing where this son-of-a-bitch is concerned."
Maybe there was some truth to that statement, because it had never even occurred to Peter to consider Neal as a suspect. The absurdity of it was so great, he had no intention of starting now. "If you're intimating that Neal is responsible for Agent Rowe's death, then I think you're the one with the blind spot. But I'm sure it makes your job easier to accuse any person you know was in physical proximity to a murder victim of the crime. You must have a stellar conviction record by following that precept." The words were flat but acerbic, the only ones he could push through his constricted throat.
Samuelson's eyes were narrowed to the point that his pupils were invisible, his lips pressed in a tight line as he figured out which accusation to answer first. "At least I don't ignore the obvious," he spat out eventually.
"What is obvious," Peter said with strained patience, "is that two men came here to the hospital to kill Neal, presumably since he survived the first attempt and could testify as to Fowler's real killer. They failed, but in the process, Agent Rowe lost his life."
The detective circled his chin disdainfully as if his collar were slightly too tight. "So we're expected to believe that two paid assassins breached the security of this hospital, killed an experienced federal agent, yet were unable to actually kill their target who, according to you, is too sick to leave the hospital. I think that's stretching credulity too far."
"Once more, I refer you to Neal's file. He is extraordinarily resourceful, evading the US Marshals and the FBI for 3 years."
"If it helps..." Neal's voice was quietly deferential which, Peter found, irritated him considerably. "...I d-didn't lose consciousness this t-time, so I can state categorically that I d-did not t-touch the gun. F-feel f-free to do a GSR t-test. The only p-place you might find residue on m-me is m-my left ear s-since the gun went off right n-next to it."
"My team can also guarantee that at no time has Neal had access to a gun," Peter interjected.
The detective tipped an indifferent shoulder. "I would hardly call that conclusive. I've believed all along that he probably had an accomplice."
Peter's lip twisted in contempt. "Damned if he does and damned if he doesn't. You're making no sense. If Neal had a friend, why would he shoot my agent and then leave Neal here? What was it supposed to accomplish?"
"It was a failed escape attempt. You showed up too early and they were forced to abandon the plan. Did you see these two alleged men, Agent Burke?"
Peter hesitated, but with a twist of his lips shook his head. "It was pitch black in the basement. I couldn't see anything."
"Did you hear them?"
The hesitation was even longer this time. He wanted to corroborate Neal's story, but knew that lying wasn't the way to do it. He'd seen false testimony fall apart too often on the witness stand. Reluctantly, he stated, "I believe I heard voices, but there was nothing clear, no one I could identify." He realised from the sudden painful pull of stitches that his hands had clenched into fists and he inhaled deeply, relaxing his his fingers as he breathed out. He had thought they were out of the woods, but now it looked as if they'd entered a whole other forest, darker and even more malevolent.
Seeing the triumphant look on the detective's face, Peter continued in a voice as restrained and devoid of emotion as he could manage. "This is complete speculation, half-baked theories that make no sense."
"Oh, I have more than that. You wanted me to read Caffrey's file, and I did. I followed up on some of his old aliases, and I found an interesting deposit made a few days after Fowler's death in the name of Steve Tabernacle. It was difficult, but we managed to trace the money back, and guess where it came from?"
"Agroking." Neal was obviously following the frame closer than Peter. His face was bland, empty of his usual expressiveness, but Peter could see the shadows beneath his eyes and the tension in his jaw which betrayed the effort it took to contain his feelings. He could also see when the careful mask slipped and vulnerability flickered in his eyes. "Th-that alias was b-burned, w-why w-would I use it?"
Samuelson ignored the question. "We also have compelling physical evidence from Agent Rowe's murder."
"You have no jurisdiction in that murder. Rowe was a Federal agent killed in the line of duty." Peter knew he was being pushed back on the defensive when he protested on procedural grounds.
"I may not be the primary, but once this murder was linked to my active case, I have a right to access the reports. Your agent was found clutching some strands of curly black hair. What would you bet that the DNA matches yours, Caffrey."
A painful bubble erupted in Peter's chest at the realization that this wasn't petty harassment, the detective was serious in his accusations. He could tell that the same conclusion had hit Neal by the blank expression on his face and the way already tense muscles had turned bedrock, pulling his spine straight and his jaw tight. Peter moved closer to the bed, automatically placing himself between the threat and his friend.
"You're reaching," he accused. "Of course Neal was present and his DNA will be found at the scene, so don't try to twist this into a smoking gun. You've got nothing because there's nothing to be had. Neal is not a killer."
Neal appreciated the unqualified endorsement, but he would feel a little more confident if he couldn't read the measure of desperation that churned behind the more visible frustration. Peter's voice was deceptively neutral, but he gripped the edge of the bed with white-knuckled anger.
"Jesus, Burke. He's got you so snowed, you can't see the shit he's shoveling."
"That m-metaphor..." Neal began.
"Not helping," Peter cut him off, then without losing a beat, addressed Samuelson. "That's enough. Get out. Unless his lawyer is present, you don't get to talk to him again."
"I'm going, but I'll be back around noon tomorrow."
Neither of them gave him the satisfaction of asking why, but stared at him in stony silence.
"You're being discharged tomorrow, and I'll be here to take you into custody."
Peter's first thought was that Samuelson was bluffing in a weak attempt to force a confession from Neal, but he was adept at reading people and detecting lies, and he realised almost immediately that this was no act. There was satisfaction in the detective's eyes and red blotches high on his cheekbones. Peter's mind raced, absorbing the ramification of the statement.
"He's in no condition to be discharged." To Peter, this was an obvious observation, but it was also an exploratory feeler, a sounding line to figure out the depth of the hot water they'd found themselves in.
"It appears the hospital doesn't like murders on its premises - or murderers."
The realisation that this man had worked actively to sabotage Neal's rehabilitation caused fire to ring the periphery of Peter's vision. Behind him, he heard a catch in Neal's breath and fury erupted like molten lava from a long dormant volcano, and he took a step toward his adversary. Neal's low caution of, "Peter!" backed his own internal warning, tipping the balance that said that wiping the smug expression off the detective's face wasn't worth the suspension that would ensue. He'd fallen into that trap before, and it was more important than ever that he stayed on active duty.
Samuelson offered a final smirk to show that he wasn't intimidated, but Peter turned his back, returning to Neal's side. He tracked the detective's movements aurally to make sure he left, but wasted no more time acknowledging him. Neal's face was rigid and pale, eyes fastened on his fingers which twisted slowly into and out of a knotted clasp.
Sharp pain radiating from his right hand told Peter he'd clenched his fists again, so he deliberately relaxed them, walking over to pour a glass of water, giving them both the chance and privacy to steady themselves. He closed his eyes for a minute in an effort to find his missing composure, trying once again to bury the lurking, impotent rage that burned at the injustice that threatened his friend.
After licking parched lips with a dry tongue, Neal accepted the offered beverage and drank half of it down in several long gulps. "The g-guy's a jerk," he offered with a smile, insouciant mask in place. However, the facade was brittle, cracks that would be invisible to most were as conspicuous as tectonic fissures to Peter.
"I'm going to talk to your doctor." He took two long strides towards the door before coming to an abrupt halt as he remembered he couldn't leave Neal alone. He turned back to find Neal thumbing the call button with a more genuine grin on his face.
"Th-they invented th-this thing called..."
"Technology. Yeah, I've heard of it," Peter said with feigned grumpiness.
As the voice of the nurse came over the intercom, he commandeered the device. "This is Special Agent Peter Burke. I want to see Dr. Grady immediately. I don't care if he's asleep or at home. I want to see him now."
At the concerned enquiry from the other end, he growled, "No, this is not a medical emergency." He was tempted to add that it would be one if Dr. Grady didn't show up in the next five minutes.
The nurse promised to locate him, and Neal reclaimed the call button, gently remonstrating, "They're not on your t-team, remember."
"No, but I'm a Federal agent in charge of this case, and I'm also your next-of-kin, and I don't believe this is in your best interest."
Neal held up a pacifying hand. "There's no argument from this side of the brain surgery. Just try a bit more carrot and a little less stick."
"I'm all out of carrots," Peter growled, definitely not in a conciliatory mood.
"More Elmer Fudd than Bugs Bunny, huh?"
In what Neal clearly saw as a displaced attempt to work out his authority issues, Peter ignored the teasing and ordered, "Finish your food."
Neal looked at the unappetizing remnants. "I just ate. I really don't want to experience it in reverse. You eat it. I know you haven't had anything to eat since breakfast."
"I think you have to be sick to eat that."
"Surely someone who sees deviled ham as the height of cuisine can't be that picky."
They were both ignoring the main issue, but by silent consensus, they agreed there was no point discussing it until they had conclusive confirmation of Neal's discharge. Peter was happy to see some of the tension clear from his friend's thin face.
They didn't have long to wait for Dr. Grady's arrival. He sidled in with a defensive expression which suggested he knew exactly the reason for which he'd been summoned. Peter didn't leave him in any doubt, glowering at him with his most severe glare.
"I've been notified, though not through official channels, that Neal might be discharged tomorrow. I'm sure this person was misinformed." He waited with a forbidding expression that dared the doctor to contradict him.
"That's actually correct." Grady looked uncomfortable.
"That's ridiculous. Look at him. He's clearly in no condition to leave the hospital." They looked at Neal who, for once, agreeably played along, looking pale and frail. Actually, it probably wasn't an act.
The doctor shuffled a few papers in his file to avoid Peter's gaze. "Well, the team is in agreement that Mr. Caffrey is making excellent progress, and there is no further need for him to remain in the hospital. Any remaining problems can be taken care of through out-patient care."
"Once Neal leaves this hospital, he is unlikely to receive any care," Peter reminded him.
"The hospital cannot be held accountable for Mr. Caffrey's circumstances." It sounded like a quote, and Peter wondered whom he'd have to shoot for that particular piece of bureaucratic wisdom. "To be honest, Mr. Caffrey could have been discharged at least a week ago, but we wanted to ensure he received the best care."
"So the events of today have nothing to do with this decision?" Peter watched the man wilt and slide off his high horse.
"It may have hastened the process," he admitted. "The Board decided that having a murderer..."
Peter felt rather than saw Neal's flinch. "Neal is not a murderer," he snapped with a venom that caused the doctor to step backwards, bringing up a hand either in apology or self-defense.
"It wasn't my intention to insinuate that he was. I meant the man trying to kill him. Having a murderer loose in the hospital is not an ideal situation for either staff or patients. Surely Mr. Caffrey would be safer in a place under FBI supervision with more restricted access and fewer civilians around."
Seeing Peter's frown, he hastily added. "We'll lend you any equipment that Mr. Caffrey might need to complete his rehabilitation."
"I can promise you that if Neal's health suffers from this premature discharge, we will sue the hospital."
The doctor pursed his lips regretfully. "As, I am sure, would the family of any patient in the hospital who was hurt because someone wanted Mr. Caffrey dead."
"He's right." Neal's quiet voice cut into the reply Peter might have made. "When the killer took me d-down to the b-basement, he wouldn't have hesitated to kill a janitor or anyone else working d-down there. I d-don't want anyone else to d-die because of me."
Peter's innate sense of justice prevented him from arguing, and the doctor took advantage of this lull in hostilities to make his exit, once more promising comprehensive directions and equipment for Neal to complete his recovery. Silence fell, both men lost in their thoughts, contemplating the revelations brought by the last hour and the consequences they might bring.
Peter sat himself back in the chair and regarded his friend over the top of fingers he couldn't keep entirely steady. Neal was as still as a graven image, staring blindly at the glass of water clasped in motionless hands. For once, Peter had no idea what was running through his friend's mind. Frustration sang through his nerves as he tried to pick apart the tangled knots of their situation to form a tapestry of resolution. Neal's safety had seemed all but assured, but now it was slipping through his grasp. The more he struggled to hold on, the faster it disintegrated.
Maybe it was time to let go.
His eyes burned as the magnitude of his potential loss swarmed through his chest, tightening it until breathing was difficult. He starting speaking before he could lose his resolve, but the effort tore at his vocal chords. "Give me until seven in the morning. If I haven't figured it out by then, I'll send the agent out front on a coffee break. I'm sure Mozzie already has a plan to get you out of the country." The words spilled out of his mouth in a torrent, emptying his lungs of oxygen as they left.
Neal's carefully constructed mask vanished as Peter's speech broke through his defences, his face a collage of colorful emotions which shifted too fast for Peter to catalog more than the most obvious. However, he was sure that the cumulative total signaled trouble. Certainly Neal seemed to find something amusing about the situation, because he was smiling, a far more genuine expression than usual, and there was a definite glint of mischief in his eyes. Normally Peter's stomach would have dropped several floors at that expression in anticipation of the broken rules and paperwork to follow, but now he was simply relieved to see signs that the real Caffrey was still reachable.
The younger man gazed pensively at the agent, and then spoke the words that Peter would have sworn would never come from Neal Caffrey's mouth.
"I'm not going to run."