Not a Fan of the Bittersweet
Chapter 14
The Full Value of Joy
"To get the full value of joy, you must have someone to divide it with."
― Mark Twain
Peter raced upstairs, conscious of the fact that he was grinning like a fool. He couldn't wait to share his news. It was early, but not that early.
His beloved was still asleep, lying on her side. As he set his cell on the nightstand, Peter eased himself down onto the bed behind her and started one of their favorite rituals. He leaned in to lay a little line of kisses along the right side of her face, starting with her forehead and working his way down.
El woke up almost immediately, but custom dictated that she remain still and keep her eyes closed until Peter's lips touched hers—only then would she kiss him back. Still Peter could feel her cheek curving into a smile that she couldn't stop. This was one of her favorite ways to be awakened (one of his, too).
As he kissed Elizabeth's cheekbone, he whispered against her skin, "I have some news, El."
That made her start. "Neal! It's Neal, isn't it?" She already sensed from his playful tone that it had to be good news. Cutting their ritual short, El turned toward him eagerly so she could see his face.
Peter nodded, leaning back on his elbow and enjoying the look of pure elation on her face (which he knew matched his own). "Just talked to the nurse. He's waking up and they're taking him off the ventilator."
"Oh, honey, thank God!" she exclaimed, bolting upright and giving him a quick, excited hug. "That's great, it's just so—"
"It absolutely is, but where's my kiss?" he asked, mock-petulant.
El gave him an indulgent eye-roll, but she didn't hesitate to oblige, reaching out to grab his shoulder and pulling him in to her so she could kiss him deeply.
"Mmm," he said, quite a nice long time later. "Much better."
"So tell me everything," she said eagerly.
"There's not much to tell, yet." He stroked her hand and she squeezed his in return. "Neal started to wake up, and they think he's ready to breathe on his own. They're probably taking him off the ventilator as we speak."
She let out a relieved sigh. "He's really going to be all right."
Peter hesitated a moment: was he jumping the gun? No, he didn't think so. "Well, I didn't talk to the doctor yet, but everything seems positive."
She nodded, smiling at him. "You're going over there?"
"Yup."
"Well, unfortunately, I've got an early client meeting, but I'll pop over around lunchtime." Elizabeth paused, and, up close as he was, Peter could see a tell-tale glistening in her eye. "It's—it's going to be so good to have him actually answer again when you talk to him. I've missed that."
"You and me both," Peter agreed, kissing her again. There were few things he loved more than when he and El were on the same page (of course, that happened quite a lot).
"Hon, before you go in, do you mind if I . . ." she gestured in the direction of the bathroom.
"Sure, go ahead."
Elizabeth hopped out of bed and Peter took the opportunity to grab his phone and dial. It took a few minutes before the call was answered—with no preliminaries, which wasn't surprising.
"Suit?"
Peter didn't bother with preliminaries, either. "He's waking up."
There was a little pause and then Mozzie spoke, trying to sound casual and not succeeding in the slightest. "That's—it's about damn time."
"You got that right," Peter said. He walked over to the closet and pulled out the first suit he could find. "I'm getting ready to head over to the hospital. Hopefully, Neal will be back to measuring out his life in coffee spoons before you know it."
"Yeah," Mozzie said automatically. Then with a tinge of disgust, "Wait. I can't believe I just said that. Now you're co-opting me."
Peter smiled as he grabbed a shirt and tie. "I would never."
"Ha! I wouldn't put it past you, suit. As I once said to your dear wife, you're sly."
Peter knew that El and Mozzie conversed, from time to time. Peter also knew that he was not privy to the details of said conversations—which always made him just slightly nervous. "Oh? When was that?"
"Ask her," Mozzie shot back.
Peter chuckled to himself. Well, it wasn't as if he'd really expected an actual answer.
"I'll be over to see Neal later, so you—" Mozzie hesitated, which wasn't like him. "You can, uh, keep an eye on him 'til then."
Peter nodded, even though, of course, Mozzie couldn't see. "I'll do my best." He figured Mozzie would just hang up, but then Peter heard him answer.
"Yeah," Mozzie said, and something in his voice gave Peter pause, because it sounded strangely like . . . affection. Which also wasn't like him. Mozzie cleared his throat before continuing. "I know."
In record time, Peter performed a shortened version of his morning routine, namely, the bare essentials of washing, tooth-brushing, shaving and getting dressed. Then he was kissing Elizabeth goodbye and practically running out the door.
It was amazing, he thought, how everything felt different than just a few minutes ago. Like the whole world had changed. Peter knew it sounded ridiculously over the top, but it was true. He'd gone from that . . . that heart-stopping nightmare where Neal was dead—Peter's mind instinctively shrank away from the memory—to the reality that Neal was waking up.
It was jarring, but in a good way. The best way, because it was also wonderful. He felt lighter, somehow. Not tired anymore, like he'd been just after that hellish dream. Now he was invigorated, almost giddy (not that an FBI agent would normally ever admit to that). Nothing bothered him—not the gray, overcast sky that threatened rain at any moment, not the surprisingly heavy traffic for the early hour, not the car that cut him off when he pulled out of his street, not the extended search for a parking space when he got close to the hospital.
Well, the parking space hunt did bother him a little bit, since it delayed him another couple of minutes. But in the grand scheme of things, that was a trifling nuisance.
After all, Neal was awake. And he wasn't going anywhere.
"Agent Burke!" From her seat at the nurse's station, Melissa caught sight of him. He answered her smile with one of his own. "I understand you heard the good news."
"Got here as fast as I could. How's he doing?"
"Doing fine. Dr. Campbell pulled the tube and Neal's breathing on his own. We're drawing some blood—" She glanced over to Peter's left. "Doctor, this is Agent Burke, Mr. Caffrey's partner."
Peter shook hands with Campbell and listened to the doctor's report.
"Neal began to show signs of awareness that indicated he was waking up and able to breathe on his own, which are the indications we want to see before removing a patient from a ventilator. The removal of the tube went well and his respiratory function is strong. We're doing an arterial blood gas to make sure his oxygen levels are good. Your partner also opened his eyes for us, wiggled his toes, and squeezed my hand—all encouraging developments."
"And he—did he talk to you?"
The doctor nodded. "Standard protocol in these cases is to ask a series of questions, and he answered most of them. Who he is, what color his eyes are, that sort of thing. He didn't know where he was or what day it was—not surprising. He also didn't know why he was here."
Peter's gaze narrowed. "He didn't remember being shot? Is that—normal?"
Campbell considered it. "Well, I don't know about normal, but it's certainly not unusual. Especially now when he's just waking up. He'll probably remember more as time goes on, although possibly not everything."
"What happens now?"
Melissa handed Neal's chart over to Campbell, who scrutinized it for a minute. "We continue to monitor him closely. If he remains stable and doesn't develop any respiratory complications, he'll be moved out of ICU and into a regular room later today. He's going to be in the hospital for a few more days, at least. There's a drain at the surgical site, which will remain in place for a while. As of now, we'll keep him on IV nutrients and start him out with small quantities of liquids to make sure he tolerates it well before we try him on any solid food."
"And I can see him?"
"Sure," Campbell told him, before warning, "He's still pretty groggy, though. And even though he's been out of it for a few days, rest is the best thing for your partner, right now."
"I won't stay long," Peter assured him. The doctor smiled and walked away.
"You know, he's going to be excited to see you," Melissa said.
Peter glanced at her. "You think so?"
"I know so. Pretty much the first thing he did was ask about you. Actually, his exact words were—" she paused a minute, concentrating as if trying to get it exactly right, "—Does Peter know I'm here? Because if not, I'm gonna be in big trouble."
Peter laughed, wondering as he did so when was the last time that he'd really laughed. The words were just so very . . . Neal, though. He could practically hear Neal's voice saying them in his head.
"I assured him that you knew, and that you've been here since the beginning," Melissa continued. "And then he kind of . . . rolled his eyes at me and said, oh, well, of course." She smiled fondly. "Like it was so obvious it wasn't even worth saying."
A tiny, warm glow sparked in Peter's chest.
Despite Peter's assurance to the doctor, his visit ended up lasting longer than he'd planned. Because when he walked into the little cubicle, Peter discovered that Neal's eyes were closed: he'd apparently fallen asleep again. This dampened Peter's enthusiasm, but only a little.
Scanning his partner's still form, Peter observed that Neal still had an IV in, as well as a pulse oximeter. But he wasn't hooked up to any machines other than the heart monitor, which was a relief. Neal still looked like the ragged end of nowhere, though.
For a few moments, Peter stood there quietly, just relishing the sight of Neal's chest rising and falling on its own, without the need of a machine to inflate his lungs. He hesitated, unsure what to do. It wasn't as if he could wake Neal up, after all. Peter glanced at his watch and made a decision,
Cell phone use in the ICU was frowned upon, so he stepped outside into the hallway, pulling out his phone.
"Reese, it's Peter."
"Peter. You have news?"
"Neal woke up. They've taken him off the ventilator."
His boss's sigh of relief was audible, and there was an emotion in his voice that Peter had rarely heard from him. "That's great news, Peter. Are you at the hospital now?
"Yeah."
"Have you seen him?"
"Seen him, but not talked to him, yet," Peter answered. "He's asleep at the moment, so I thought I might stay here a while, until—"
"Take as long as you need," Hughes cut in. "You have anything going on here?"
"A case update meeting at eight."
"I'll run it for you." Hughes paused and Peter heard the click of keys as he checked his calendar. "I'm free. And I don't want Caffrey waking up on his own. Who knows what he might do?"
Peter smiled. "Afraid he might run?"
"Afraid he might go looking for you." Hughes told him without missing a beat. "I'll let everyone know the good news. Oh, and Peter, when I do . . . ."
"Yeah?" Peter murmured, distracted. He flattened himself against the wall of the corridor so two patients in wheelchairs could get by him.
"You do know that I'm taking complete credit for this, right? Hughes' voice was absolutely deadpan. "I mean, Neal's comatose and then, a few hours after I read him the riot act, he wakes up. I'm only sorry I didn't go to see him earlier."
Peter grinned wide and then he started to laugh.
"What's so funny?" his boss demanded, mock-serious.
Reese Hughes had such a wonderfully wicked sense of humor. It was a shame, Peter thought, that he so rarely let it show.
Before he returned to the ICU, Peter made a few more phone calls, to the people who needed to know. Who deserved to know. Each of them had visited Neal over the past few days; each of them had been so worried.
And each of them would be pissed as hell at him if they found out that he'd sat on this news without telling them as soon as possible.
Really, he could have texted them. But he didn't. Because if he had, Peter wouldn't get to say the words out loud.
He's waking up. He's breathing on his own.
He's going to be okay.
They were words, Peter soon discovered, that he never got tired of saying. No matter how many times he uttered them, he got the same visceral thrill every time, the same rush of joy thrumming though him like . . . sort of like an electric shock. A good shock, though, the kind that woke you up and energized you and reminded you how good it was to be alive.
Especially when you knew that your friend was alive—and was going to stay that way.
It was obvious who his first call should be.
"He's waking up, June. He's going to be all right."
If Peter had any doubt that June loved Neal like a son, the quaver in her voice when she repeated that last sentence back to him would have erased it. Then she was trying to ask him questions, but having a hard time, because she was crying. Quietly at first, and then unabashedly—tears of joy, but tears nonetheless.
By the end of the conversation, Peter was feeling a little choked up himself.
Jones and Diana didn't cry, of course, but the warmth in both of their voices at hearing that Neal was better put a lump in Peter's throat anyway. They, too, spent a lot of time with Neal on a daily basis, and they both had missed him more than they would probably ever admit.
Diana surprised him on that score, though. Before they hung up she said, "You know, boss, it just . . . it hasn't seemed the same without Caffrey around."
"No," he agreed.
"Just how is it that a felon could become so . . . so damn important?" she asked rhetorically, voice laced with a kind of affectionate exasperation.
"I have no idea," Peter said, with a shaky laugh, but even as he said it, he knew it wasn't quite true—and Diana knew it, too. It was that unique alchemy Neal had, that combination of being capable and smart and just so damn likable that you couldn't help but accept him, felonious tendencies and all. And, even more important (in Peter's mind) was that, deep down, Neal was fundamentally good—or at least, he could be, given the proper guidance and encouragement.
Peter wasn't in the habit of voicing that belief out loud (well, except to Elizabeth), because he was well aware of how naïve it sounded, but it was the hidden touchstone for all of his interactions with Neal. It was a big part of why, no matter how many problems Neal caused, Peter never questioned himself. Because whatever side game his consultant might be playing from time to time, whatever personal agendas he might harbor, whatever transgressions he might commit, Neal, with all his skill and all his potential, was worth it. Worth the trouble, worth the worry, worth the risk.
He didn't say any of that to Diana, though.
Sara Ellis, no doubt, was one of those who would have rolled her eyes at Peter's optimistic view of Neal Caffrey. Not that it affected her reaction to his call. When he told her that Neal was awake, she gasped and then just kept saying oh thank God, that's great, thank God. After that, she stopped to ask, you're sure he's really going to be okay, Peter? before going back to more heartfelt thanking of God. More than anyone (except Peter), her happiness was mixed with immense personal relief. Peter knew that if Neal hadn't recovered, that Sara might not have, either. No one blamed her for what had happened, but that really didn't matter—because she would have forever blamed herself.
To that sentiment, Peter could definitely relate.
Rita's reaction was more like Mozzie's; she wasn't prone to emotional displays either. When Peter finished his spiel, there was a pause that went on just a little too long, during which he was pretty sure he could hear a sigh of relief. Then she recovered, in true Rita-fashion, sounding triumphant. "Well, of course he's okay. Didn't I say that Neal wouldn't pass up the chance to harass you for years to come?"
He was ready with the expected response. "And you're always right,"
Rita laughed, a silvery, joyous sound. "You're finally learning, Peter. And when you talk to Neal, for God's sake, tell him to stop being such a drama queen. I mean, I know he likes attention and all, but this was really getting ridiculous."
With his round of phone calls finished, Peter made his way back to Neal's bedside, where he pulled up a chair and sat, focusing on his partner. Normally, of course, this was when he would have started chattering away in the hope of getting Neal to wake up, just as he'd been doing for the past three days. Now, though, the doctor's words rang out in his head: Neal needed rest, sleep was the best thing for him, and Peter felt a little guilty for even being here.
But he couldn't bring himself to leave. Not until Neal woke up, not until Peter had seen it with his own eyes. Hughes was handling things back at the office; he'd told Peter not to hurry in. Peter stared at Neal for a few minutes longer, looking for any signs of awareness. When he didn't see any, he reached for his briefcase.
Settling back into the chair, Peter took out a file and started reading it—silently this time.
…...
At first, Peter found himself looking expectantly at Neal every few seconds (which meant he was making virtually no progress with the file). But as the minutes ticked by and Neal slept on, Peter started getting engrossed in the case report in spite of himself.
Then, eyeing Neal's slack face one more time, Peter thought of the old adage, the one about the watched pot never boiling.
So he got up and went for a little walk, stretching his legs. He took a bathroom break. He checked his email on his phone. He called Elizabeth—she was probably in her meeting—and left her a voice mail saying that Neal was doing well, that he was just waiting for him to wake up. Peter made sure to include what Neal had said to the nurse. Elizabeth would love that.
But when he came back, Neal was still asleep. Peter went back to reading.
And tried not to feel too disappointed.
He'd lost all track of time when another quick check of Neal brought him what he'd been waiting for: a glimpse of blue as Neal's eyelids fluttered, blinking blearily up at him.
Finally.
Closing the file he held, Peter watched, waiting patiently. "Neal?"
It took several long seconds for Neal to focus on him, but when he finally did, a slow smile spread across his face.
"Hey, Peter!" Neal's voice was a croak, his words ever so slightly slurred—but his excitement at seeing Peter was obvious, all the same.
"Hey, yourself," Peter said eagerly, leaning forward and smiling broadly at the long-awaited sight of Neal awake and looking back at him. "Welcome back. How are you feeling?"
Neal swallowed thickly. " 'Kay."
"It's good to see you awake. Are you in pain?" Peter asked.
Considering it for a moment, Neal didn't answer right away. "Nah." Then he shifted in the bed and groaned. "Maybe a little."
"Take it easy, then," Peter told him. "You don't need to be moving around too much yet."
"Mostly I'm jus' . . . tired."
"Well, that's to be expected. You've had a hell of a time."
"I heard." Neal closed his eyes. "I got shot 'n I—I lost three days. Three days . . . ." his voice drifted off, incredulous.
Peter was about to say how close Neal had come to losing so much more than that. But it seemed awfully melodramatic so he refrained, instead saying, "Yeah, it's been a long week. And they said you don't remember anything."
"Uh . . . well, no," Neal admitted, sounding abashed. " 'Cept it's weird, though . . . ." He blinked his eyes open to gaze at Peter worriedly.
"What's weird?"
"Don't remember . . . y'know, what happened, but then I r'member things that didn't happen." Neal shook his head. "Least, I don't think they did, but—"
Peter frowned. "Like what?"
"Like Hughes yelling at me."
At this revelation, Peter smothered a smile, realizing that maybe he shouldn't have been so quick to laugh at his boss's remark on the phone after all.
"I know he doesn' like me so much, Peter," Neal continued, heaving a heavy sigh, "but he never . . . yelled at me before. But he was and then you told him to stop, but he wouldn't, so you punched him and then you—you got suspended . . . ."
Neal's conflation of Hughes' lecture with Peter's smacking of Fowler (which Neal hadn't been there for, but often said sadly he wished he had)—coupled with the look of utter bafflement on Neal's face—made Peter want to laugh. Except that he knew Neal was totally serious.
"Um, you're a little confused, Neal, but it's okay," Peter said, striving to sound reassuring. "Reese was just trying to . . . wake you up. He didn't mean it. And I promise you I'm not suspended, okay?" Impulsively, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his credential, opening it up and waving it. Neal tried to follow it with his eyes, with limited success. "See, got my badge right here. You dreamed that part, so—"
"Well, that's good," Neal interrupted, his relief plain as his gaze belatedly wandered back to Peter's face. "I mean, really. Y' can't just keep gettin' suspended, Peter, it's not good for you."
"Right," Peter said solemnly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the irony of Neal, of all people, issuing good-conduct advice. "I promise I will work on that." He decided there was no need for Neal to know how very badly he'd wanted to hit one of those marshals the other day.
"And in the meantime, don't worry about anything." He paused, watching Neal's eyes droop. "Look, you need to rest, so I should probably go—" Peter started to get up.
"What? No, no, don't go." Neal was staring at him now, eyes wide open with a forlorn look that would have melted a heart of stone. "C'mon Peter. You can't leave now, you just got here."
That made Peter smile. He guessed from Neal's perspective, that it was true.
"I haven't seen you in days," Neal said, his voice mournful. "I mean, I didn't know that, but now I do, 'n it's really not fair, so . . . .
"Ah. Missed me, did you?" Peter asked in a teasing voice. He sat back down.
"Sure," Neal said without hesitation. There was something so simple, so genuine about the way he said the word; it made Peter feel a little wistful, somehow. You'd never get that kind of artlessness from Neal under normal circumstances, and Peter found it oddly endearing. "And you hafta tell me."
Peter eyed him warily. "Tell you what?"
"Y'know, what happened . . ." Peter thought maybe Neal was going to ask about Hughes' tongue-lashing, but his partner seemed to have already forgotten about it, because he added, " . . . how I got here."
Oh. That. "Not now."
"Yes, now," Neal said in a stubborn voice, face dangerously close to a pout. "I wanna know. C'mon, Peter."
Peter let out a long sigh. "What do you remember?"
Neal squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath, wincing a little from the pain of it. "Lessee . . . I told Sara I'd drive her home and—" he broke off as his eyes shot open, alarm written on his face. "Sara—did she get hurt? She okay?"
"She's fine."
"Oh, good," Neal said, relieved. "You know . . . she's not so bad, Peter."
"I'll say," Peter answered dryly. "She's been to visit you too, you know."
"She did?" Neal looked pleased, then crestfallen. "An' I don' remember that either."
"Lots of people have come to visit you," Peter said, "and I'm sure they'll all be back, now that you're awake, but—"
Of course, Neal couldn't let that go. "Really? Who?"
Peter thought it over. "It would take too long to list them, so let's just say . . . um, pretty much everybody we know? I think that about covers it."
"Wow," Neal said in a tone of sheer wonderment. "Didn' know I was so . . . popular."
"Oh, rest assured, the Neal Caffrey fan club has been out in full force." Peter paused, taking a moment to appreciate the delighted smile on Neal's face before prompting him back on-topic. "So . . . you offered Sara a ride home. Anything else you can recall?"
This prompted a few long seconds of contemplation before Neal finally shook his head. "All I 'member."
"You drove her home. When you got there, Mr. Black arrived right after you did."
"Mr. . . . Black?"
"The assassin Halbridge hired. Well, Price, really."
"Oh?" Neal said tentatively. Then, "Oh," as things finally clicked in his muzzy brain. "Uh oh."
"Definitely uh oh," Peter agreed. Despite the gravity of the topic, he had to suppress a smile at how much Neal looked and sounded like a toddler abruptly awoken from his nap. "He shot you twice and Sara shot him. Killed him."
"She did?" Neal said, stunned. "Wow. Can't believe I don' remember."
"Maybe it's for the best." Peter wondered whether or not that was true.
Neal responded with a hmm that indicated this was a new thought for him. "Dunno . . . I usu' ly have a really good mem'ry, Peter. I—" He stopped and then started again. "I don' like not remembering."
Peter understood. For someone as quick-witted as Neal, who relied so much on his brain, the gaping holes in his recollection were bound to be disquieting. "I wouldn't worry too much about it. The doctor said your memory might come back when your head's a little clearer. You did talk to the doctor, right?"
"Uh huh. They were here. And, well, I'm here. Lotta bad stuff, but . . . guess I'm gonna make it, right?"
"Yeah, you were lucky," Peter muttered, shaking his head at this fresh example of Neal's frighteningly cavalier attitude about his own welfare. True, he was drugged, but even in his right mind, he probably wouldn't have been that much more concerned with it.
It was an issue Peter planned to address—and soon. But not today. Best to do it when Neal might actually remember the conversation.
"How'd you find out?" Neal was frowning at him.
Peter didn't follow. "Find out what?"
"That I got shot."
"Oh." Leave it to Neal to immediately ask about the one thing Peter didn't want to talk about.
"We realized that Black was in the city and that you and Sara were heading back to her place. We tried to call you both, but no one picked up. While we were on the way there, we . . . we heard it on the police radio."
At that, Neal's expression changed. He didn't say anything, just stared at Peter with narrowed eyes.
"We didn't know any details," Peter continued, already wanting this discussion over with but knowing he couldn't stop now. "Just that—that there'd been a shooting at Sara's address and that one person had been killed and one wounded."
Onedeadonewounded. Peter pushed the haunting echo out of his head.
Slowly, realization was dawning on Neal's face.
"No. Really?"
"Yeah, really." Peter didn't want to think too closely about the specifics of that car ride. He'd already marked the contrast between the two of them-how ironic it was that Neal wanted to remember, while, for Peter, there were so many things about the last four days that he wished he could forget. And those moments on the way to Sara's, when he'd been so sure that either Neal or Sara was dead—those agonizing moments were at the top of the list.
"So you . . . you weren't sure who . . . ." Neal's voice was very soft.
Peter shook his head.
Neal swallowed hard. "But you—you thought that someone was . . . was . . . ."
Peter nodded grimly. "You or Sara."
"Oh, Peter," Neal said, and there it was again, that rare sincerity, that unfiltered emotion, except this time it was empathy mixed with horror. Neal's eyes were huge in his pale face, his gaze fixed on Peter and his distress palpable. "That's . . . it musta been really . . . ." His voice trailed off, as if he couldn't come up with the words to express it properly.
"It was . . . rough," Peter said quietly. He opened his mouth and closed it again. What else could he say? The less said the better, anyway. He found himself looking out the window.
Some time must have passed, because now, in a strange sort of role reversal, it was Neal, gently prompting him. "So . . . so what happened next?"
The words brought Peter out of his reverie. "Right. We finally got there. Sara was there, with NYPD. You were already gone, in the ambulance."
"Well, least you knew that we were both . . . okay," Neal said, sounding relieved, and Peter knew he meant not necessarily okay, but at least, not dead.
"Not quite," Peter told him, blowing out a long breath. "What I knew, at the time, was that Sara was in shock, because she'd just killed somebody. That you'd been rushed to the hospital with multiple gunshot wounds. And that there was enough of your blood on her—and on the floor—to scare the living hell out of me."
Neal gaped at him, a stricken look on his face.
"Sara told me what happened. Black shot through the door, you both ran into the other room. Except first you thought to grab her purse, which had her gun in it," Peter added, remembering. "She said if not for that, you both would have been dead."
That brought a small smile to Neal's face, which Peter liked to see. "Well, she . . . she packs heat, Peter." Neal said it slowly, as if he were recalling something.
"Yes, she does. Fortunately. Then, after she shot Black, Sara stayed with you and kept pressure on the wound, kept you from bleeding out."
Peter hesitated. Neal had a distant look in his eye, and Peter wondered if all of this was starting to jog his memory a bit.
"She was a mess, though," he continued when Neal didn't say anything. "Freaked out about killing Black, guilty that she didn't get him before he got you. And . . . terrified that you weren't going to make it."
"That's . . . wow, I really . . . really owe her, Peter," Neal said, his tone solemn.
"We all do." Peter agreed.
"So then what?"
"Then," Peter said briskly, "there was lots of sitting around and four hours of surgery, followed by days of waiting for you to come around, which finally ended this morning. Speaking of that," he added, "Rita Karstens said to tell you it's a good thing you woke up, because your desperate need for attention is really getting ridiculous."
Neal's eyes sparkled. "That so? She didn' mind taking advantage of it in court, though, huh?"
Peter chuckled. It was telling that Neal didn't even bother trying to deny the truth of Rita's statement: he did love attention, after all. It wasn't exactly a secret.
"Hey, what time 's it?" Neal asked, yawning.
Peter checked his watch. "A little after nine."
Neal blinked lazily. "In the morning?"
"Yes, in the morning," Peter said, glancing involuntarily at the morning sun streaming in through the small window—the clouds had moved off—and wondering how worried he should be that Neal seemed completely oblivious to it.
"Wait—whyrn't you at work?" Neal sounded anxious.
"Well, I've got an excuse. I stopped on the way to visit my partner in the hospital."
"Oh, riiight. Thanks, Peter," Neal said, smiling again.
"And Hughes is covering for me." Peter added.
"How 'bout that," Neal said.
"I come around this time every day," Peter explained.
Neal stared at him, wide-eyed. "Huh? Every day? Thass . . . really nice of you," Neal said; Peter could tell he was touched. Then he pondered for a moment. "That's right, the nurse said that you were here all the time. Really 'preciate that."
"Just checking up on you."
"Oh. S'okay, Peter. Not goin' anywhere," Neal informed him.
Peter sighed. "Not checking up on you that way. Checking to see how you are."
"Oh, well, I'm okay. Just kinda . . . tired," Neal said.
Peter took Neal's starting to repeat himself as a cue to leave. Right now, Neal needed rest a lot more than conversation.
Just then a nurse came in. Neal managed a dazzling smile for her, naturally, because she was young and attractive and Neal was . . . Neal. She smiled back and Peter groaned inwardly. Wait til he's feeling better and ready to set the flirting-with-the-nurses record . . . .
"Well, hello, Mr. Caffrey—you're awake. How are you feeling?"
"Better now," Neal said, admiring smile still on his face. " 'N please call me Neal."
She beamed back at him fondly. "Of course, Neal. I'm your nurse, Summer."
"Summer!" Neal said with delight. "Summer. Should I—um, shall I compare thee to . . . to a summer's day?" he recited, rather tentatively.
Funny how that worked, Peter reflected. Neal had trouble carrying on a coherent dialogue with him, but when an attractive nurse came on the scene, suddenly he was up to quoting Shakespearean sonnets.
Well, maybe not quite up to it. Neal opened his mouth to finish, but he stopped, a blank expression on his face, like he couldn't quite remember the rest.
"I think he's trying to say you're more lovely and more temperate." Peter muttered wryly, capping it for him.
Neal threw a grateful look Peter's way. " 'Zactly!"
The nurse blushed, murmuring a thank you as she busied herself taking her patient's vitals and making some notes on the little handheld computer she carried.
Peter smiled in spite of himself. "Well, I think my work here is done," he declared. "I can see you're in good hands, Neal. You get some rest. I'll be back later, okay?"
Neal was gazing beatifically at Summer.
"Neal?"
"Huh?"
"I'm leaving now. I'll be back later."
With what looked like a major effort, Neal finally dragged his eyes away from the nurse to Peter. "Oh, okay. Don't . . . um, don' work too hard." He sounded preoccupied.
Gee, I wonder why, Peter thought, shaking his head. As he was about to leave, the nurse asked, "Agent Burke, will you be coming back soon?"
"Later today. I'm heading in to work, so I won't be back for a few hours."
"I just wanted to let you know that Dr. Campbell said if all goes well, Neal will probably be out of the ICU and in a regular room by the time you get back."
Peter nodded, pleased to hear it. "That's great."
"But, Peter," Neal said, voice plaintive, attention abruptly focused on Peter once more, "if 'm not here, how'll you know where I am?"
"Oh, we'll call Agent Burke, don't worry," Summer assured him.
"I'd find him anyway," Peter told her, smiling as he looked from her face to Neal's. "It's kind of . . . my thing."
It took a minute, but eventually Neal grinned back knowingly, a gleam in his eye. In that second, he looked like himself for the first time in days, and Peter felt his heart swell in response.
God, but he'd missed seeing that.
TBC . . . .
A/N—Here I am, apologizing for another lengthy delay. This chapter was ready to post a while ago—it was around 8,000 words at the time—but for inexplicable reasons, I just wasn't happy with it. I put it aside for a couple days and then went back to working on it, at which point it started growing, until it was over 13,000 words. The Peter/Neal conversation, which was only a few sentences initially, became much longer, and I added a bunch of other things. Then the whole thing just seemed too long to me, so I ended up splitting it (that second part is now Chapter 15). I hope that, altogether, it's not only longer, but better—though you, of course, will be the judge of that.
Once again, truly sorry the wait for this chapter has been so long; I'll try not to let that happen again and hope the wait has been worth it. It's flattering to know that so many are reading this story, but that makes it all the more embarrassing for me when I am this slow in posting.
Ch. 15 will be posted on Thursday.
Thanks to all of you for reading and, especially, reviewing! As always, would love to hear what you thought . . . .