Chapter Thirty-Seven
With a glance back at Neal's still figure, Peter left the room. On his way down the wide hall, he told the duty nurse his intention. He asked that she call if Neal needed him before he returned, but the way Neal had been sleeping, he didn't anticipate any problems. Still, he wanted to cover his bases just in case. His entire reason for being present was to be available if Neal awakened disoriented, upset or frightened. She assured him she would, and Peter left the ICU.
Visiting hours having ended at eight p.m., the waiting room was practically empty when Peter exited the double doors at ten-thirty. There were only two occupants; an older gentleman and women with exhausted faces. They sat close together on a burnt orange sofa, drawing comfort from one another in whatever difficulty they were facing. Peter gave what he hoped was an encouraging nod as he passed, going to the alcove where the vending machines resided. He dug for change, inserted it and selected a bottled water from the menu. It dropped loudly into the receptacle and he retrieved it.
He unscrewed the top, took a sip, and dialed Elizabeth. He had a lot to tell her but the truth was that he needed her encouragement and her wisdom. She was so much better at this kind of stuff than he was and the thought of the days ahead filled him with both feelings of dread and inadequacy.
Peter related what Agent Jones had learned from his conversation with Andrew Carver especially the more illuminating details.
"So his name is, was, Danny?" Elizabeth asked.
"Yeah," Peter replied, "and he's probably younger than he claims to be, too."
"How much younger?"
"Not sure," Peter replied uneasily, "But at least a couple years, maybe as many as four."
"Four?" her voice was incredulous. She did quick math in her mind. "You mean he might have only been seventeen when you started chasing him?"
"Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. It doesn't matter," Peter's tone was sharper than he'd intended,"That's still considered an adult, El; old enough to be held accountable for his crimes."
Still, seventeen, eighteen or nineteen was not twenty-one; the age he had attributed to his adversary at the time.
"I wasn't blaming you for chasing him, Peter," Elizabeth chided gently. "Or arresting him. I was just thinking his age was probably was a factor in the way he reached out to you. We've talked about this."
Peter knew the recrimination he'd felt from her question was just his own guilty conscious. They had talked about it, but having learned about Neal's history with Terrence Eden, about the unhealthy father-son dynamic the older man had used to manipulate him, the topic of father figures made Peter more uncomfortable than ever. He wasn't happy with the way he too, had used Neal's vulnerability in that area.
And he did feel bad that he'd chased a kid, a kid that was all alone with nowhere to go, so relentlessly.
But in his defense, although he knew James Bonds was young, he hadn't known how young. And he'd never perceived Neal Caffrey as a victim of circumstance. He'd seen him as just the opposite; as a manipulator of circumstances who could turn any situation to his advantage with charm and good looks. His goal of pursuit had been to keep the pressure so tight on the young criminal that he couldn't find a moment's peace. Everyone needed a place to rest, to feel safe and regroup, and he made sure Neal Caffrey didn't have one. Each time he'd learned Neal had been anywhere more than a few days, he'd find a way to send him running again. He hadn't known then that Neal had been running long before he had the FBI on his tail and that he'd never had much of a safe place in his life.
"I'm sorry," Peter said, ceasing his restless pacing and sinking down into one of the waiting room chairs. "I'm just-" he paused, "tired." He hadn't slept much the night before and the day had been brutally long. Worrying about Neal was exhausting. "Agent Littleton is coming to talk to Neal tomorrow and the Violent Crime Division is sending someone on Tuesday. They're going to be a lot of questions about his time in Chicago."
"It's what you said would happen," Elizabeth recalled. "Have you been able to talk to Neal at all about this? Any idea how he's doing with it?"
Peter shook his head although she couldn't see him. "No, none," he answered. "He's been sleeping this evening but earlier, when he woke up from surgery he was upset, scared. They had to call me to the recovery room to calm him down." He went on to tell her about Neal's emotional outburst, and how he'd later asked him to stay with him.
"See, Peter," He could hear the tremble of emotion in her voice, and imagined, had he been there, he would have seen a glint of tears in her eyes as well. "I told you you'd be fine; he needed you and you were there."
"I don't know," he replied wearily, the strain of the day taking its toll on both body and spirit. "I'm not good with emotional stuff; I don't think I'm the person for this."
"You're the only person for this," she countered, echoing what Peter unfortunately knew was true. "It's about trust and although Neal has issues on that front we both know he trusts you. He told you that you were the only person he trusted, remember?"
Of course, Peter remembered. It had happened at the Howser Clinic when Neal had told him that he was the only person in his life he trusted. Not Mozzie, not Kate, but him. He'd looked like a kid then, too, eyes glassy and hair messy, and his words had surprised caught Peter. It had been a pivotal moment in their partnership; in their relationship. At least it had been for him. Neal didn't remember any of it having been drugged at the time.
"He trusts me to call him on his bull crap," Peter chuckled, visualizing the mock hurt look on Neal's face when he did just that, "and he proves every day as my CI he trusts me to keep him safe," His tone again grew serious. "But this is different. He doesn't trust me with personal stuff; I don't think he trusts anyone with that."
"He's not had anyone to trust," Elizabeth reminded him, "but that's changed, Peter, he's not alone anymore. He has people who care about him now."
"You know that and I know that," Peter said, "but I'm not sure he does."
"Well, from what you've said," she pointed out. "It sounds to me like he does."
Peter agreed; on some level, Neal did know. I feel better knowing you're with me; he'd said.
But that Neal was not the Neal he'd come to know and it wasn't the Neal he expected to see once he was feeling better. Neal withdrew, closed himself off when he felt emotionally at risk; he didn't reach out or seek comfort. But traumatized and then drugged, his usual self-protection measures had not been engaged. Peter suspected the person he'd interacted with over the past few hours was more Danny than Neal; a younger, less guarded version of his CI that had been brought to the surface by the sudden appearance of Terrence Eden in his life and drugs in his blood stream.
"Maybe," Peter admitted, remembering the way Neal had pulled him close and buried face in his chest. "But he's been really out of it, El. I doubt he'll remember any of this tomorrow."
"He reached out to you, Peter," she stated. "Whether he remembers doing it or not, it doesn't change the fact that he did it."
Neal hadn't remembered the exchange at the Howser Clinic either, but it hadn't taken away from the significance of his proclamation.
"I know," Peter conceded. "I just dread what's coming. I'm not sure how he's going to handle them asking about Chicago, his past with Eden."
"Then you ask him about it first," she advised him. "As his friend, as someone he trusts. If you do that, you can help him handle it before they talk to him. What time is Agent Littleton coming?"
"He told me to call him when Neal was up to it."
"Well that's what you do, then," she insisted. "Talk to Neal about it, let him know what's coming, and when he's ready for the interview, call the Agent."
As much as Peter dreaded bringing up the subject, as Elizabeth had pointed out, it would be better coming from him than from a stranger. And he didn't want Neal blindsided by the questions that were going to be asked. "That's what I'll do," he said. "Thanks, El. I feel better now."
"You'll feel even better if you get some sleep," she told him. "Ask them to bring you a toothbrush and toothpaste and I'll bring you a change of clothes in the morning."
"You don't have to come up here," Peter protested. "Once I know Neal's okay, I'll come-"
"But you don't know when that will be," she reminded him. "And I want to come; I miss you, plus," she added. "I wouldn't mind seeing Neal, either, just to let him know I'm in his corner."
There was no use arguing with her, and Peter had to admit, he'd feel better in proper attire and not in high school team wear. He thanked her again, bid her good night and ended the call. Still tired but more encouraged, he picked up a couple sporting magazines from the waiting room. He returned to the double doors, went through the entrance protocol, and returned to room 422.
Neal was still sleeping and Peter settled into the chair and opened one of the magazines. It wasn't long before he was joined by the night nurse.
Neal was checked every hour by a CNA but visits from the nurse were less frequent. Peter had seen her twice since she'd come on to duty at seven. This time she had brought a new IV bag. She began to change one for the other as Peter looked on in curiosity.
"He's still running a fever," she explained as she worked, "so the doctor has ordered a new antibiotic. Hopefully, he'll respond better to this one."
"He's not moved in hours," Peter remarked, realizing now the spots of color in Neal's cheeks were fever induced. "Is that the morphine?" He'd never seen Neal so still for so long; it was unnerving.
"The morphine is just keeping him comfortable so he can rest," she explained. "So his body can recover from the trauma it's experienced. That's the best thing he can do right now. He'll be more awake tomorrow; there's nothing to be concerned about."
When she had finished, Peter followed Elizabeth's suggestion and asked if she could supply some basic toiletries. "All of this was kind of unexpected," he explained, nodding at Neal. "I didn't even bring a go bag."
He had one in the trunk of his Taurus, but that hadn't been the vehicle he'd driven. It was still parked at the Federal Building in New York.
"Not a problem," she replied. She gestured to the portable storage cabinet across the room. "There are an extra pillow and blanket in there; feel free to use them. The recliner is pretty comfortable, too."
It wasn't long before the CNA assigned to Neal brought the requested items. Just before midnight, Peter moved from the chair into the recliner. He extended the foot rest, placed the pillow against the wall, and rested his head against it. The recliner wasn't as comfortable as the one in his living room, but it felt pretty good. It had been a long day.
Peter's sleep was light, and he felt he had just dozed off when the nurse entered about an hour later. He kept quiet as she did a rudimentary check on her patient, but when she looked up and met his eyes, she answered his question although he hadn't voiced it.
"The antibiotics are working," she informed him quietly. "His temperature is down."
After the nurse left, Peter, relieved that Neal's fever had abated, fell quickly back to sleep.
It wasn't the movement of someone in the room that awakened him the next time; it was a noise. It wasn't a shout but it was still a sound of distress.
The evening had passed peacefully and without incident but now, just after three in the morning, things had changed. Neal was sitting bolt upright on the bed, eyes open, a look of complete terror on his face. Peter, startled awake, sprung from the recliner. Freeing himself from the blanket that was entangling his feet, he was at Neal's side in seconds.
"Neal, I'm right here," he said quickly. "You're okay; everything's okay."
An alarm on the monitor above the bed began to sound which only added to the panicked look on Neal's face. His eyes moved wildly around the room, and knowing Neal's first instinct when scared was always to run, Peter gripped his shoulders firmly to make sure he stayed put. Neal's breaths were coming in quick gasps, his face shining with sweat in the meager lighting of the room. Although the eyes were open, Peter didn't think Neal was seeing him, or the surroundings; he was seeing whatever nightmare had invaded his dreams.
Peter felt his own heart rate increasing as well. "Neal," he voice was insistent; he gave the shoulders a slight shake. "Wake up."
His tone of voice brought Neal's darting eye's to his face, and after a moment of wide-eyed confusion, recognition dawned in them.
"Peter," he whispered with breathless relief. Peter could feel him trembling as the tension drained from his body and he was guided back onto the pillow.
"Take it easy, buddy," Peter said gently, his own relief mirroring Neal's. "Everything's okay."
The nurse, having responded to the commotion, silenced the alarm on the monitor. Neal's heart rate, which had triggered it was now starting to decline. His respiration rate, however, remained accelerated. His breathing sounded as if he'd just completed a sprint.
"Are you in any pain, Mr. Caffrey?" she asked, studying Neal's face carefully.
"No," Neal's voice was low and his eyes dropped, the slight blush in his cheeks now from embarrassment instead of fever. "It was just a bad dream."
His words, as well as his disconcerted demeanor, tugged at Peter's heartstrings and from the expression on the nurse's face, pulled at her's as well.
"That's understandable," she assured him, checking the IV lines and then the machine itself. "Especially given what you've been through." She met Peter's eyes sympathetically, before returning her attention to Neal's down-turned face. "If you're sure you are okay, I'll get back to my rounds."
Neal raised his head, meeting her eyes sheepishly. "I'm okay," his smile was weak and not very convincing. "Sorry about that."
"As I said," she reiterated kindly. "Perfectly understandable. Try to sleep," she glanced at Peter, including him in her order, then continued to Neal. "You'll feel much better tomorrow; you'll see."
With that encouragement, and a reminder to press the call button if they needed anything, the nurse left them. Peter didn't doubt her forecast. Barring complications, Neal would feel better tomorrow, and he'd continue to heal and grow stronger each day. Physically.
But it was no longer the physical injuries Neal had sustained that most concerned Peter; it was the emotional ones. And those, he knew, dated much further back than a couple of days. Physically, Neal was on the road to recovery but Peter feared that emotionally, there was still a long road ahead for him.