a/n: sorry for the cliffie

The next two days in the ICU were the longest of Peter Burke's life. His cell phone didn't work the best in Neal's room so there wasn't much to do but pretend to watch TV or worry about how Diana was getting along at the prison. He'd pretty much left most of that to her, secure in the training she'd received over the years to handle the warden and interrogate Smith. The TV was no help, and he left it off most of the time.

Diana had booked them into a local hotel and Peter had only been by once to throw the overnight bag he always kept in his trunk onto the bed, spend a few minutes under the weak spray of the shower, and then head back over to the hospital. And the only reason he'd done even that much was because Diana had insisted. So, too, had Richards, who'd promised Peter up and down that neither he nor Barrett would move from their posts beside Neal's door until he returned.

And speaking of Neal, there hadn't been much improvement in his condition. He was getting the strongest antibiotics they had, or so Peter had been told, and the chest tube and ventilator were doing their job. Neal was getting the support he needed, both to breathe and to heal. Only he wasn't getting any better. Peter spent a lot of his time in Neal's room just watching the mechanical rise and fall of his friend's chest. Nurse's flitted in and out at random, checking vitals that remained shitty yet steady, and changing out the bandages on his shoulder and checking on the dressings around the chest tube. They were as kind as could be to Peter, always taking the time to introduce themselves if they were new, explain Neal's vitals in a language he could understand, and ask him if he needed anything. Peter always said no. The things he wanted... well, no nurse, no matter how kind, was ever going to be able to give him those.

Neal's doctors came less frequently, and mostly only during rounds. Peter met a lot of medical professionals over the course of those first few days. Respiratory therapists and orthopedic surgeons, critical care physicians and some doctor called a Hospitalist who was supposed to keep all of Neal's treatment straight, apparently. Peter liked her most of all. She reminded him of his grandmother and was convinced Neal would feel the same way about her… once he opened those damn eyes of his and woke up, of course. Which felt pretty near impossible right now, considering he was still hooked up to a ventilator and sedated six ways from Sunday.

Everyone was worried about his throat, and the pneumonia that was clouding his lungs on the x-ray the pulmonologist showed him on the third morning during rounds. Peter had the staff schedule memorized by now and considered himself an expert. He couldn't help it. It was the FBI agent in him. Or maybe the friend in him that was so worried about Neal he had to fixate on something he could control just to get his mind off the things he couldn't.

On the morning of the third day, with little improvement or change beyond some promising signs that the antibiotics were finally starting to do their job, Peter decided he'd had enough of the claustrophobic room and needed some air. He left Richards on the door (they were taking it in shifts now, and Barrett had the day off) and headed outside to find a little patio with chairs someone had shown him the other day. It was a nicely terraced courtyard out behind the hospital with a pond that was frozen over and now covered in a dusting of snow. Everything around it was blanketed in white and it was more than a little peaceful. It was heavenly.

Peter cleared a space for himself on a bench and sat down to look out over the little lake. He wondered how many people just like him had sat in this same spot and done this same thing. How many of them were wondering if their loved ones back in the hospital were going to pull through. Every one of Neal's doctors was telling him to have faith and that Neal was young and healthy and would pull through this. But they weren't in that room with him 24/7. They didn't have to sit there for hours and watch as everything stayed in exactly the same place and nothing ever moved. It was hard to keep faith when Peter kept waiting for the alarms to start blaring and for Neal's tenuous hold on this life to slip. Something needed to break. And soon.

"I thought I might find you out here."

Entirely fed up with people sneaking up on him, Peter refused to turn around. He let whoever it was come to him as he continued to gaze out over the lake. He knew who it was, of course, but held fast to that stubbornness. It felt good. Unexpected. Not that he needed any more unexpected in his life.

Don Murphy sat down on the bench beside him a moment later, right in the snow. Peter hid a smile.

"What are you doing here?"

He was pretty sure it didn't sound as harsh as it felt in his head.

"Saving you from yourself."

"You think I need saving, huh?"

"That, or El might've called me."

"Oh."

Because Richards had called Diana and Diana had called Elizabeth and Elizabeth had called Don. It was a conspiracy all over again.

"Well, that and to warn you that we think Park's on the move again."

Peter sighed. Of course. Of course Park was on the move.

"And you drove all the way to Pennsylvania to tell me this?"

The wound on his arm, the one he'd nearly forgotten about before he'd bumped it against the towel rack in the hotel bathroom the other day, throbbed painfully under his sleeve.

"Thought you should know. You're not that great at picking up your phone these days."

"You could have called Diana."

"I didn't have her number."

"The office then?" Peter knew he was just being difficult, but he didn't care.

"We Murphy's are better enjoyed in person, or so I've been told."

Peter glanced down at his hands with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. His palms were still stained red in places, despite his repeated washings.

"How's your boy?" Don asked

"The same," Peter replied, dropping his hands and looking back out over the pond. It was actually big enough to be called a lake, he decided right then. "He's still really sick, but he's holding his own."

"What do his doctors say?"

"That I should stop worrying and let the antibiotics do their job. That as soon as he gets over whatever hump this is, they'll start weaning him off the ventilator and get that chest tube out of his side. "

"So good news," Don said hopefully.

Peter glanced over at his friend. "Well, I guess it's not bad news."

The two men sat in silence for a while as they watched a fox make its way across the grounds and start sniffing at the edge of the lake. He was probably looking for food or crack in the ice to drink from. Finding neither, he scampered back off into the trees a few minutes later.

"If you're blaming yourself, Pete, you should stop," Don said once the fox had gone and the silence had stretched on for longer than either of them were comfortable with.

Peter chortled. There were plenty of other people he could blame: Leech, Park, Smith, Warden Grant… All of them had a hand in what happened to Neal, but Peter was the one who let the whole thing get set into motion. He was the one who let Leech walk all over him and take Neal in the first place. He deserved the blame. He was to blame, and no detective or fellow FBI agent was going to convince him otherwise. They would try, Diana already had and Don was working on it now, but it was no use. Peter was going to blame himself for this for the rest of his life. Neal could wake up tomorrow, miraculously cured and singing Peter's praises, and he would still be blaming himself. Not even Elizabeth would be able to make him think otherwise. It was a lost cause.

"So, what makes you think Park is on the move?" he asked to change the subject.

Don was quiet for a moment before answering. "We found one of his victims not far from the state line. That's why I'm here. They kinda put me in charge of his case. I ran into a few of your guys at the crime scene. Figured, since I was close by and your wife can be very persuasive when she wants to be, I might as well come out here myself and give you a heads up."

Peter couldn't help but smile at that as he imagined Elizabeth and Don on the phone, El doing most of the talking as Don sat there listening, knowing he would do exactly what she asked of him. Elizabeth instilled that kind of loyalty and respect in people. Peter included. There wasn't much he wouldn't do for her.

"You think he's headed here?" he asked.

"Seemed like the most logical explanation. It's hard to tell with Park. He's one of the scary ones. His MO doesn't always stay the same and you always get the feeling he's a lot smarter than he lets on."

"Probably why we haven't caught him yet."

"Probably." Don pulled a big breath in through the nose and then slapped his thighs with his hands. "Anyway, I actually came out here to find you. I met that guard of yours, Ben, in front of Caffrey's room when I got here."

"Ben? You mean Richards?"

"Yeah, him. Nice guy," Don replied. Peter had been here three days so far and he hadn't even bothered to learn the man's first name. He'd just been Richards or that guard .

"I brought him up to speed on what's been going on and he wants to have a little pow-wow about Park. I hope that's ok," Don added.

Peter nodded "Yeah, that's fine. He's been a big help so far."

"Sounds like it. He practically interrogated me out in the hall. Made me show him my badge and everything. He even called my supervisor."

Peter could only imagine what that exchange must have looked like, Richards demanding Don, a grizzled NYPD homicide detective, prove who he was. He was suddenly very sorry he missed it, yet also very surprised to hear his friend talk about it now with such good humor. It was a sign Don really did like the guard.

"Anyway, you ready?" Don asked him. "Or do you need some more brooding time."

"I was not brooding," Peter said.

"Then are you done doing whatever it is you call brooding? My ass is getting cold."

Peter laughed. "Fine. Yes, I'm done."

He reluctantly said goodbye to his snow covered bench and followed Don back into the hospital. They shook the snow from their boots and then made their way down the confusing hallways and back towards the ICU. The closer they got, the more Peter's uneasiness of going back into that room grew. It was at war with that other feeling in his chest, the one that started up any time he was away from Neal for any lengthy period of time. When he had to trust that other people would keep him safe while he went off to do the other things that demanded his time. And there were so many things. Phone calls, zoom meetings, check-ins with Diana, meetings with the hospital administration and their reps who were anxious to know when they would get their hospital back from the FBI. His laptop was on its way from New York and once he got that, hopefully things would be a little easier. He could give his vocal chords a rest and let his fingers do the talking. Because he was tired. Restless sleep and uncomfortable hospital chairs had done little to help in that department. He'd even commandeered one of the big reclining ones they used for patients when they were ready to get up out of bed to catch a few Zs in, but it hadn't helped. His back still hurt and exhaustion was still weighing him down like someone had strapped heavy sandbags to his shoulders. Peter stopped in front of the big restroom outside the ICU and informed Don he needed a few minutes. The detective seemed to understand what he was really after.

"I'm going to go check out the vending machines in the waiting room," he said. "Take as long as you need."

Peter pushed in through the door and was relieved to find the place empty. There were a few stalls, a urinal or two, and a bank of three sinks with a large mirror taking up most of one wall. Peter went to the sinks first and activated one of them with his hands. He let a pool of water accumulate in his cupped hands before splashing it over his face. It felt wonderful, yet Peter did not remove his hands from his face. He kept them there, hoping his palms and the water would hide the fact that his emotions were threatening to get the better of him again. He'd tried so hard and for so long to keep it together, but exhaustion and a heightened sense of awareness were difficult things to maintain. They took energy and focus, two things that were in very short supply for Peter. He wasn't sleeping, the hospital coffee wasn't cutting it, and Neal just wasn't getting any better.

Then there was the fact that, every time Peter closed his eyes, images of Neal in his hospital bed accosted him. He couldn't escape them. They were in his dreams and seared into the blackness behind his eyelids. Neal with the bags of ice tucked around his throat to bring the swelling down. Neal with the congested lungs and low oxygen levels. Even his face and the cuts and bruises his captors had given him seemed to be getting worse as Neal's damaged body tried so hard to knit itself back together. If this were normal times, Peter might have started jogging. That always helped him clear his mind and look at things from another angle. But there were no other angles here, and no paths to pound down in search of answers. It was either Neal got better or Neal got worse. Everything else was on hold until Peter knew his friend was going to be ok.

The door behind Peter opened and then closed as someone else entered the bathroom. He dropped the hands from his face and reached for a paper towel, catching a glimpse of the man who had entered in the mirror as he did. Peter ignored him as he used the towels to dry off his face. He would wonder later if this was perhaps his biggest mistake. Why he was so distracted when the arm came out of nowhere to wrap itself around his throat and pull him off his feet.

It was a well placed arm, too, cutting off his airway instantly so he couldn't even breathe or make a sound. The blade that sliced into his lower back - sharp and lethal - and into what he was fairly certain would have been a kidney, sealed his fate.

Peter tore at the arm around his throat with his blunt nails, desperate to move it so he could breathe again. But his attacker was powerful, and Peter now had something long and sharp protruding from his side. He met the cold, dead, and empty eyes of Jeremiah Park in the mirror.

"Leech sends his regards," the serial killer smiled as he drove the blade in further. "He says wrong move , by the way. I'll make sure Caffrey gets the message, too when I gut him next."

Peter felt the world fading as his lungs burned. If the knife, or whatever Park had used to stab him, didn't kill him first, the lack of oxygen would. He thought of El.

"Oh the things I'm going to do to that boy," Park said seductively into his ear. "The parts of him I'm going to Rip off and mail to your boss." Park twisted his hand and pushed in deeper. Peter's mouth fell open in a soundless scream. "And then when I'm done with him, I'm going to move on to Jones and then pretty little bitch of yours. You might have been able to protect them from me so far, but not anymore once you're dead. Maybe I'll even do them at your funeral. Make all those spectators watch. Turn it into a real horror show. Wouldn't that be poetic?"

Anger set Peter's blood to boiling. He struggled against Park's hold, but the man was just too damn strong. And he was slipping. The world had gone grey and he could feel his legs about to buckle. He would lose consciousness soon and then bleed out on the bathroom floor. El would be left alone to fend for herself against a madman. He couldn't let it happen… but it was getting harder and harder to hold on.

"Hey Petey, when I said take all the time that you need, I didn't mean..." Peter watched as Don pushed his way in through the bathroom door. The detective's eyes went wide as he took in the sight of the two men fighting at the sink.

There was no hesitation in what he did next. No thought, just instinct. He simply dropped the half eaten snickers bar in his hand, reached for his sidearm like he'd probably done a million and a half times before, and put a bullet in Jeremiah Park's head.

Blood and brains splattered across the floor as the man crumpled and the pressure left Peter's windpipe. He fell forward, gasping and sputtering as he caught himself on the sinks with one hand. The other went to his back. The object Park had stabbed him with seemed to be some kind of scalpel. It was long and skinny and protruding out several inches. Peter pulled his hand back and was not at all surprised to find it covered in blood. His legs really did buckle then and he left a bloody hand print on the white marble as he fell.

"Pete!" Don exclaimed, catching Peter before his head could hit the floor as he collapsed. The detective lowered him carefully down onto his side, mindful of the scalpel still sticking out of his back. He left Peter there on the floor only long enough to punch at a big red button affixed to the wall beside the paper towel dispenser, just below the words in case of emergency. Thank god for hospitals.

"It's ok Petey. Help is on the way. You just hang in there buddy."

Don's face seemed fuzzy and Peter blinked a few times to bring it into focus.

"Elizabeth," he choked out.

"Oh no," Don said, shaking his head. "Don't you dare start any of that 'please take care of my wife' shit with me. You're going to be fine. It's just a little stab wound. Nothing to worry about."

But Peter had seen his fair share of stabbings. In fact, there was a patient in the ICU right now who was a prime example. Blades were unapologetic and Park had gotten Peter in the back. There were not many places back there you could safely stab someone. Not like in the movies. Peter knew it and Don knew it, too. It was only a matter of time.

Peter grabbed the front of his friend's shirt. "Elizabeth…"

The door to the bathroom burst open and a nurse stumbled into the room. She took one look at Peter and Don on the floor and then hollered something out the door. Peter barely heard.

"El…" he tried again but Don was being pulled away.

"I will, Peter. Whatever you say. Just stay with us!"

He tried. He really did, but when rough hands rolled him over further, the pain was just too much. He lost his grip and slipped away, El's name still hanging in the air.