Neal walked into the bullpen after using the bathroom, and made a beeline to the coffee station. Peter had him searching through financial records, and he felt like his brain was going to melt out his ears if he read any more without caffeine.
Agent Patterson came up to get coffee at the same time, Neal let him go first after seeing the sour look on the blond agent's face. Patterson slammed his mug onto the counter, poured a cup, and stood there, staring down into the liquid, still holding the coffee pot in his other hand. Neal watched him, amused, but also wanting coffee.
Neal heard footsteps come up behind him, and looked over his shoulder. It was Hughes, mug in hand. The senior agent nodded to Neal, Neal acknowledged him. Hughes looked at Patterson, still angrily staring into his coffee, and raised his eyebrows at Neal. Neal shrugged, having no idea what the agent was angry about.
"Agent Patterson? Are you finished?" asked Hughes, impatient for caffeine.
The agent spun around, saw Neal right behind him but apparently failed to notice Hughes, yelling, "what's your problem, Caffrey?"
"I–" before Neal could get a sentence out, Patterson hauled back and threw the coffee pot at him. Neal ducked his face in time but glass and piping hot coffee hit the top of his head, the pot breaking and sending sharp pain into Neal's scalp. The coffee ran down over him, and he had to quickly loosen his tie and collar to keep it from burning his neck, holding his shirt away from himself.
"Patterson! You're suspended. Go sit in my office." yelled Hughes.
Patterson stared past Neal at Hughes, clearly horrified, then walked away. Neal stood there, dripping, slightly in shock. Hughes gripped him by the arm, "are you okay?"
Neal raised his hand to his head, his fingers came away bloody, "um…not sure."
Hughes swore quietly, and towed him to a nearby chair. Neal sat as he watched Patterson walk towards Hughes's office, beet red, though it wasn't clear if it was shame or anger.
Hughes stood over Neal, checking his head, and pulling bits of glass out of his hair.
"Did he say anything to you before I got there? Or you to him?"
"No," answered Neal, "he was upset but he didn't say anything."
Hughes sighed, "his wife filed for divorce yesterday. I should have told him to take the week off."
"Maybe she wants a divorce because he throws coffee pots at people."
"I'll call her myself after I deal with him."
Neal used his hand to wipe coffee and blood out of his eyes.
Hughes dug a handkerchief out of his pocket, and used it to mop up Neal's face, as Neal blinked at him, surprised by the care from the senior agent. Hughes then pressed it to the top of his head. Neal winced in pain.
"I think you may need stitches."
Jones walked into the coffee area, looked from the glass and coffee on the floor, to Hughes and Neal, "whoa. Coffee pot explode?"
"No, said Hughes, grimly, "Agent Patterson did. He's in my office. Actually, Jones, first tell Peter to come here, then get someone for backup and arrest Patterson for assault."
Jones nodded, and left.
Hughes lifted the pressure on Neal's head for a second, then put it back on, "hasn't slowed down. Peter will take you to the ER, okay?"
"Yeah," said Neal, shivering a little as the coffee had now cooled down, and his wet shirt was clinging to him.
"I've got a sweatshirt in my office. Take that off and I'll get it when Peter gets here."
Neal pulled his tie undone, unbuttoned his shirt and took it off. Peter ran into the coffee area, panting, "Jones said someone attacked Neal?"
"Agent Patterson. Or, former Agent Patterson, if I have anything to say about it."
"Why? How bad?" Peter came up to Neal, put his hand on Neal's shoulder.
"It's not that bad," said Neal.
"Not that bad?!" said Peter, taking in the blood that Neal was wiping away from his face again despite the pressure Hughes held on his head.
"Scalps just bleed a lot, Peter," said Neal, "it doesn't even hurt that much."
"What happened?" asked Peter.
"Caffrey and I were waiting for coffee, I asked Patterson if he was done, and he threw the coffee pot at Caffrey. Jones is arresting him for assault now. Take Caffrey to the ER, make sure they take pictures."
"Yes, sir," said Peter.
Hughes handed off the task of keeping pressure to Peter, "I'm getting him a sweatshirt, just a minute before you leave."
"Okay," said Peter. He stood behind Neal and used one hand to hold the handkerchief on Neal's head, and wrapped his other arm around Neal's chest, protectively.
Hughes walked away, blood and coffee on his shirt front and sleeves. Neal blinked, groaning slightly, seeing his blood on someone else was making him dizzy. Peter's arm tightened around his shoulders.
"Easy," said Peter softly, "I've got you."
Hughes came back a few minutes later, and gave Neal a sweatshirt. He and Peter helped Neal get it on without too much mess. Hughes had also brought a hand towel, Peter replaced the soaked hanky with it, and Neal winced hard as he was able to apply more pressure.
Hughes put Neal's shirt and tie in an evidence bag, "sorry, I'm not sure you're getting these back."
Neal chuckled, "I'm not sure I want them back."
Peter refused to let go of Neal on the way out. Neal fussed about it, but he wasn't that mad. He was dizzy, and his scalp was starting to really hurt.
The drive to the ER was quick, Neal held the towel to his head while Peter drove like a maniac. They nearly collided with a garbage truck, "Peter, the glass in my head is going to be the least of my worries if you don't slow down."
"Why are you so calm, huh?" demanded Peter.
Neal blinked at him, "Peter, we get shot at. Why is this what makes you freak out?"
"Because it was an Agent, Neal. It was friendly fire, on purpose."
"I think you're overestimating how much the other Agents view me as friendly," laughed Neal.
That did not make Peter drive more reasonably. He blew through a red turn arrow, swerved between two cars, and Neal cried out, "Peter, Jesus!"
They finally pulled up in front of the hospital, in the same number of pieces they had been in when they left the FBI building. Peter got out, and pulled Neal out by his arm.
"Peter, the cut is on my head, I can walk…"
Peter marched him into the lobby without a word, holding his arm with an iron grip.
"Special Agent Peter Burke," said Peter to the guy at the desk, "this is Neal Caffrey, he was attacked about half an hour ago with a glass coffee pot."
Neal barely had time to sit down in the waiting room before they pulled him back. Peter marched him into the triage room.
A nurse looked between them, "so what happened?"
"A guy I work with threw a coffee pot at my head," said Neal, wondering how many more times this would have to be explained.
"He was attacked by another agent, currently under arrest," said Peter, "he's bleeding a lot."
The triage nurse had Neal lift the towel to look, and nodded, "okay, we're gonna get you right back. How long ago did this happen?"
"Like twenty minutes," said Neal.
After Neal gave the rest of his basic medical information they were taken into the back, Neal was told to sit on a bed and hang tight. Peter paced and paced, in the small area.
"Peter, please calm down."
Peter turned to look him in the eye, "I can't believe this happened, Neal. I'm so sorry."
"Relax, Peter. It's not like it's the first time a cop I knew threw something at my head."
The words hung there between them, as Neal realized he had been overly specific. He blamed the blood loss and adrenaline, he was starting to get a little punchy.
"Who?" said Peter, finally, sounding angrier than Neal had ever heard him.
Neal shrugged and looked away.
"James?"
Neal looked back at Peter, making a face, "no, man. I was three when he left."
"Who?"
"Just…other cops. Who were around my mom. People she drank with. And, yunno, other stuff."
At that point a nurse and a doctor came in. They had Neal repeat the story again, and then took pictures of him from multiple angles, close and far. They finally started actually working on his head, starting with lidocaine. They pulled a few small shards of glass out of his scalp, made him lean forward so they could rinse any smaller pieces out of the cuts. Then they finally stitched him up.
Neal was left sitting with his hair hanging in his face, wet with blood, coffee, saline, and disinfectant. Peter took some paper towels and helped dry it a little bit while they waited for his discharge paperwork.
The curtain pulled back suddenly and Peter whirled around, but it was just Hughes. Peter sighed and kept squeezing Neal's hair between the towels.
"Caffrey. How are you doing?"
"I'm fine," said Neal, "they got me sewed up."
"Good," said Hughes, leaning over to look at the stitches, "they took pictures?"
"Yeah," said Peter.
Hughes nodded, and put his hand on Neal's arm, "you were right about the other part. Diana is bringing her here, should arrive any minute."
Peter looked between them, his expression pained and upset, "Patterson's wife? She's injured?"
"Yes," said Hughes, gravely, "thankfully not seriously, but she's pretty upset."
Hughes bit his lip and looked at the hallway, took a breath. Neal was surprised to realize the stoic older man was momentarily overcome.
"She had reported him to local LEOs three times in the past and they did nothing. She almost didn't believe me when I told her we had arrested him."
Peter looked like he was ready to throw something, "Reese, we have to find out who those officers were–"
Hughes held up a hand, "Jones is on it. But this is a much bigger problem than those individuals. I'm temporarily retasking your team to follow up with every person who reported abuse at that precinct in the last year and collect evidence."
Peter blinked, "wow, DC okayed that?"
"No," said Hughes, "but that's not going to stop us."
"Excuse me" said someone behind them. Hughes and Peter turned and Neal leaned to the left to see past Hughes.
It was the nurse who had stitched up Neal's head. She had Neal's paperwork. She gave it to him and told him not to wash his head for at least 24 hours. Then she held out a piece of paper with a phone number written on it, and said at a low volume, "I overheard what you were saying. Call me after ten when my shift ends. I can give you officers' names."
She handed it to Hughes, and left.
Hughes looked down at the paper, and tucked it in his breast pocket. He was still wearing the same dress shirt with Neal's blood on it.
They headed back out to the lobby. Peter kept his arm around Neal's shoulders, Neal didn't even particularly want to fight him.
Just as they were reaching the door, Diana came through it with a petite woman with tan skin, curly brown hair, and warm brown eyes. Her face was puffy from crying, and she held her left wrist against her chest with her other hand.
She stopped as Diana did, looking between the three men.
"Ana," said Hughes, "I'm so sorry that this happened. It won't happen again, and we're going to do our best to make sure it doesn't happen to anyone else."
She nodded slightly, her eyes tracing over the blood on all of them, landing on Neal's bedraggled self, "if I hadn't given him the divorce papers…"
Neal stepped forward, reaching out but waiting for her permission to touch her. She nodded. He rubbed her upper arm, "I'm fine."
He looked at Peter, Peter gave him a supportive nod. Neal decided the cat was out of the bag anyway, he might as well say what he felt, and maybe give her some comfort, "it takes so much bravery to leave. My mom didn't make it out alive. I'd take the stitches ten more times knowing it meant someone was free."
She hugged him, carefully. He patted her back. Diana escorted her to the desk.
Peter put his arm back around Neal, and very gently guided him out. Hughes held the door for them. Neal's eyes started to sting, surprising him. Hughes handed him another handkerchief. Neal blinked at the older man, vision blurring with tears, "how many of those things do you have?"
"Enough. You keep that one."
Peter steered him to the car, and opened the passenger door for him. He sat down, leaned forward, and pressed his face in the hanky, as a sob threatened to rise up and escape his throat.
"You can say no. But I'd really like it if you slept at my house tonight. Just for my peace of mind," said Peter, rubbing his back.
Neal nodded into the handkerchief, without looking up.
"Both of you should take the day off tomorrow," said Hughes, "as much time as you need."
"Okay," said Peter.
"Take it easy, Caffrey. Call if you need anything."
Hughes patted his shoulder, and walked away. Neal started to cry in earnest, Peter knelt beside the car, holding him close, face pressed into the side of Neal's head, in his wet, sticky hair.
"I've got you," said Peter, over and over, "I've got you."
Peter brought him home, they were met at the door by Elizabeth, who immediately hugged him and pulled his face into her shoulder. Then she tugged him to the couch and sat him down with no room for argument. Peter sat next to him, put his hand on Neal's upper back, giving him a soft tug toward laying down.
Elizabeth went out if the room, doing something in the kitchen. Neal curled up with his head and upper body in Peter's lap. Elizabeth came back with a gently steaming pot of water and a washcloth. She knelt in front of the couch, and began gingerly cleaning the blood, coffee, and disinfectant off his face and out of his hair. She changed out the water every time it got rusty.
Neal cried, like he didn't remember ever crying as an adult. Peter just held him, telling him softly to let it out, that it was okay to cry. So he did. He cried out three decades of pain into Peter's leg, his body wracked with sobs, as Peter and Elizabeth took care of him.