Special Agent Peter Burke slowly walked through the trees, taking care where he placed his feet so as not to break any branches, make any major sound. It was fall, the brown and silver bark around him set against orange, yellow, and red leaves. It would have been a gorgeous walk, if he hadn't been focused on the barn in front of him. He reached the back door, and peered through a gap in the weathered wood.
The lights were out, but he could still see piles of the stolen artwork. He tried the door, quietly, slowly. It didn't budge. He moved around, looking through more gaps. There was a figure inside, seated on a chair. They didn't move, or follow Burke. Finally Peter made it around to the other side, and tried that door. It also didn't budge. This one had a lock.
Carefully, he used the key they had found up at the house, alongside the mob crew. He opened the door, gun drawn. The person's back was to Peter, and now he could see that their hands were bound behind them, their head hanging down. Peter cleared the rest of the barn, and then approached from behind, and slowly moved around to the front.
It was a young man, dark hair in his face, fine nose bearing traces of blood around the nostrils, more than a few days of scruff grown in on his jawline. Peter reached in, touching the man's shoulder with the hand that didn't hold a gun. The man jerked away, as much as he could tied as he was. He almost knocked the chair over, Peter grabbed the back of it to keep him from falling sideways.
Peter righted the chair, and circled to the man's front again. He had raised his head now. He was pale, his eyes sunken, dark.
Peter hesitantly holstered his gun, "Caffrey?"
The young man gazed up at him, seemingly in a daze, and then finally croaked, "Burke?"
"Yeah. What happened? You get out of prison and join the mob?"
Neal shook his head, weakly, "no."
Peter hadn't really thought so. He walked around, and used a pocket knife to free Caffrey's arms. Caffrey immediately fell forward, Peter grabbed him by the shoulders, acutely aware that Neal could get his gun out of the holster at this angle. That wasn't Caffrey's style though, and he seemed to barely be able to move his arms, after however long they had been tied.
Peter gently leaned him back against the chair. Caffrey''s face was twisted in pain, as he tried to work feeling back into his limbs. Peter rubbed his upper arms, realizing how cold the skin was. Well, it was October in upstate New York, it wasn't like it was warm in the barn, or like Caffrey was wearing many layers. Just an undershirt and slacks.
Caffrey finally managed to bring his hands into his lap, slowly trying to open and close his fingers.
"Are there any of them anywhere but the house?" asked Peter.
"Um," said Caffrey, "sometimes in… in a shed by the water. Hunting."
His voice was tight with pain.
Peter notified the crew through the radio, and turned back to Caffrey.
Neal was managing to open and close his hands now, at least some. Fine shivers traveled through his body.
Peter took off his own coat, and wrapped it around the younger man. Carefully, he helped Neal to his feet. Neal leaned on him, resting his head on Peter's shoulder. His legs barely seemed to be holding him.
"Can you walk?"
"I think so," rasped Neal, barely audible.
Peter tried to walk with Caffrey towards the door, but Caffrey almost immediately collapsed. Peter got him back up, but Caffrey swayed dangerously, face paper white. Peter pulled Neal's arm over his shoulders. Caffrey cried out in pain, his arms still half immobile.
"Shh," hissed Peter, "I know. I know it hurts. But you gotta be quiet."
"Uh-huh," slurred Caffrey, stumbling along beside him.
Peter got him to the door, and looked around outside. There was nobody around. He took Neal around the barn the way he had come, and back towards his car on the long drive into the house and farm. Neal's legs gave out entirely as they reached the treeline, Peter tried to haul him up by his arm, but Neal gasped in pain, and nearly fainted. Peter let him down to the ground, and dragged him back several feet further into the woods by his chest, until they were at least hidden.
Finally satisfied, for at least the moment, Peter knelt beside him in the leaf litter. Neal twisted on the ground, his body fighting to escape the torture of his injuries, hair picking up bits of leaves and sticks. Peter lifted Caffrey's upper body into his lap. Caffrey keened in pain, but relaxed slightly after, Peter's lap softer on his hurts than the frozen ground. Peter picked some of the leaves out of his hair, and tried to comfort him as best he could.
After a while, Caffrey managed to sit up, though it was a near thing. The coat fell to the ground, he swayed in place, and his left arm hugged his ribs. Peter lifted Neal's shirt, and saw bruises in many colors underneath, all around his ribs and torso. Peter pulled the shirt back down, and picked up his coat. As gently as he could, he pulled Neal's arms into it. Neal still whimpered, quietly.
"I'm sorry," said Burke, "I know."
He zipped the front of the FBI windbreaker, and checked the pockets, making sure there was nothing Neal could use in them. Unless a handful of lint and receipts could be fashioned into lock picks or a weapon, he was safe.
"What happened?" asked Peter.
Neal gazed at him, still with that glassy look on his face. Peter reached over, and used both hands to check Neal's head. He definitely had a few goose-eggs, under greasy, tangled hair. Peter cupped Neal's face, "hey, you with me?"
Neal blinked, slowly, and nodded into Peter's hands, "mm-hmm."
"What happened?"
"Mmm," said Neal, "hired me to…authenticate…"
Peter sighed, and gently drew the younger man against his own chest.
"No sense of humor," murmured Neal into Peter's neck.
Peter had to chuckle. He rubbed Caffrey's back, trying to warm him up. He was an ice block against Peter's front.
"Burke?" Neal mumbled, his face smooshed into Peter's neck and shoulder.
"Yeah, Caffrey?"
Neal giggled, "just checking."
"Checking what?"
"If I'm dreaming."
"You're not dreaming. You're gonna be okay."
"Mmm," Neal said, apparently unconvinced.
"You're safe, Neal. It is me, you are safe."
"Why would you be here?"
"Because I was helping the mob unit."
"Oh," said Caffrey softly.
"You dream about me a lot?" asked Peter, trying to get him to laugh.
"Mmm-hmm," said Neal, "sometimes."
Peter didn't know what to do with that information, so he just patted Caffrey's back again. Well, it wasn't like he had never dreamed about Caffrey, though this definitely hadn't been the narrative.
Neal sobbed, suddenly. Peter gently pushed him away, looking at his face, holding him by his shoulders. Neal's head tipped forward, but Peter could see the tears, tracing clean lines through dust finely caked to days of sweat and dried blood.
Peter came to a decision. He put his right arm around Caffrey's back, his other arm under his knees. With a mighty effort, Peter managed to stand and lift Neal at the same time. Neal's head rested against Peter's shoulder, he whimpered quietly, but held back most of his pain.
It was not easy to carry Neal through the woods. Neal did manage to get his arms around Peter's shoulders and neck, but he could barely hold on. Peter finally got him to the car, and dropped to his knees beside it. He put Neal on the ground, and then unlocked the back door of the car. He got in, and reached down, dragging Neal up and in by his chest. That time Neal did cry out again. Peter got out the other door, and pushed Neal's legs into the car, then shut the door. He got in the driver's seat, and turned the car on, putting the heat on full blast.
He got out, and went back to the door by Neal's head, opening it. He got in, lifting Neal up into his lap, and closed the door. Neal's head and shoulders across his legs, Peter finished picking the leaves and bits of straw from the barn out of his hair.
Neal blinked up at him, bemused.
"Peter?" he asked, softly.
"Yeah, Neal. It's Peter Burke. You're okay, you're safe."
Neal closed his eyes. Peter sighed, and rubbed Neal's chest lightly, still trying to warm him, as the car around them warmed up.
Eventually one of the other agents came back to their car, and saw Peter sitting in the back of Peter's car with Caffrey. Agent Ramirez opened the driver's door and looked back in at him, "what…?"
"I found him in the barn. Neal Caffrey, he's a forger and art thief. I guess he pissed them off. He's hypothermic, and I think concussed. He's been beaten."
"Okay. I'll tell Special Agent Lynn."
She shut the door, and Peter looked back down at Neal.
Neal had opened his eyes, at the sound of another voice.
"Who was that?"
"Agent Ramirez. She's fine."
Neal closed his eyes again. He was starting to shiver more, which clearly hurt him. It was a good sign, though. Peter inspected his head injuries more closely. There was dried blood in his hair, around his nose, and in his left ear canal. Peter counted at least four major goose-eggs, and plenty of fading swellings. Under unshaven scruff, his jaw was also majorly bruised.
Neal opened his mouth, unsticking his tongue from the roof of it, as Peter touched the swelling at his jawline.
"You thirsty?"
Neal opened his eyelids to slits, his eyes slowly tracking over to Peter's face. He nodded, just the tiniest bit.
Peter hauled Neal up a little, so he wouldn't choke, and pulled a water bottle from under the seat. He cracked it open, and put Neal's hand on it, so Neal could control how much was poured into his mouth. Neal tried to chug it, Peter pulled it away, "woah. Slow down, you'll make yourself sick."
Neal whined, pitifully. Peter put the bottle back to his lips, pouring in a little bit at a time. Neal drank greedily, desperately. He finished most of the bottle, before closing his eyes again, and letting his head rest back against Peter's chest.
Peter pulled a bandana out of his pocket, wet it with the last dribble, and used it to wipe Neal's face. Under the sweat, blood, and dirt, was more bruising, on his left cheekbone, and around his right eye socket. Neal turned his head into the cloth, whimpering.
He opened his eyes again, "Peter?"
"Yeah, it's me. You're okay, you're safe."
Neal nodded, and closed his eyes, sighing slightly, then wincing as it hurt his ribs.
The shivering was fading again, as he slowly warmed up. After maybe twenty minutes Peter woke him again, and offered him more water. Neal drank it all as fast as Peter would let him. After finishing it, he gazed up at Peter, fuzzy but a little bit more with it, as he was less hypothermic.
"Thanks," he whispered.
Peter nodded, and patted Caffrey's cheek where it wasn't bruised.
The front door opened again and Special Agent Lynn peered into the back at them.
"Wow, Ramirez wasn't kidding, he took a beating. She said you know him."
Peter nodded, "chased him for years. He just got out of prison after a four year sentence."
"He with the mob?"
"No. He said he got hired to authenticate the art, I believe him."
"He violent?"
Peter shook his head, "not in the least."
"Okay, take him to the hospital, I'll follow up with you there."
Peter nodded, and started to get out of the car. Neal opened his eyes, and grabbed Peter's shirt, clumsily.
"No," he gasped.
"It's okay, I'm just going to get in the driver's seat to take you to the hospital."
Neal shook his head vigorously, which apparently gave him a wave of nausea. He swallowed multiple times and managed to avoid bringing anything up. Finally he managed to whisper, "Peter…"
Lynn watched him with a level gaze, then asked of Peter, "do you want to stay with him?"
Peter looked up, and nodded, "he's really out of it, I'm worried."
The other Special Agent stood up out of the car and yelled, "Agent Cho, drive Burke and this kid to the hospital."
A junior agent got in, and looked back at them. He took in Peter, and the somewhat distraught, injured young man, and seemed to understand the assignment. He put Peter's car in reverse and carefully pulled it out of the driveway.
Neal held on to Peter, confused and scared and in pain.
"Peter?"
"Yeah, I'm right here. You're safe, we're going to the hospital."
Neal relaxed a little bit.
They pulled off the long driveway, onto a washboard gravel road. The shaking hurt Neal, he whimpered, gasped, twisted. Peter gathered Caffrey's upper body in his arms, holding him as steady and cushioned as he could.
Neal cried into Peter's shirt.
Neal opened his eyes. It was bright, painfully bright. Light shone down directly into his face. He moaned, and turned his head away from it. His head pounded, his body hurt. He swallowed hard, as a wave of nausea hit him. Arms lifted him up, prompting pain to shoot through every inch of him. His body rested against a solid shoulder, and something cold, hard, and curved was pressed under his chin. He spit into it a few times, and he let his head lay on the shoulder as well, panting.
"Easy, easy. You're okay."
He knew that voice, and it was warm and familiar. Now that he heard it, he knew he had been hearing it for hours. He finally managed to squint his eyes open a little bit. He was in a hospital room, wearing a gown and nothing else. That was fine, his clothes had been filthy.
The barn. His clothes had been filthy because he had been wearing them for almost two weeks. His body hurt because they had been hitting him that long.
The arms around him very gently laid him back down, and large, kind hands cupped his cheek, and wiped his face with a cool, damp washcloth. He tried to look up at the person, but that damn light was so bright.
"Do you want the light off?"
He tried to answer, but his voice was hoarse, his throat dry. He formed his hand into a thumbs up instead. The other person got off the bed, and turned the light off, then returned.
"Do you want some ice chips?"
He gave another thumbs up. The person sat back down next to him, and again gently lifted him up, and a spoon appeared at his lips. He let them part, and blissfully wet bits of ice slid into his mouth. He tried to crunch on them, but his jaw hurt too much. He let them melt, and swallowed the water. Another spoonful appeared at his lips, and he took that too.
He finally managed to open his eyes enough in the dimmer room, and look at the person next to him. He recognized that suit.
"Peter?" he rasped.
"Yeah," said Peter's voice, "it's me. You're okay. You're safe."
He said it like he'd said it a thousand times, but it was still kind. Flashes of memory came flooding back. Peter had said it, probably at least dozens of times. He had been there at the barn, he had dragged Neal out, he had held Neal in the back of a car.
"You…found me…the barn."
Peter paused, "yeah, I did."
"You carried me."
"You remember?"
Peter gently laid him back down, and Neal could now look up at the Agent's face. Peter looked exhausted, but there was nothing but concern, and maybe a little hope, in his expression.
Neal gazed up at the older man, trying to piece things together, finally asking, "how long have I been here?"
"Eight, ten hours. Something like that."
And Peter had been there the whole time.
"What…" it was difficult to string together what he wanted to ask. Why did you take care of me? But he knew the answer. He'd begged Peter to stay with him, and Peter was a nice person. What happens now? Probably some more time in the hospital and then prison. What's wrong with me? He'd been beaten within an inch of his life for two weeks.
"You've been in and out, you have a pretty bad concussion. You have a bunch of hairline fractures, your jaw, ribs…but you're going to be okay."
Am I going to be okay? That had been it, that was the right question to ask.
"Thanks," he said, softly.
Peter gently wiped his face again, this time Neal realized he was wiping away tears.
"How did you find me?" he asked, voice tight.
"I didn't, really. I helped the mob unit on a bust. We had no idea you were there. I was clearing the perimeter."
Neal couldn't imagine how things would have gone if he'd been found by a random FBI agent. He had obviously been delirious this entire time.
His eyes snapped open and he looked at Peter, fear in his eyes. Peter blinked down at him, taken aback.
"What have I said?"
Peter's face softened, "oh. Some things. It doesn't matter."
"It doesn't matter? To an FBI agent?"
Peter sighed, and very gently laid his hand on Neal's chest, "honestly, you weren't making much sense. I may have been able to piece some things together, but…"
"But what?" demanded Neal, frustrated and angry with himself.
"Calm down," said Peter, "really, your body can't take it if you get upset again."
Neal blinked at him, "again?"
Peter shrugged, "this is the third time we've had this conversation. The last time you got so upset they had to give you sedatives to get your heartrate down. So I'm asking you, please, just try and stay calm."
Neal stared at him for a long moment. But Peter looked nearly as bad as Neal felt. It had been near sunset when Peter had found him. So Peter had been up all night next to him, as he struggled his way back to consciousness and memory, and apparently had said lots of things along the way.
Neal tried to take a deep breath, but his ribs hurt, and he hissed, sharply. Peter gently picked up Neal's left hand, and put a stiff pillow between it and his side.
"Listen to me, Neal," he said, and softly carded Neal's hair back off Neal's face, "you're okay. I'm not going to do anything to you, I'm not going to hold anything you said against you. I just want you to rest, and get better."
Neal looked at him, skeptically.
Peter sighed, "I'm not going to try and use evidence obtained while you thought I was your girlfriend or some guy named Mozzie. I doubt it would even be admissible."
Neal winced. He really had been talking, if Peter knew about Mozzie.
Peter laid his hand lightly on Neal's chest, "just rest, okay."
Neal decided to listen to him. Trying to think made his head hurt.
"Do…" he croaked, and tried again, "do you have any more ice?"
Peter nodded, and got the cup. He sat there and spooned it into Neal's mouth, a bit at a time, until Neal's eyes started to close of their own accord.
"Okay, buddy. Get some sleep. We'll do this again next time you wake up."
The next time Neal woke, though, he remembered. Peter had fallen asleep, seated in a chair next to the bed, his upper body and head resting on the rail. It did not look remotely comfortable.
Neal looked down at himself. He wasn't cuffed, but that would hardly have been his biggest impediment to escape. Still, he appreciated it.
He lifted his hand, which hurt quite a bit, and touched Peter's arm. Peter jerked awake, and then moaned, both hands going to the back of his neck.
He looked at Neal, "hey. How are you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a truck."
"You're not far off, you-"
"I know."
Peter blinked at him. Neal gave him a half smile, "I remember."
Relief broke across Peter's face. He stood up, and very gingerly gripped Neal's hand, "how much do you remember?"
"The barn, you finding me, some of being here. I think the last time I woke up."
Peter nodded, encouragingly, "great. That's great."
"Peter?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. I know you've been here for hours, and I know I was pretty messed up. I know you were taking care of me."
"Well, the nurses-"
"You literally spoon fed me, Peter."
Peter's shoulders relaxed a little, "well, yeah."
"Thank you," said Neal, meaning it wholeheartedly. "I would have been pretty scared and confused without you."
Peter sighed, and patted Neal awkwardly on the arm. Neal almost laughed, at Peter trying to back off now that Neal was more lucid, when he had been at least at some points holding Neal in his arms, telling him again and again and again that Neal was safe, that Burke was there.
"I'm just glad you're feeling better."
"The head part, yeah. The body part not so much."
"Yeah, I imagine. Do you want me to call a nurse?"
"No," said Neal, "It's okay. My brain is fuzzy enough as it is."
"You don't have to be a hero about it. Your brain also needs all the sleep you can get."
Neal gave him a one sided smile, mostly because it hurt too much to smile on the other side.
Peter very gently put his hand on Neal's chest, "listen, nothing bad will happen if you rest. I will be here when you wake up."
Neal gazed up at him, for a long moment, as the fake smile faded.
"Okay," he said quietly, "it really hurts."
"I know," said Peter gently, "I'm sorry."
He left the bedside, and minutes later came back with a nurse.
"HI, Mr. Caffrey. You're in pain?"
"Yeah," said Neal.
"Anywhere in particular?"
"Ribs, shoulder…wrist, I guess."
She checked his shoulder and wrist, and looked at his x-rays.
"Pain level? 1-10?"
"Seven," said Neal, after considering for a moment.
"Okay, I'm going to get you some meds to help."
"Thank you," said Neal, voice starting to get a little hoarse.
Peter got the ice chips. Neal pushed on the up button on the bed, but pain shot through his wrist, and he withdrew his hand abruptly, cradling it with his left.
"Easy," said Peter, pushing the button himself, gently lifting Neal's head and adjusting the pillow behind it. He sat on the edge of the bed, and offered the ice. Neal shook his head a tiny bit, pain making him sick.
The nurse came back and gave him some medication. She also put a brace on his wrist. Neal grabbed on to Peter as she did that, sparks dancing in his vision from the pain.
He must have passed out, because the next thing he knew he was lying flatter on the bed, and things didn't hurt as bad. Peter was still there, as he had promised he would be. Someone had brought in a recliner for Peter. He was completely crashed out in it, dark shadows under his eyes.
Neal studied the agent. He still had mud on his shoes and pants, and rusty dried blood on his shirt from rescuing Neal. It would probably come out, given how much polyester the older man had in his wardrobe.
Peter's phone rang, Neal shut his eyes and pretended to still be asleep. Peter groaned, grunted, cleared this throat, and answered, "hi, honey."
"I'm gonna be here for a while. He's doing better but still in and out. No, I'm not worried about that. He's pretty much out of commission physically. And god, El, he's been so scared. He's concussed but I also don't think anyone has ever taken care of him."
Neal winced. While it was accurate, Burke shouldn't know that. Neal should have had himself under control.
"At least a few more days. They said he could be moved by ambulance as soon as tonight, but they didn't seem to think it was a good idea, and he's in so much pain…no, it's a small hospital but they know what they're doing and they've got more time than the doctors at the city hospitals. I don't think they could do more for him there."
Neal laid still, listening to Burke talk, presumably to Burke's wife. Burke just continued to vent about Neal's condition, and his worry for Neal. He also called Neal brilliant several times, and gushed about Neal's forgeries, the ones he had just found out Neal had done while Neal was semi-conscious. It was a very strange thing, to have your enemy speak more lovingly about you than your friends and lovers ever had.
Neal eventually fell back asleep, still listening to Special Agent Peter Burke talk.
When he woke again, Peter wasn't there. Neal was ashamed at how his chest tightened, alone in the hospital room. He looked around. Peter's stuff was still there, his jacket on the recliner, the notepad he had begged from the hospital staff. He had probably just gone to the bathroom or something. Calm down. Just calm down.
It was hard to stay calm. His brain didn't seem to respond exactly to his demands, and as he got upset, so did all his injuries, hurting more and more.
A machine started beeping near Neal, he tried to look up at it, but it hurt too much. It was probably fine. He just needed to calm down. His head throbbed with every beep.
The curtain was yanked back, and both a nurse and Peter appeared. Peter bare chested, wearing pastel purple scrub pants. He threw his unbuttoned, dirty shirt back on as he ran in.
"Mr. Caffrey, I'm going to give you something for anxiety, we need to bring that heart rate down."
Peter came to Neal's side, opposite the nurse. He leaned over, gently taking Neal's hand, "it's okay. You're okay. I'm sorry."
Neal tried very hard not to cry. He should not be having a panic attack because an FBI agent left the room.
"I just stepped out to change clothes, I'm sorry."
Neal nodded slightly, which made his whole view spin. He swallowed thickly, Peter quickly helped him sit, held a basin to his chin, rubbed his back. Neal threw up a little bit of water, which made his ribs feel like broken glass inside him as he heaved. He whimpered, helplessly, as his stomach continued to rebel.
Something cold went in through his IV, which quickly changed to a warm feeling throughout his body. He was finally able to stop hyperventilating, which he hadn't even realized he was doing. He was held in Burke's arms, Burke stroking his hair, as the nausea and panic slowly faded. Finally, the beeping stopped.
Neal was left lying there with tears on his face, his cheek resting on Burke's shoulder, skin to skin, as Burke's shirt was still hanging open. Burke just kept holding him, telling him he was okay, saying sorry for being out of the room when Neal woke.
"I'm okay," mumbled Neal, finally.
Peter gently let him lay back against the bed, then got a damp towel and wiped the sweat and tears off Neal's face.
Neal gazed up at him, embarrassed but unable to regulate how upset he was, and how much better Peter's presence made it. Peter looked like shit. He smelled like shit. He had just tried to change his clothes and Neal had had a medical emergency because of it.
"I'm sorry. My brain wouldn't listen to me when I tried to calm down. I'm sorry."
"Neal, you were held captive for two weeks and you have a serious concussion. You don't have to be sorry for being a little upset."
Peter sat on the edge of the bed, and continued to gently wipe Neal's face, as Neal began to cry again. The enormity of what he had been through was starting to sink in, and Peter giving him permission to be upset didn't help him suck it up.
"I didn't…I didn't think I'd get out of there alive."
Peter nodded, and wiped Neal's chest as well.
"They were gonna kill me…dump my body in the river…I heard them talking about it…"
Peter stroked his hair.
Neal sobbed, quietly, and his ribs protested so painfully he almost passed out.
"They can't hurt you now," said Peter, and gently drew Neal back into his arms. Neal turned his face into Peter's chest, and let his head lay there, listening to Peter's breathing, his heartbeat. Smelling BO, but Peter's BO, so it still made him feel better.
"Nobody is going to mess with you ever again," said Peter, and this time his soft tone had a base of steel.
Two days later, Neal was finally well enough to travel back to the city. He was loaded up with painkillers, loaded into the back of a transport ambulance. Peter got in with him, wearing purple scrubs, his clothes and stuff in a plastic bag.
Neal flopped his head to look at Peter, grinning hugely, "you should wear purple more."
Peter chuckled, "I'll take that under advisement."
Neal giggled, then gasped in pain. Peter put a steadying hand on his chest, "take it easy. We've got a few hours on the road ahead of us."
"And then you get to put me away again," said Neal, simply.
Peter blinked at him, then shook his head, "no, you're just going to a different hospital. One close enough my wife can bring me my own clothes."
"But as soon as I'm better, right?" asked Neal.
Peter took a long, hard look at the younger man. The bruises on his face were lighter than they had been, but the circles under his eyes were dark, his skin was pale. He was sitting up a little bit, propped up by the gurney and a couple pillows, but he couldn't have done so unaided. Every turn and sway of the ambulance made pain flash across his face despite the meds.
"I don't know," said Peter, quietly.
Neal blinked at him, and answered with the honesty that heavy duty painkillers tended to elicit, "but I'm trouble, you want me in prison."
Peter chuckled, and put his hand on Neal's shoulder, "yes, you are trouble. But no. I put you in prison. You did your time. Putting you back for getting hired as an authenticator by the wrong people…I'd rather not."
Neal lifted his hand, wincing, and patted Peter's arm, "you're nice."
Peter looked down at the hand, which Neal let lay on Peter's arm. His wrist was swollen, bruised, the skin raw from the rope that had held him.
"Neal, listen to me. It's going to be okay. We'll get back to the city, you'll get better. Do you want me to call Kate, she can meet us at the hospital?"
To his surprise, Neal's face crumpled, and he turned his head away. Tears started in his eyes
"Sorry. Did something happen?"
"She wanted something she thought I took. I didn't have it. She left."
Peter stood up a little, hunched in the ambulance, and gently hugged the younger man at the shoulders. Neal sobbed, quietly, and grasped the loose hem of Peter's borrowed scrub shirt. Peter held him, as Neal broke down.
"I'm sorry, buddy," said Peter, softly.
Peter recalled the hours before Neal had been fully conscious, calling him Kate, promising to get her "the box." Peter had foolishly thought it had possibly been a ring box.
"You're angry," whispered Neal.
Peter gently let go of the younger man, combed Neal's hair out of his face, wiped the tears off his cheeks, "not at you."
Neal blinked at him, exhausted, drugged to the gills.
"It's not her fault."
"Okay," said Peter, not about to argue with him in that state.
Neal, though, was smarter than that.
"You don't believe me."
Peter sighed. He sat back down, and very carefully laid his hand with his fingers over Neal's, "I've known you for seven years, Caffrey. By a dozen names, in fifty places. I caught you because the one consistent thing was your love for her."
Neal looked impressed, "that was almost poetry."
The ambulance hit a bump, Neal gasped, and then pulled his hand away from Peter's to hug his ribs. Peter put his hand on Neal's good shoulder instead, steadying him as he tried to breathe evenly.
"Peter," said Neal, when he finally caught his breath, "my back is killing me. Can I lay down?"
Peter nodded, "can you sit up a little? I'll help."
Peter put his arm around Neal's shoulders, lifting him up. He used his other arm to put the head of the gurney down, and then gently let Neal lay down. He adjusted the pillow, as Neal tried not to show the pain that was making him absolutely paper white.
Peter put his hand on Neal's forehead, "try and rest."
Neal closed his eyes. Peter lifted his hand. Neal opened his eyes and looked at Peter, opened his mouth, and then shut it. Peter slid his hand under Neal's where it lay on top of the blanket, and then put his other hand on top, "I'll be right here."
Neal let his eyelids slowly drift down. Peter stayed there, holding his hand, watching him fall asleep. He was thinner than when Peter had put him away. Prison, two weeks in a barn, and days on ice chips, jello, and IV fluids did that to a person.
Neal slept for another hour or so, until they hit traffic, and the stopping and starting woke him.
"Mmm," he said as a soft complaint, then as he came to a little more, "guess we're home."
Peter chuckled.
They stopped, started, stopped, went over a bump, pothole, bump.
Neal's body was growing tenser and tenser, he took smaller and smaller, quicker breaths. His eyes started to lose their focus on Peter.
Peter frowned, "Neal, hey, are you with me?"
Neal opened his eyes more, looked back at Peter, "how long unt…until the hospital?"
"About fifteen minutes," said the driver.
Neal whimpered. Peter stroked his hair, which seemed to comfort him some, "I'm sorry, buddy. Hang in there."
When they finally arrived, Neal was barely holding it together. He was checked in, and then Peter and the driver stood in a hallway waiting next to the gurney. Peter stood at Neal's head, as there was no room to stand beside him. He held one hand to the side of Neal's face opposite the cracked jawbone. Pain and the chaos around them seemed about to overwhelm him. Someone was brought down the hall drunk and yelling, Neal flinched away from the noise.
"I'm here, I've got you," said Peter, starting to comb his fingers through Neal's hair, washed twice at the previous hospital, but nowhere near Neal's usual standards. Neal just made a quiet whine in the back of his throat, eyes shut tight against the fluorescent lights. Peter moved his hand from Neal's cheek to cover his eyes. Neal relaxed very slightly, and murmured, almost inaudible in the busy hall, "thank you."
Peter patted Neal's arm gently.
Eventually Neal was taken to a room, they slid him from the gurney onto a bed, hooked him back up, and told them a nurse would be in shortly to check on them before the doctor talked to them. Neal whispered his assent and understanding. After everyone left Peter turned the lights off, and sat on the edge of the bed. Neal looked up at him, shaking in pain from being moved onto the bed.
"I'm sorry," said Peter, softly, "just try and breathe."
A young man breezed in, and turned the lights back on, "hello, I'm Kyle, I'm going to be your nurse today."
Neal gave a weak thumbs up, looking like he might be sick from the lights suddenly back in his face. Eventually he was given more meds, and he fell deeply asleep. Peter took that as a moment to call Elizabeth. He dialed, and waited for her to pick up, gently pulling the blankets further over Neal as he did.
"Hi, honey," she said, "did you make it alright?"
"Hi, hon. We made it, but he was pretty uncomfortable. They just gave him more pain meds, the doctor will talk to him later about where to go from here."
"Is he gonna be okay?"
"I hope so. He's been through the ringer. But he's tough."
That night Neal was able to talk to the doctor. He got the all clear to eat soft real foods, after x-rays showed his jaw was healing. His ribs were as well, but when the doctor saw how bruised his wrist still was they also took an x-ray of that and confirmed two small fractures that hadn't been seen the first time.
Neal passed the neurological exam, much to Peter's relief, though he admitted to still having a headache, and lights were still hurting him. The doctor turned the lights off, and let him know when she would be back to check in. Neal thanked her, and she headed out.
Peter patted Neal's hand, "mostly good news."
Neal smiled at him, "the only news I care about is that I don't have to eat any more jello."
Peter grinned, "Elizabeth is bringing me clothes in about an hour. I can have her pick up some takeout, so your first meal isn't hospital food."
Neal's face lit up.
Neal woke to Peter's phone ringing. Peter answered it, and then looked at Neal, "she's here. Are you okay if I step out for a moment? I'll just be in the bathroom changing."
Neal nodded, "I'll be fine."
Peter stepped out, Neal heard him speaking outside the curtain. He knew what Peter's wife looked like, but he hadn't heard her voice before. She sounded nice, smart, funny. Peter was a lucky guy. But he deserved it. The last few days alone had proven that, willing to stay by the side of someone he had put in prison and had no reason to particularly care about.
The curtain opened, and Peter stuck his head inside, still in scrubs, holding a stack of clothes, "Neal, Elizabeth is going to come bring the food in, is that okay?"
Neal blinked at him. He had expected her to drop the food and clothes and head home, but he supposed she might be as curious to meet him as he was to see her. He made sure his hospital gown was pulled over everything important, and nodded.
"Sure, thank you."
Peter nodded to Elizabeth outside the curtain, and she followed him inside. She had two bags of takeout. The nausea that had plagued Neal without end suddenly evaporated at the smells wafting out of it. Peter left with the stack of clothes. Elizabeth was pretty, her long hair tied back at the moment, as she made quick work of unloading containers of food onto the bed table.
"I wasn't sure what you liked, so I got Salvadoran and Chinese."
Neal was actually salivating so much he had to swallow before he spoke, "thank you."
Elizabeth grinned at him. He lifted his hand, and pushed the up button on the head of the bed, but once again his wrist just wouldn't stand for it. He hissed, and went to reach over with his other hand, but Elizabeth was already there, pressing it for him. Once he was sitting up she handed him plastic silverware, and chopsticks.
Neal determined that chopsticks were beyond him, saw the soup was labeled sopa de pollo, and went for that. Elizabeth took her own food, sat down on Peter's chair, and started eating, watching him.
Neal was starting to wonder if Peter had asked her to watch him while Peter changed, either for trouble, or in case he freaked out again. Neal let it slide. Peter had plenty of reason to be worried. He brought the first spoonful of soup to his mouth, and moaned involuntarily at the taste of real, spiced, warm, food.
Elizabeth grinned broadly, "I take it that's a good review."
"It's absolutely excellent. Thank you again for bringing it."
The curtain rustled, and Peter came back in, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, hair and face wet, stubble shaved, looking more human than he had in days. He saw Neal eating, and grinned, "good, you've got an appetite."
Neal nodded, carefully working on a large chunk of soft, delicious shredded chicken.
Peter took his food out of the bag, and perched on the arm of the chair next to Elizabeth, shoveling lo mein into his face like he hadn't eaten in days. Actually, realized Neal, since the farthest he had gotten from Neal's room since Neal had panicked was the vending machine across the hall, this was the first real food Peter had had in days, too.
Neal only managed about a cup of the soup, his stomach wasn't ready for that much food that fast. He leaned back against the bed, exhausted, but feeling infinitely better.
"Thank you," he said to Elizabeth, again.
"You're welcome. Besides, it was about time I met the man my husband has told me about for years."
Neal grinned at her, sleepily, "likewise."
She put her food down, stood up, and rolled the bed tray away, then pulled his blankets up, and gestured to the down button. He nodded. She put the head of the bed most of the way back down.
"You need sleep, try and rest. I'm going to borrow Peter in the hall for a minute. But we'll be right back in."
Peter put his food down as well, looking confused but following his wife's directions, though he stuffed a shrimp in his mouth as he did. Neal grinned as he watched Peter follow her outside the curtain. She was more than a match for the agent, and they clearly adored each other.
Neal tried to listen, and realized he really couldn't hear much from his left ear. That was distressing. But he could still make out some of the conversation with his right.
Peter and Elizabeth came back in, "my wife has informed me that I am not allowed to send you to a prison infirmary, not that I was feeling great about that idea. You helped us by telling us about the fishing shed. How would you feel about becoming a consultant?"
Neal blinked at him, "that's…not a bad idea. I'm impressed."
Peter chuckled, "it didn't come from me."