Day Six! Similar to yesterday, anything medical is based on about twenty minutes of Googling and my experiences breaking my arm almost ten years ago. With that out of the way, today's chapter summary: Peter lecturing Neal while he's in the hospital with a broken wrist.

The day hadn't started well, hadn't gone well, and wasn't on the path to end well. It had started with an undercover mission, which seemed interesting enough. Until everything had gone wrong.

Okay, not everything had gone wrong. Most things had gone right. The operation had gone more-or-less perfectly. Neal's cover hadn't been questioned in the slightest, the securities fraudster was as courageous as could be expected (which wasn't very), and the chase was over almost before it had begun. However, quite a lot of things also went wrong in the process. It took too long to catch their target, everyone was exhausted mentally and physically, and, most importantly, Neal ended up injured.

It wasn't exactly surprising. Neal had a tendency for ending up injured on what should be simple enough operations. He'd gotten shot by a rare books dealer, kidnapped by an old acquaintance, nearly died because he managed to piss off at least three different people. Neal was good at getting injured during routine operations. This time, though...Neal had no one to blame except himself.

Neal was sitting in an emergency room, feeling an odd mixture of annoyed, tired, and energetic. His hands were scraped up from a bad fall, a little bit of blood was dripping from his hairline, and, most notably, the lower half of his left arm was wrapped in a solid dark blue cast. He'd sat through what had to be a dozen different doctor's examinations to conclude that, one, he did not have a concussion, just a nasty gash; two, his left wrist was broken from a bad fall; and three, that it did not need surgery, but he wasn't allowed to drive. Neal wasn't sure why on that last point; it wasn't like he'd had any good painkillers. Now, Neal was stuck in the emergency room with a cast until the doctors could scrounge up discharge paperwork.

And now he was facing the wrath of a displeased Peter Burke. Peter had been there when Neal managed to break his wrist, but he didn't know how bad the injury was. All Peter knew was Neal was running, fell, and was in a good amount of pain. But, given that the younger man didn't seem to be dying, Peter thought it was okay to lecture him.

Peter crossed his arms, staring down at Neal. "Caffrey."

Neal took a slow, deep breath before meeting Peter's eyes with a weak smile. "Peter." His voice was tied between trying to make light of the situation and already being tired of this lecture.

"Now's not a good time for joking, Neal," Peter said. He was serious about things, not a hint of humor in his voice. "Look at yourself."

Neal obeyed, looking down over his body. A little worse for wear, but nothing I haven't done before. Just a few bumps and bruises. He looked back up.

"It's nothing. Just a few scrapes."

Peter raised his eyebrows before scanning Neal's body himself. A broken bone, scrapes, a head wound. This wasn't something he was going to let Neal dismiss as 'a few scrapes.' This was a broken bone, a serious injury. When Neal managed to get himself shot, he usually had some form of protection, whether intentional or from Neal's mercifully quick thinking (or a miracle). This, Peter was pretty sure, was the most serious injury he'd incurred since starting with the FBI.

"A few scrapes," Peter repeated. He gestured pointlessly to Neal's left arm. "Your arm's in a cast."

Neal followed the gesture to his broken wrist. "Yeah, and?"

"Your arm," Peter repeated. "Is in a cast. That's not a little scrape. That's a serious injury."

Peter sounded...almost concerned? That didn't make sense. This seemed more like a 'cowboy up, Neal' injury rather than a 'spend time in the hospital' injury. It was fine, nothing to worry about. Neal would be fine. He'd be able to work, nothing to worry about. It wasn't like he broke his right arm.

Neal rolled his eyes. "I'm fine, Peter. It's not like I broke a leg. I'm still useful."

Peter stared at Neal, speechless. Does...does he... Neal seemed to think that all Peter cared about was his ability to work. That wasn't true. Peter legitimately cared about the younger man, like he'd care for a trouble-making teenage son. He looked terrible and Peter felt bad. Neal's ability to be 'useful' was the last thing on Peter's mind.

"Neal," he said, making sure that every word got through Neal's head and understood. "I'm not worried that you won't be able to work. I'm worried that you hurt yourself. That's not good."

Neal shrugged, wincing a little as he knocked his broken wrist. The only painkillers he'd had were Tylenol, and it wasn't as efficient as Neal would have liked.

"It was my own fault," Neal insisted. "I know how to fall." It was useful to learn when he was running away from police every week. "I didn't do that and broke my wrist. The doctors say I'll be fine in eight weeks. This is really nothing, Peter."

"No." Peter's voice was firm. "What you did..." He lost track of his intended lecture for a few moments. The thoughts managed to organize themselves into a proper lecture and Peter continued. "What you did was stupid. You didn't need to run after them; we had everything under control."

"I know, okay?" Neal's frustration was starting to shine through the veneer of exhaustion. "I wasn't thinking and I got in trouble for it." Neal dipped his eyes below Peter's face. He couldn't look in Peter's eyes right now. He instead focused on the linoleum floor tiles. "I'll be fine, though. I've done worse-had worse done to me-and come back from it."

Peter knew that, but that didn't make it better. Saying 'but I've gotten shot at' didn't minimize the fact that Neal's wrist was still broken. "That isn't reassuring, Neal."

Neal knew that, but it served to reassure him. Saying 'but worse things have happened and I lived' helped Neal feel like he could get through this without an issue. "I know. I know, but..." He shrugged again, missing his wrist this time. "I don't know, it feels like it makes it better, somehow?" Neal hesitated for a moment, seeing Peter's incredulous stare. "Not really better, but you know what I mean."

Peter nodded. "I do. Do you want to spend the night at my house?"

Neal opened his mouth to answer, then closed it and thought for a minute. Elizabeth was sure to smother him with care and affection and mothering. But, on the other hand, would that be so bad? To have someone to care if you're feeling alright? To have someone you know you can rely on nearby for an entire night? To have someone care about how you feel and help you if you ask for it or even if you can't make yourself ask? Neal hadn't had that growing up; his family (what he had left of it) was always busy with more important things, much more important than their young son. Maybe one night of mothering wouldn't be entirely intolerable. It actually sounded quite nice.

"Yeah, if you wouldn't mind," Neal managed to answer.

"I wouldn't," Peter said with a shake of his head. "I know El wouldn't."

"I know." Neal shifted slightly. He was uncomfortable, more mentally than physically, and wanted out of this hospital. "I just have to sign the paperwork and I'm out of here. Don't like hospitals." He muttered the last sentence, but Peter still heard it.

"Any reason?"

"Any reason what?"

"Any reason you don't like hospitals?"

Neal shook his head. "Yeah." Peter gave him an odd look. Neal quickly realized his mistake: the body language didn't match with the spoken language. "I don't want to talk about it."

"I'll leave you there then." And wasn't that a nice thing for Peter to do? Let Neal wallow in self-loathing and bask in secrets all by himself? Not that Peter wasn't going to interrogate him-he was-just later. After he recovered.

Neal flashed a quick smile at Peter before stretching his shoulders. He was starting to get stiff from sitting in one place. "Doesn't hurt," Neal said, just to get the conversation going again.

"That's good." Peter sat down. He was tired of standing and didn't want to see like he was interrogating Neal. His lecture ended when Neal admitted he made a mistake. "What else did the doctors say?"

Neal's eyes looked up to the ceiling, like the answers were somewhere in the sky. "It was something called a Colles fracture, I think," he explained, slowly remembering anything he was told in the past two hours. "Means I fell like this-" He demonstrated with his non-broken hand, pressing the heel of his hand into the bed with his forearm straight. Relaxing his arm, he continued. "When my body weight hit my hand, the end of one of the arm bones-I don't remember which-snapped off. It wasn't out of place, so I could be put straight into a cast. Already got the lecture on care instructions."

Peter nodded. That was a lot of information to take in and he got the Cliffnotes. It was almost impressive Neal got anything out of it at all. Peter had one question left. "Is that a common injury?"

Neal nodded eagerly. "Apparently. There's a term for it, but I don't remember what."

"Interesting."

The two lapsed into a comfortable silence. There wasn't much more to say and Neal wasn't in the mood for idle conversation anyway. After what felt like an eternity, a man in a white coat walked into the small cubicle.

"So, Mr. Caffrey, how are you feeling?"

"Ready to go home," Neal quipped. It wasn't entirely his normal quipping tone; there was a definite edge of stress buried under the joke. He needed to be around people he liked and that didn't make him feel like a malfunctioning cog in an overworked machine.

"I'm sure," the doctor replied with a smile. He didn't hear Neal's stress. Nevertheless, a clipboard with several sheets of paper on it was handed over to Neal. "Here. Just sign those and you're all set to go. You have someone to take you home?"

Neal gestured to Peter before signing the papers without bothering to read through them. It was nothing he hadn't heard before. Neal passed the clipboard back to the doctor.

"I'm free to leave?"

"As soon as you feel steady."

Upon hearing that, Neal immediately stood up. His head spun a little bit from the sudden drop in blood pressure before quickly recovering. He wasn't about to let something silly like low blood pressure stop him from leaving. And, he told himself, it's just because I've been sitting here for a few hours. He looked over his shoulder at Peter.

"Can we go?"

Peter nodded. "Let's go, kid."

The two started towards the exit together, Neal relaxing by the second as he got closer and closer to leaving such a painfully white and sterile institution.

"You know El's going to be all over you, right?" Peter asked.

Neal laughed. "Chicks dig casts."

"That's scars, Neal."

"Same idea, right?"

"You know, forget what I said. El's gonna kill you."

As always, I hope you enjoyed. If you particularly liked it, feel free to leave a review. To those participating: I'm sure you're doing great!