Chapter Five

Peter woke with a start, confused, the brightness of the room temporarily blinding him.

"Neal!" A hand on his chest prevented him from rising.

"It's okay, Peter." Elizabeth's voice came through the glare before her face came into focus above him. "Neal's fine, I promise." It was her hand on his chest. "Relax."

This was a hospital, not the abandoned house Reich had taken them to, and Elizabeth was here.

"El." He'd thought he'd never see her again. He felt his eyes sting with tears.

"Hey, hon." She took his hand in hers, her smile warming his heart. "You had me so worried."

"Had myself worried," he admitted hoarsely. "What happened?" His throat was dry. "How did I get here?"

"You were shot, Peter," she told him, her smile of greeting fading, "by a man who-"

"Reich," Peter supplied, "the brother of the man I shot in East Harlem last year." That wasn't the part he was confused about. "But how did I get here?"

"You were brought in yesterday afternoon," she replied, again leaving him without an answer. "It was touch and go for hours, Peter, they weren't sure-" Her voice broke, the distress on her face giving him no doubt how terrifying the last few hours had been for her.

"I'm sorry, El." He didn't know what else to say.

She rallied at his contrition. "You have nothing to be sorry for," she stated firmly. "You're going to be okay." she announced. "They were able to repair the damage to your liver but," her fortitude slipped as her eyes filled with tears, "they did have to remove your spleen."

He hated to see her upset, to know how traumatized she'd been by what had happened, but given the fact he hadn't expected to be alive at all, a lost spleen didn't seem a big deal. Anyway, did anyone know what a spleen actually did? He didn't.

"It's okay, El." It was his turn to offer reassurance. "I'm just glad to be here at all. With a spleen or without one. How about Neal?" She'd said he was fine but he'd feel better once he'd seen that for himself. "Where is he?"

There was the sound of wheels rolling across the hard floor and Neal appeared at his side. His wounded arm was immobilized and he held to his IV pole with his free hand.

"I'm here." He was pale and breathless, had dark circles under his eyes and messy hair but given Peter's last cognitive memory of him, he looked pretty good.

"Neal," Elizabeth scolded. "Remember what Dr. Harrison told you?" There was a hint of impatience in her tone. "You're supposed to stay in bed until-."

"I'm fine, Elizabeth," Neal cut in, still hanging tightly to the pole although he'd reached his destination. "You said so yourself." The look he gave her indicated he'd been eavesdropping on their exchange. "How you feeling, Peter?"

"You're here," Peter observed, glad he'd been able to blink back the tears that had threatened to fall a moment before. "I mean, here," he clarified. "In my room."

"It's my room too," Neal's grin wasn't as bright as usual but it was genuine. "My bed's right over there."

Peter followed his nod. It was true. The room was not designed for two beds and yet, there it was. Confused, he looked at El.

"You were both being difficult," she told him. "You kept asking about each other but wouldn't believe what you were told. Kept demanding to see for yourselves."

"I don't remember that," Peter mumbled, feeling his face flush. He didn't remember but it sounded like him. Trust but verify.

"Neither do I," Neal chimed in.

"Really?" Elizabeth challenged, turning a level look on Neal. "You don't remember falling in recovery last night and bleeding all over the floor?"

It was Neal's turn to blush; a bit color crept into his pale face. "Well, yeah," he admitted sheepishly. "I remember that."

"He'd just gotten out of surgery," Elizabeth explained, keeping a disapproving eye on Neal. "Reopened his incisions and had to be taken back in a stitched up again. Once the two of you were stabilized, the hospital staff decided to put you in the same room. You were easier to manage that way." She released his hand. "I'm gonna let them know you're awake. Neal," she added sternly, "you better sit down. Dr. Harrison is going to tie you to the bed if you fall again." She bent and gave Peter a quick kiss on the cheek. Her expression softened. "I'll be right back, hon."

"You better do what she says," Peter advised Neal as she left. "You look about ready to drop."

"You're one to talk," Neal mumbled, still clinging to the IV pole for support. "You look pretty bad yourself."

"Yeah, but I'm in a bed," Peter pointed out. "I can only fall so far."

"I guess that's true," Neal conceded, "but getting up and down hurts."

"Then maybe you should just stay down," Peter offered. He guessed that had been the medical advice as well. Advice Neal had chosen to ignore. "Where were you going, anyway?" He shifted, trying to situate himself better in the bed. "When you fell?"

"To find you," Neal admitted quietly. "I guess I wasn't thinking too clearly." He paused. "I thought they were lying to me."

"About what?" Peter found the Up arrow on the bed and pushed it, raising himself several inches.

"You being alive."

He looked at Neal in surprise. "You thought I was dead?"

Peter remembered the fear he'd felt when he'd seen Neal stagger forward, dropping to his knees. He now realized Neal had experienced that same terror.

"I just needed to see you, that's all, to make sure they were telling me the truth. Like I said," he added, averting his eyes as a touch of color tinted his cheeks. "I wasn't thinking clearly."

Neal was embarrassed by the incident but there was no reason to be. Peter had felt the same way moments before. Elizabeth told him Neal was fine but he wouldn't have been able to relax until he'd seen so himself.

Trust but verify.

"Considering everything you'd been through," Peter offered, "I think its understandable."

"Yeah, I guess so," Neal replied half-heartedly. "How much do you remember?" He asked, meeting Peter's eyes hesitantly. "About what happened?"

He seemed to be testing the waters, fishing for something, but Peter didn't know why or for what.

"Everything up until I fought with Reich," Peter told him. "After that, just bits and pieces."

Peter paused, trying to remember the sequence of those bits and pieces. He'd plowed into Reich; the gun had discharged causing Reich to stiffen in his grasp. The man had tumbled forward, pinning Peter beneath him. He'd gotten free, saw that Reich was dead and hurried across the floor to check on Neal. It wasn't until he tried to get to his feet that he realized the blood covering him wasn't all Reich's. He remembered the shock of realizing he'd been shot, that he wasn't going to be able to go for help, and sinking to the floor.

There were other snippets of memory, disconnected and uncertain. Some seemed likely, other's less so. He wasn't sure what had happened and what his mind, starved for oxygen by blood loss, had imagined. But one memory was clear to him; Neal's pale and fearful face above him, refusing to leave him to go for help.

"You'll die if I leave you," he'd said.

Peter had told him they'd both die if he didn't but Neal had still refused to go. Peter remembered his despair but also how moved he'd been by Neal's actions. He wasn't sure how, but at some point, he'd been resting with his back against Neal's chest. He remembered Neal's faint voice near his ear, his arm around his chest bringing warmth. He also remembered the comfort he'd felt having Neal there. He'd thought those were their last moments, the end of their journey and it would have been had Neal not changed his mind about leaving him.

Was that what Neal was wondering about? If he remembered that promise?

"You went for help."

"No, I didn't," Neal denied with a shake of the head. "I called for help."

Peter frowned. He remembered searching Reich's body for a phone. There had been none. "How?"

"I cut my anklet."

Again, it wasn't the answer he'd expected but it was brilliant. That was undoubtedly the fastest, most efficient way to alert the authorities and had likely brought help to the scene faster than any 911 call.

"That was smart," Peter remarked, wishing he'd thought of it himself. Neal Caffrey cutting his anklet would trigger an immediate, hard response from everyone from the local LEO's to the Federal Authorities. "How long did it take for the cavalry to arrive?"

The cavalry probably consisted of the NYPD, Federal Marshals, several units of State Police and the FBI.

"I don't know," Neal answered. "I was out by then but according to Mozzie's calculations, seven minutes; eight at most."

"Mozzie's calculations?"

"He has my radius broken down by response time," Neal explained. "You know," his weak eyes twinkled "Just in case."

Before Peter could pursue that topic any further, Elizabeth returned. She was accompanied by a white-coat-clad, middle-aged man who introduced himself as Dr. Harrison.

"Up again, I see Mr. Caffrey."

When addressed by the doctor's tone of disapproval, Neal's mischievous expression evaporated. "Just for a minute," he insisted. "I'm on my way back to bed right now."

The speed in which Neal could look completely innocent of any wrongdoing was not lost on Peter; he'd seen it many times. It worked with most people, too, especially the ladies. It just didn't work with him.

True to his word, Neal began his trek across the floor, pushing the machine in front of him. He was unsteady and seeing it, Elizabeth joined him, wrapped an arm around his waist to lend support as he made his way back to his bed.

"How are you feeling, Agent Burke?" The doctor asked, eyeing the half-empty IV bags hanging at Peter's side. "Any pain?" He checked the port location in his arm before allowing his eyes to settle on Peter's face. "Discomfort?" Surprisingly, the answer was no. "Good," the doctor noted at the shake of Peter's head. "You've been through quite the ordeal." He glanced across to where Neal, with Elizabeth's help, was lowering himself to the bed with a grimace. "Both of you have."

Peter spent the next several minutes learning about the damage Reich's bullet had done and what medical steps had been taken to repair it. Perforated liver, intestinal damage and of course, the unsalvagable spleen. It proved both informative and educational; he even learned the function of the spleen.

"It's part of the body's immune system," the doctor explained as Elizabeth rejoined them. "It filters blood and helps the fight infections. It's not essential for survival, however, without one you will be more prone to infections." Peter could tell Elizabeth had heard this before. She kept constant pressure on his hand, a look of concern stamped on her face. That, the doctor continued, was the reason for the high dosage of antibiotics he was currently receiving intravenously. "It's precautionary," he added. "Infections after a splenectomy usually develop quickly, so it's important to be ahead in case of any complications."

Once he was able to eat, his medications-at present antibiotics and morphine-would be administered orally. He'd continue to receive intravenous fluids until his blood volume reached normal levels. According to Dr. Harrison both he and Neal, whom he again referred to as Mr. Caffrey, in addition to their other injuries, had been suffering from hypovolemia when they'd been brought in the day before.

"You were both fortunate," the doctor stated. "Mr. Caffrey," he looked again at Neal who, as promised, had returned to his bed, "if he follows directions and stays out of trouble," both a struggle for Neal in the best of times, "may be discharged tomorrow. You, on the other hand," his attention returned to Peter, "will be staying with us a bit longer."

"How much longer?" He felt Elizabeth squeeze his hand.

"At least a few days to make sure no problems develop. After that," he went on, "we'll schedule a follow-up and give you a series of vaccinations to help you stay healthy. We can discuss all that later," he concluded. "Do you have any questions for me?"

"When can I go back to work?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," the doctor chuckled. "You're strong and healthy and that's a plus, but its still going to take time for you to heal."

"How much time?" He pressed.

"Four to six weeks, if there are no complications."

"Four to six weeks?" Peter burst out. "I can't be-"

"Peter, please." Elizabeth again squeezed his hand, the look of distress on her tired face causing him to swallow his protest.

"Sorry, El."

"Four to six weeks for complete recovery," the doctor clarified for him. "You should be able to resume limited activities within a couple weeks but only limited," he warned sternly. "It's important you follow discharge instructions carefully or four to six weeks can easily turn into eight to ten. Or worse."

"He will follow them to the letter," Elizabeth stated firmly, her eyes daring Peter to disagree. "I will see to it."

She apparently had as much confidence in his following instructions as he had in Neal doing so.

"Well, then," the doctor smiled at the two of them. "It seems you are in good hands then."