Merry Christmas!

I had planned to post this chapter earlier, but my word document became corrupted and was unrecoverable! Tears were shed; which of course, had to go unexplained to friends and family. I found an earlier version and spent a couple days reworking it, however the second effort never feels as good as the original. Even so, I hope you are pleased with it. Best of holiday wishes to you all! Review after you finish your festivities, but don't forget! Reviews make me very happy.

Chapter Fifteen

Peter made the trip to Philadelphia in much less than the hour and a half his GPS had estimated. Of course, he ignored the posted speed limits which doubtless improved his time. The entire drive, he kept replaying the last time he had rushed to the hospital to see Neal, the news he had gotten when he arrived, and the following hours. They had been the hardest in his life; he didn't think he could handle going through such an experience again. He called the hospital as he had been instructed to do and gave the needed information. He had asked about Neal's condition, but at that point he hadn't yet arrived and information was limited. Still, at his insistence they told him the same thing Elliot had; his condition was listed as serious but not critical. He was experiencing respiratory distress and they would know more about the extent of his injuries once tests were run. None the less, Peter still had a heavy feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach that wouldn't be mitigated until he saw Neal for himself.

When he finally arrived at the hospital, he flashed his credentials and introduced himself. He didn't have to explain why he was there; they were expecting him and drew their own conclusions. He was a Federal Agent; they were very cooperative. The nurse on duty at the entrance picked up the phone, and only moments later, he was joined by the on call emergency room doctor.

"Agent Burke," he said, "Dr. Shaw had another surgery to perform, but I can give you an update on the patient. Mr. Clay is out of surgery and in recovery." He flipped open the chart in his hands and glanced at it briefly. "The bullet perforated the upper lobe of his right lung, causing a partial lung collapse. Dr. Shaw was able to repair the damage and the lung was reinflated; it seems to be functioning well. There was also some muscle damage, which was also repaired, and the bullet was removed. Everything was pretty straightforward; there were no complications. He should be out of recovery in a couple of hours." He snapped the folder holding the chart closed. "He'll be closely monitored in the ICU for the next twelve hours. You won't be able to question him until he's released from the unit and in a room. If all goes well, that will be late tomorrow sometime. I suggest you check back with his doctor then."

Peter had arrived speaking authoritatively and flashing his credentials; the staff had taken his inquiries as official business. He had never said he was there in his professional capacity but had let them draw their own conclusions. An FBI agent on the job was given access and information that others would have been denied. But now that assumption might result in no access to Neal until tomorrow afternoon, and that was in no way acceptable.

"I'm sorry," he began, "You have misunderstood my reason for being here; Nathan Clay is not my suspect. He's my friend." He paused. "I know he'd want me to be here."

"ICU has very strict regulations regarding visitors, Agent Burke. One family member is allowed back, and even then, only for brief periods of time."

"Look," Peter said, "He's here in the States visiting me. I'm the one who gave the hospital his medical information; my name is there on his file. I am his only friend on this side of the Atlantic; I am his family."

The man looked as if he didn't have time to argue, especially with a determined FBI agent. "ICU is on the fourth floor," he said hastily. "There's a waiting room; I'll let them know you're there; someone will come out and let you know once Clay gets settled, and take you back to see him."

Peter thanked the doctor for the update, and the information, and then headed towards the elevator. The doctors words relieved him some, but he knew the feeling would not disperse until he saw Neal for himself. The image of his friend on the slab in the morgue kept intruding on his mind, and it would continue to do so until he could replace that image with another one.

His phone rang; he expected it to be Elizabeth making sure he'd made it to Philadelphia in once piece, but it was Elliott.

"You at the hospital yet?" he asked.

"Just got here ten minutes ago," Peter hit the up button on the elevator.

"How's Clay?"

"Surgery went fine; they repaired his lung. He's in recovery now," Peter informed. "They'll be moving him into ICU in a little while. I'm hoping they will let me in to see him then. I'm on my way up now." He appreciated Elliot's priorities, but he knew he had his own stuff going on. "How are things going there?"

"Amazingly well," Elliott was unable to hide the excitement in his voice. "I'm sorry your friend got hurt but by saving Mendez tonight, he handed us the Cordero organization on a silver platter." Peter listened absently as Elliot continued. "This guy's near death experience had him singing before we got him off the premises." He paused. "He's willing to give us everything he knows in exchange for protection. He is high up in the organization, Burke, he knows a lot. He knows about the kidnapping, too, and is willing to give us details about that as well."

Amazingly, he hadn't given the kidnappers another thought since he'd heard gunshots, and Neal's gasp of pain, over the wire. At that moment, snagging the kidnappers had been the last thing on his mind. He had only been focused on finding out how bad Neal was hurt, and getting to him.

"Between his information, and what we've tracked today" Elliot was saying, "We can take these guys down now. We won't have to wait."

With the cooperation of a high ranking member of the Cordero Organization, any subsequent legal actions against them would automatically be attributed to his duplicity; Nathan Clay, again, would walk away above suspicion for any part of the fallout.

"Unbelievable," Peter mused. "Leave it to-" his pause was slight "Nathan to turn a making a rash decision into a successful operation. Old Alberto will probably feel bad he got hurt and offer him a Villa or something."

"You said he was skilled," Elliott reminded him, "I'm not sure where skill ended and luck began, but either way, his actions over the past few hours may well bring down one of the biggest drug rings on the east coast."

"Don't tell him that," Peter said, "They'll be no living with him."

Elliott laughed at Peter's reply. "When you see him, tell him he did good, and I'm sorry if I was hard on him."

"When were you hard on him?" Peter had arrived on the fourth floor. Wayfinding signs for the Waiting Room pointed him from the elevator to a hallway to the right.

"When he was lying there bleeding and I asked him what the hell he thought he was doing."

Peter chuckled. How many times had he asked Neal the very same question?

"What did he say?"

"He told me I sounded just like you."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

It took a moment for it to register when a young man in scrubs entered the waiting room and called out "Clay?" He said it twice before Peter realized he was talking about Neal. Peter hadn't been sitting; he had been standing to gaze out the window on the city. He had sat enough lately. Plus, it had been a long day. If he was still for too long, he was afraid he'd pass out. He turned when the name that was being called finally registered as the one he was listening for.

"That's me." The nurse waited for Peter to join him, and then they proceeded down the wide hallway.

"Mr. Clay has just been brought up to his room." He handed Peter a card with the number J-417 on it. "Once you leave, you will need this code to get updates on his condition or to gain access to the unit." They reached the entrance to ICU. The nurse pressed the buzzer, identified himself, and the wide doors swung open. "We're giving him antibiotics as a precaution, and he'll be started on morphine once the effects of the anesthesia wear off. He'll be monitored here for twelve hours, and then, if there are no complications, he will be moved to a room. He's not as responsive as we'd like, but we aren't overly concerned. He was agitated when he was brought in. He had to be sedated before tests could be run; that sometimes slows the cognitive process after surgery."

"Agitated?" Elliot had told him that Neal had been unconscious by the time he had been transported. The thoughts of Neal waking and being anxious made him kick himself again for not being there. Even if he had been banned from participating in the operation, he could have been close by in case Neal needed him. He should have been.

"It's not uncommon," the nurse assured him. "He was the victim of violence and experiencing respiratory distress. Either one of those typically results in high anxiety." He paused as they reached an open door; the beige curtain was pulled closed, hiding the residing patient from sight. "It's good that you're here; a familiar face might help him feel less anxious as he regains consciousness. Also, don't be alarmed by his appearance; no one looks good in this setting. He really is doing very well."

With that said, the nurse stepped inside and pulled the curtain aside, giving Peter his first glimpse of Neal. Peter felt both pity and relief at the sight. Pity because Neal looked helpless lying there and relief because he was lying there. He had been afraid that he would arrive at the hospital to find he had lost his friend again.

Neal looked much worse than he had only hours before, feet propped on the table at the Hicksville warehouse. Now he was pale, his dark hair messy and his right torso in a mass of bandages. An oxygen mask covered his face, and an IV was in his arm. Assorted wires attached him to several machines. But in spite of all of that, he still looked good to Peter.

His chest was rising and falling, machines were humming, the monitor recording his heart rate, blood pressure, respiration and blood oxygen levels. There was a continual beeping, indicating life; a far cry from a still, pale figure on a metal table in a cold, silent room.

The nurse stepped near and took a moment to check the different machines before speaking to his patient, "Mr. Clay," he said, "You have a visitor. Wake up and see who it is."

Neal seemed to shift a bit on his pillow, his brow even furrowed slightly, but his eyes remained closed. The nurse turned to Peter. "Maybe he will respond to a familiar voice. I will check in on you two in a little while." With that, he stepped past Peter and exited, pulling the privacy curtain closed behind him.

Peter moved closer to Neal and was suddenly at a loss. Who did he address, Neal or Nathan? After a slight hesitation, he spoke.

"Nathan, can you hear me?" The name sounded strange on his lips, but it was the name Neal insisted he use. When there was no response, he reached down, taking a still hand in his own. He squeezed gently and spoke again. "Nathan?"

Again, there was no response. He only waited a moment longer before trying again. "Neal," he said, leaning closer, "It's me, it's Peter. Open your eyes."

He felt a slight pressure on his hand before the blue eyes opened; a look of confusion, then alarm, crossing the pale face. The monitor above him indicated a rise in his heart rate, and he pulled his hand free from Peter's grasp. He immediately tried to grab the oxygen mask, but Peter intercepted his hand before it could fulfill its mission. Alarm turned to panic in the blue eyes; Neal was clearly distressed. The nurse had said he had been agitated when brought in. So much so that he'd had to be sedated. Peter didn't want a repeat of that, and now that he was here, there wasn't going to be one.

"Hey, Neal," he squeezed Neal's hand, gently bringing it back to rest at his side. Neal's effort to resist was weak and short lived. "Look at me." The blue eyes that found his were anxious. "It's Peter. You're okay," he assured him. "The surgery went fine, and everything is alright; Calm down."

"Peter?" His voice, barely audible, was full of uncertainty. "What happened? Where am I?"

"You're in the hospital, Neal," Peter replied. "You were shot."

"Kellar?" His question caught Peter off guard; Neal was clearly more out of it than he had thought. If his mind was playing that kind of trick on him, no wonder he was anxious. Was he wondering if his plan to stage his death had somehow been foiled? If he was still Neal Caffrey, tethered to the FBI by a tracking anklet?

"No, not Keller," Peter clarified. "You were shot saving a man named Mendez, don't you remember?"

"So I'm Nathan?" Doubtful eyes held his. "and I live in Paris?"

"Yes, you just came back to help on a case," Peter reassured him, "You live in Paris, and people call you Nathan." Peter's words apparently eased his troubled mind; a look of relief replaced the doubt on the pale face. He was quiet a moment before he spoke again.

"You don't." His quiet observation held no reproach, "You still call me Neal."

"Sorry about that," Peter replied, glad to see Neal's heart rate falling to a normal pace. "I'm working on it. Just give me some time."

"I don't mind, Peter," He confessed, gratitude in his eyes. "It's nice to have someone here who knows me; really knows me. Easier, you know? It means I can relax."

"You do that," Peter squeezed Neal's hand again, feeling an odd stinging in his eyes. He was sure it was the lack of sleep catching up with him. "You relax."

"When I woke up before, I was scared." The blue eyes now began to droop in fatigue; just the brief exchange seemed to have drained him. His words were so faint Peter had to lean close to hear them. "I couldn't remember who I was supposed to be and there was no one to ask."

The thoughts of Neal waking in such a state tore at Peter's heart, but his distress was perfectly understandable. Neal had been a lot of people in his life and keeping his aliases straight was often a matter of life or death. Experiencing confusion about his identity would be a frightening thing, especially waking, disoriented and confused, with no familiar face to ground him. He could only imagine the scenarios that had rushed around Neal's addled mind. No wonder he'd been agitated.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there, Neal," Peter apologized, "but I'm here now. You can relax now, remember?"

"Will you be here when I wake up?" The eyes were hopeful, and his grip tightened on Peter's hand. It was almost as if they had switched roles. Before, Peter had been afraid Neal would disappear; now Neal seemed to be afraid he would. Peter guessed he didn't want to wake surrounded by unfamiliar faces again. He wanted to see someone he knew; someone who knew him. And here, that was Peter Burke.

It was already nearly one-thirty in the morning, and Peter wasn't sure how lenient the ICU staff would continue to be with the posted visiting hours. Of course, wild horses would not drag him away from Neal's bedside if he wanted him there. And he did; the blue eyes begged an answer.

If hospital staff cited regulations to him, he would have Agent Elliot put Neal under protective custody, volunteering himself to be his guard. As tired as he was, Neal's request and his resolve to grant it gave him renewed energy.

"I'll be here," he assured him firmly. "I'm not going anywhere; you get some rest."

His appeal granted, Neal relaxed his grip on Peter's hand, but did not let go. "Thank you," he whispered, eyes closing. "I'm glad you're here with me, Peter."

Neal was asleep before Peter could find his voice to respond, but he did so anyway.

"Me too, Neal," Peter said quietly. "I wouldn't have it any other way."