Long chapter. I had a purpose to achieve, but it seemed to take me forever to get there. I thought about breaking it up, but decided against it. I hope it's not too long, or seems to drag. Reviews make me happy so don't be shy.

Chapter Sixteen

Peter, his burst of adrenaline spent, found himself nodding off after only about twenty minutes of watching the slow rise and fall of Neal's chest. The stress of the day and Neal safe in front of him left him completely drained. The nurse, Brett as he had introduced himself, gave him a pillow and suggested that he relocate to the blue recliner near the window. As exhausted as he was, Peter was afraid to move; He didn't want to chance Neal waking up and not seeing him by his side. He explained his concerns to Brett, who appreciated his efforts to keep the patient calm. Apparently, Neal had caused quite a stir when he had been brought in. Instead of moving to the recliner, Peter pulled his chair closer, resting his head on the bed beside Neal. He was asleep almost immediately, but when Neal grew restless, the movement awakened him.

Neal wasn't conscious, but there was a look of discomfort on his face, and every so often, a low groan escaped his lips. When it didn't abate after several minutes, and his heart rate and blood pressure both began to rise, Peter moved from his place to summons the nurse. Just before he pressed the call button, as if on cue, Brett pushed the privacy curtain aside and entered.

"He's hurting," Peter said. "You said you'd give him something for the pain. I think its time you did." He hadn't meant to sound so abrupt, but giving orders came naturally to him, and he didn't have the energy for diplomacy; Neal was hurting.

"That's why I'm here," He took Peter's bearing in stride, not appearing to take offense. He had also responded well when Peter had announced that he would be spending the night in the ICU with Mr. Clay. He guessed it had been clear that he wasn't making a request, but a making a statement. After just a moment of what appeared as an inner debate, the nurse had acquiesced, keeping Agent Elliot from receiving a call from an irate Peter Burke demanding protective custody of Nathan Clay.

The nurse moved toward Neal, and Peter stepped back and moved his chair to allow him access to the patient. "This will get the pain under control," he explained. "We will give him a lower dose every four hours to keep ahead of it and keep him comfortable. Once his condition improves, he'll be switched to an oral pain management regiment."

Peter wasn't interested in information; he only wanted results. Another wave of pain brought Neal's eyes partially open, and he squirmed on the bed, his discomfort clearly growing.

"Mr. Clay," the nurse addressed him, "How are you feeling?" Peter knew the question was rhetorical since he didn't wait for an answer, but readied to administer the needed medication. "Having some pain? I have something to help with that."

Neal's eyes widened at his words and Peter stepped near, determined to calm any anxiety before it could grow into panic. It wasn't fear in Neal's face, this time; it was pain and Peter wasn't sure it was an improvement. That look, too, caused him almost physical pain. Peter was always amazed at how young Neal could look, but right now, it was especially true. Young and vulnerable; two things that made a fierce protectiveness rise in Peter's heart.

"I'm here," he said, reaching down and taking Neal's hand in his own, not caring if he was crowding Brett or not. Once the injection was complete, Peter could see the effects almost immediately; a dullness settled in Neal's blue eyes and his face relaxed.

"Peter." His name was just a whisper on Neal's lips; there was a weak squeeze on his hand. Neal's eyes closed, but he knew Peter was there.

"Onset is immediate," Brett commented, reaching over and disposing of the syringe in the wall mounted Sharps container, "and it hits its peak within two-three minutes." He remained to make sure there were no adverse reactions and after mere moments, the hand in Peter's was limp. Neal's breathing was again slow and regular; his discomfort completely alleviated. The nurse checked the injection site, as well as the intravenous lines for any problems before he made ready to exit.

"Everything looks good." He assured. "We are monitoring his vitals from the station, but let me know if he needs anything."

"You know I will." Keeping Neal's hand in his own, Peter reached back and pulled his chair back to its previous place beside Neal's bed and took his seat.

"Yes," Brett admitted with a slight smile. "I know you will. I'll make sure he gets his pain medication before shift change. Try to rest, Agent Burke," he urged as he exited, "You look almost as bad as he does."

Peter didn't doubt his words. Once Brett had left the room, he put his head down on the bed. The steady humming of machines put him to sleep in minutes.

Either the nurse had neglected them, been unusually quiet or else Peter had been beyond disturbing. He guessed it had been the latter. Either way, he was aware of nothing at all until Neal began to stir. He was hyper-vigilant, and just the smallest of movements had brought him instantly from the deepest of slumbers. To say he was stiff was an understatement and when he checked the time, he knew why; nearly four hours had passed without incident. It was probably the reason Neal was again growing restless; it was time for the next dose of pain medicine. After the initial restless movement, Neal settled down. It was six-forty. Peter stood up and moved about the room. He tried to loosen his neck muscles and stretch his back; he was too old for this. He needed coffee, and he needed to call Elizabeth.

"Peter?" Peter knew by the clarity of his voice that Neal had pulled the oxygen mask from his face. When he turned, he saw he was right. He made his way back to his side.

"You have to keep this on," He instructed, taking it from Neal's hand and placing it back over his face. Neal didn't protest. "At least for now."

"Is it bad?" His eyes locked onto Peter's, begging the question; his mind had cleared enough to be worried about his condition.

"You're going to be okay, Neal," Just as he finished his reassurance, Brett arrived as promised; just before the change of shifts. He seemed pleased that Neal was awake.

"Good morning, Mr. Clay," he said, pulling the table near and setting the items he had brought with him. "How are you this morning?"

"You tell me," came the faint reply.

"You had muscle damage, as well as some damage to your right lung. The surgery to repair that damage was successful." Brett checked various lines and machine settings as he talked. "Your vitals have been consistently good, and your O2 stats are excellent. So much, in fact, that we can downgrade." He removed the mask Peter had just replaced on Neal's face and hooked up simple oxygen tubes instead. He then returned to the items he had arrived with and prepared to give Neal his medication. He repeated almost verbatim to Neal what he had said to Peter about pain management hours before as he readied the injection.

At Neal's concerned look, he added. "Pain causes stress on the body, Mr. Clay, especially the heart and lungs. While you are recovering, we want to limit that as much as possible."

A lower dose than the previous one, the medication didn't immediately reduce Neal to unconsciousness, but it did wipe both pain and worry from his face rather quickly: his head sinking deeper into the pillow. After a moment of observation, Brett cleaned up his supplies and disposed of the syringe. "They'll be taking you down for some follow-up tests shortly, and will probably try to get you to eat something afterward. The doctor will be in later today, and if everything looks good, you should be out of ICU and into a more comfortable room by mid-afternoon."

"I'd be more comfortable at the Waldorf," Neal's words were mumbled; the medication removed his pain and lessened his ability to articulate.

"The day nurse will be in to see you soon; she can explain the tests they will be doing." Before he stepped out, Brett addressed Peter. "I guarantee he's feeling better than you are at this point; You should go home and get some rest. Leave your number on the board there and someone will call if he needs you. Between tests and respiratory therapy, he's going to have a full morning."

"I'll be okay once I get some coffee in me." Peter didn't mention that home was an hour and a half away. A hotel room for a few hours, however, might well be in his future. But only when he was sure Neal would be fine on his own and the chances of him waking disoriented had passed.

"Okay, then, get some food to go with that coffee," he said. "Cafeteria is on the second floor, and believe it or not, the food is pretty good."

After the nurse had left them, Peter sat down. He found himself the subject of Neal's dull gaze. "You look awful, Peter," Blatant honesty. Any other time Peter would have welcomed it. "When did you get here?" His brow furrowed. "This is Philadelphia, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's Philadelphia," Peter affirmed. They hadn't talked about what had happened, and Peter didn't know how much Neal remembered. He obviously didn't remember their brief exchanges during the night, and pain medication didn't improve his cognitive abilities. "and I look awful?" Peter asked sarcastically. "Have you taken a look at yourself lately, Mr. GQ? You aren't looking too magazine worthy yourself."

"Mr. GQ?" Neal found that funny; he practically giggled. "You didn't come up with that."

"Someone might have mentioned it in passing," Peter admitted, enjoying the almost boyish look on Neal's face. He clearly took the nickname as a compliment. It reminded Peter of his thrill at learning he'd been called James Bonds.

"And you knew what they were referring to?"

"I am a highly trained Federal Agent in New York City," Peter responded as if the slight was an insult. "Just because I don't have a subscription doesn't mean I don't know what it is."

"Elizabeth told you, didn't she?" Even medicated, Neal was no fool. Of course, Elizabeth had told him. Peter's phone vibrated.

"Yes, she did," he admitted. It took him a moment to remember where he had put his phone. The night had passed in a blur. He stepped over to the recliner and retrieved it from his jacket pocket.

"And speaking of." He answered, his tone shifting immediately, "Hey hon." He paused. "I know, I'm sorry I haven't called. I was just getting ready to." Again he waited. "He's good, El, he's here right now giving me a hard time." He chuckled at her response, "Hang on a minute, El." He put his hand over the phone and addressed Neal. "I'm going down to get some coffee," he added. "I'll be right back."

"You can go home, Peter," Neal offered, "Thanks for staying with me, but I'm feeling good now." He was feeling good, but Peter knew it was the opioids talking. He had his doubts the good feeling would stand the test of time. "Go home," Neal continued, his eyes lagging between blinks, "get some rest and I'll call you tomorrow; I don't see them granting my freedom before then."

"Then I'm staying until tomorrow, too," Peter avowed firmly. "I'm not going home until I can take you with me."

"Take me with you?" Neal mumbled sleepily "That sounds really good, Peter. Tell Elizabeth I'm sorry about missing dinner."

After the Waldorf comment, Peter wasn't sure how Neal would respond to a summons to the Burke's house. Right now, he seemed pleased with the idea. But that too, Peter realized, might be opioid induced and not stand the test of time. Neal had been careful to keep his distance since he'd been back and Peter was sure it wasn't all because of the job they were working on.

"Don't worry," Peter said as Neal's eyes closed, "She'll reschedule; you can't duck out of a family dinner that easily."

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"He really is doing good," Elizabeth had been concerned that his positive attitude was more for Neal's benefit than the benefit of the truth. He took a moment to explain what the nurse had told them about the day's schedule. "If he gets into a regular room this afternoon, they will probably discharge him sometime tomorrow."

"He'll need to have someone with him, at least for a few days." Peter already knew what she was going to suggest. "And he won't be cleared to fly for some time."

"I will bring him to the house, El," Peter assured her. "I already mentioned it, and right now, he's good with it."

"Right now?" She inquired.

"Right now he's medicated and very agreeable." He explained. "I don't know how long we can count on that to continue." He paused. "Last night, I couldn't leave him even after I knew he would be okay. He asked me to stay with him, El, he wanted me here."

"Of course, you couldn't leave him, Peter. He's family." she said. "and on some level, he knows that. I'm be down once I drop Little Neal off at Shelley's. I'll bring you a razor and a change of clothes."

"You don't have to come down, El," Peter protested. "It's a long drive; I can manage until tomorrow."

"What about Neal?" She continued as if he hadn't spoken. "Can I drop by his suite and bring him some clothes?"

She was coming; that was settled. He could use a fresh shirt and Neal could use some clothes. Mr. GQ couldn't leave the hospital in a gown, and the clothes he had arrived in were out of the question; bloody and bagged for evidence.

"If you're set on coming, yeah, that would be good." Peter said. "I'll call Agent Singleton and have him meet you. It will take a badge to get you into his room. Security at the Waldorf is excellent."

"Give him my number and tell him to call me," Elizabeth replied. "I'll be there in time for you to take me to lunch. Neal gave some great recommendations, but you'll have to shave and change your shirt first."

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Peter placed two additional calls while he was visited the cafeteria. He hated to leave Neal, but since he was already dozing, it seemed a good time to duck out for a bite to eat. And it was good to get out of the closet that passed as an ICU room.

He checked in with his office; they had their hands full doing financial backgrounds of the names that were being sent to them. If Jones thought it was strange that Peter was remaining in Philadelphia, there was no indication. Peter guessed that since the men who had kidnapped him were in custody in Philadelphia, Jones hadn't expected anything less. Funny, but Peter hadn't given them even a thought over the past hours. He made a mental note to check in with Agent Elliot at some point in the day for an update.

The second call was to Agent Singleton. He updated him on Neal's condition and gave him Elizabeth's number, and told him to call when he could meet her to pick up a few things from Neal's suite. After that, he enjoyed his sausage and cheese omelet, an orange juice and an extra large coffee.

He was gone longer than he had intended; enjoying the brightness of the sun streaming through the large glass walls to the east. Neal was fine; he was going to be fine. There had been no trips to the morgue to identify the body. No phone calls to make. He hadn't died or disappeared. Peter, in spite of his tiredness, felt very content with the state of things.

He got a refill and returned to the fourth floor, giving the required code to gain entrance into the ICU. When he arrived at Neal's room, however, Neal, bed and all, were missing. Apparently the scheduled mornings test had begun.

He stepped outside to get the attention of the nurse. "I guess they've taken him for tests?"

"Yes, they just took him down." Brett was gone, of course, leaving a heavy set brunette in his place. Her face was pleasant and her name, according to her hospital badge, was Ashley.

"Any idea when he'll be back up here?" He was wondering about the timing of Elizabeth's arrival.

"Maybe around eleven?" she speculated, checking her watch. "The tests take a couple of hours, plus he will be seeing the physical therapist as well as the respiratory therapist." She checked his chart. "He's going to be pretty worn out by the time he's done; his medication will probably put him out for awhile."

"Okay," he took a card from his wallet, flipped it over and wrote his cell number on the back. "This is my number. My wife is driving down from New York, and we'll probably get something to eat. Tell Ne…Nathan," He corrected. "That I'll be back in a little while."

"I will put it this in his chart." Her eyebrows rose when she read it. "Agent Burke of the FBI? So is your interest in Mr. Clay official or personal?"

In the past, he would have said both. "Personal," Peter answered. "He's my best friend. He's visiting from France."

"I see." She seemed to want more details, probably how a friend of a federal agent ended up with a bullet through his lung, but she didn't ask and Peter didn't volunteer. "If everything stays on course," she continued, "he should be in a room and feeling much more like himself later this afternoon."

"Thank you," Peter responded. He reached over and took his jacket from the chair. "Remember to tell him where I've gone and call me if anything changes."

Properly assured, Peter left to meet Elizabeth. After their usual greetings, a tight hug and brief kiss, she gave him some news of her own.

"I talked to Mozzie," she informed him. "He called me this morning just as I was stopping by Neal's suite. Have you ever seen the penthouse suite at the Waldorf?" she digressed. "That place is unbelievable. I think it has more square footage than our house."

"No, I haven't," Peter replied, getting off the topic of the Waldorf and back to the topic of Mozzie. "What did Mozzie want?"

"He called in a panic because Neal hadn't checked in with him at the appointed time; I told him what happened."

"Did he rant about Neal get hurt working with me?" It had been a reoccurring theme with Mozzie; Neal had been in more danger working for the FBI than he ever had been as a criminal. And as far as Peter knew, in the past two years since leaving the FBI behind, Neal hadn't even shot at. One week back with Peter and he had taken a bullet.

"No, he didn't." Elizabeth responded. "I think he was so relieved that Neal was going to be okay he forgot to launch off any soapboxes." She paused, sending a sideways look at Peter. "I think, like you, it brought back a lot of bad memories. He is flying to New York as soon as he can get a flight."

It didn't surprise Peter that Mozzie was on his way, or that the event had stirred some very unpleasant memories. One of the worst for Peter was standing in the hospital morgue with Mozzie. Even though the two of them had very different perspectives on most every topic under the sun, Neal was one thing they both had in common. Peter knew that Mozzie was devoted to Neal and that Neal was devoted to Mozzie. Mozzie, in truth, was the only person Peter had felt hurt as bad as he did when Neal Caffrey had died. Mozzie coming back to New York felt right; just as right as Neal coming back had.

Elizabeth had picked one of the restaurants Neal had reviewed in their living room the night of his return to New York. A lunch menu, the price was still steep. Peter again wondered about Neal's expense account. Even though he had denied it, Peter found it hard to believe Neal could afford the lifestyle he was currently enjoying. Of course, he knew little about the art gallery business in Paris, France. It was entirely possible Neal had amassed a fortune.

The food was excellent; he might as well add Mr. Bon Appetit to Neal's growing list of nicknames.

Upon their return to the hospital, he checked on Neal's status and learned he was still in ICU. He had been cleared to be discharged from the unit, and they were waiting for a room to become available. He gave Elizabeth the update.

"I'll go check out the gift shop for awhile if you want to go on up." She was perceptive enough to know that, even though Peter had enjoyed getting out, he was curious about the test results as well as Neal's prognosis. "I might find something to brighten his room."

With a kiss and a promise to text her when Neal was in a room, he left her and returned to the fourth floor. He pressed the buzzer, recited the access code, and the wide doors swung open.

This time, Neal was present in body if not in mind. Just as Ashley had predicted, his activities coupled with medication had put him out like a light. He asked her how the morning had gone and she informed him that tests were all promising. The doctor had already spoken to Neal about his injuries, the measures they had taken as well as his prognosis. He would follow up with him the next morning, and if all continued to go well, would clear him for discharge that afternoon. She also assured Peter that a room had become available and was being cleaned now; Neal would be moved within the next half hour. Peter returned to the room, and while Neal slept, sent Elizabeth a text telling her what he had learned.

"Hey, Peter." He turned, pleased that Neal was awake, but felt his heart sink at the familiar, guarded look in the blue eyes.

Maybe because during the previous hours, there had been an openness there instead. Peter hadn't had to try to figure out what Neal was feeling, or what he needed; it had been clear by his face and even his words. It had been easy to comfort him, to hold his hand and tell him he would be there when he woke again. It had hurt Peter to see fear, uncertainty and pain in the eyes, but it had also made him feel connected to his friend in a way he hadn't felt in a very long time. Sadly, even before he had left New York and became Nathan Clay. Even this morning when Neal was pain free and lucid, he had still been open and accessible; Peter had still felt a connection. Their conversation had been relaxed and easy; Neal's smiles content. Now, he looked anything but content.

It was hard to explain the subtle difference in Neal, but there was one. Not just the expression in his eyes, but the set of his jawline, the stiffness in his posture. It wasn't pain; Peter had seen that. It was tension. The nurse had said that Neal would soon be feeling like his old self. And it had happened.

"Hey, Neal." Peter responded. There was a brief flicker of something in the blue eyes. Peter waited for what he was sure was coming; the correction of his name. But it didn't come.

"They told me you've been here since they brought me in." Peter couldn't tell if he was pleased or displeased with that knowledge.

"Not quite," Peter corrected. "But I got here as fast as I could. You had just come out of surgery." Again, emotion played briefly in Neal's eyes, but he shut it down before Peter could decipher it. His face now gave no clue to what was stirring in his heart, or his mind.

It suddenly occurred to Peter; this wasn't a new thing, a trait of Nathan Clay. Peter had seen this behavior before. Shutting down and closing off was the way Neal Caffrey protected himself when he felt emotionally vulnerable. He would hide himself, taking on a cool and detached demeanor Peter had seen time and time again, and become someone else. Someone who didn't care and couldn't be hurt. The only difference was that now, he had given that part of himself a name. Nathan Clay.

"You didn't have to do that," Neal said quietly, "and you certainly don't have to stay."

For two years, Neal had protected himself by starting over and limiting his emotional entanglements. He shut down his emotions and closed off his feelings and kept his distance from anyone who could see through his façade. He managed fine with the new people in his life; the people who only knew Nathan Clay. But when confronted by people who knew him, it became more difficult to keep himself closed up. Elizabeth had spotted that the first time she had met Nathan Clay. He was lonely, she had said, and missed his life and the people he had left behind.

Neal had been glad when Peter had come. He was glad that someone knew him, really knew him. Only then, he had said, could he relax. Nathan Clay never relaxed, even now, he radiated a quiet tension from across the small space. Just as he had wanted to protect Neal during the night, he wanted to protect Nathan now. Neal Caffrey; Nathan Clay. They were just aspects of the same man; a good man. His friend. He had known Nathan as long as he had known Neal. He just hadn't realized it until now.

"Of course I had to," Peter stepped near, determined to close the distance, both literally and figuratively, between them. He placed his hand on Neal's arm. "That's what friends do; they go where they are needed."

His words achieved their mission; the façade was slipping. There were emotions in his eyes that he couldn't chase away. "Still," he looked away, "it's a long way to come."

"It's not that far," Peter squeezed his arm gently. "It's much closer than Venezuela."

A touch of color hit his pale cheeks and his eyes found Peter's. "Well, friends go where they are needed."