The Whistler's Whistle
The Observer.
A/N: Thank you so much for the amazing reviews and story/author alerts I recieved! I was just...wow, I didn't expect people to like this. I'm so sorry I couldn't reply individually to all who reviewed, my internet has been screwing me around for days. But I would like the say a special thanks to Iamhere123 who reasured me that Neal's thoughts and feeling aren't totally unrealistic. I have no experience of losing my hearing, so this is all a bit of guess, so thanks for your comment, I hope you can hang me up on any mistakes etc I may make. This chapter is a bit of a filler one, but I hope you like it regardless.
Warning: One strong use of swearing! If this bothers you, then please don't read. Also, I have no medical knowledge whatsoever, so any mistakes I've made are entirely my fault as Wiki told me everything.
Disclaimer: I own nothing except my weird fetish for Neal-bashing.
"Monsters are real and ghosts are real too. They live inside us and sometimes...they win." - Stephen King.
It had happened so quickly. One moment, everything fine, calm and Neal was safe. He was grinning that grin of his, that smile that made you smile whether you wanted to or not and he was safe.
There wasn't a mark on him, not a hair out of place, not a flicker of anything bad in his dazzling eyes that could control any man or woman with a flutter of dark eyelashes. Damn, even his skinny tie had remained straight throughout the entire ordeal and Peter wasn't surprised. That was just Neal.
Perfect until the end.
And then the end came in the form of a short, pale skinned man with device in his hand and an expression that Peter couldn't identify. But it was enough to make him shout; run forward while everyone else ran back, towards his CI, towards his partner, towards his friend.
But life, being as it were, was moving too quickly for anyone, too quickly for Peter and he was too late to save Neal.
A man born and raised in Ohio with two cents to his name applied a tiny bit of pressure upon a button and the entire building went up in an enraged inferno of fire and smoke and vibrations and noise.
The wave of heat and sound tore Peter from his feet and he was thrown gracelessly onto the pavement, his vision foggy and distorted for a moment as he came to terms with what had just happened, his ears ringing ever so slightly but he wasn't close enough to be hurt badly. Not as close as Neal was.
It had been an instinctive series of movements from then on, that little voice inside his head commanding, tossing out orders that Peter obeyed instantly, impulsively because that's what you do for a friend;
Get up.
Call Neal's name but don't wait for the answer because it's not going to come.
Ignore the warnings and run into the smoke, all thoughts of personal safety discarded.
Find Neal and bring him back.
Peter did all that. He held his blazer up over his mouth and stumbled through the hazy, opaque mist, one hand outstretched blindly, fingers curling as it got hotter.
He couldn't hear anything except this reverberating snarling sound as the blaze glowed and pulsed as it consumed everything in its path. Peter had to assume he was standing where Neal had been and with a spluttered cough of relief, his foot collided with that of his CI.
Neal was coiled up on the ground, his head tucked between his knees, his hands clenched feebly over his ears. His eyes were shut. Peter tried to pull the young man's arms away to get a better look at him, but he soon realised that through the thick blackness, he wouldn't be able to see.
It was a quick decision (one that his back sorely regretted later) that led him to putting one arm under Neal's bent knees and the other behind his back before hitching him up and off the scorching ground, holding him bridal style in a similar fashion to how he'd held Elle on their wedding day. Granted, Neal was a lot heavier that Elle and Peter was reluctant to admit he wasn't as robust as he once was.
He had heard Neal moan at the sudden movement but Peter blanked out the cries of pain and carried his friend to safety. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins and this meant he couldn't feel the way Neal moved weakly, his head shaking back and forth, his ears bleeding.
All he could think about, his only thought was too get Caffrey away from the fire.
But the damage had already done.
"Boss, the ambulance is about five minutes away."
Five minutes too far away. "Okay, thanks, Jones."
Peter returned his attention to Neal, who shuddered slightly under his grip, rocking forwards with the motion of the wind, like even that was enough to bowl him over.
It shocked the agent and physically hurt him to see Neal Caffrey, the invincible Neal Caffrey, look so very vulnerable. Fragile. It wasn't right. The vivid pain and the fear radiating from him was just wrong on his young face and Peter found it hard to look at his friend because that made it more real.
"Neal." He spoke, hoping, believing that Neal must hear something.
No reaction. Not a tiny one to suggest Neal heard anything at all.
When Peter had first got him a safe distance away, he'd gently, nervously, lowered Neal to the ground and gasped at the appearance of his consultant. Pasty, milky white skin with smudged black under his red, blood shot eyes. There were smoke stains across his cheeks, stark against his complexion and he looked like a chimney sweep straight out a Victorian slum. There was crimson red trailing down the sides of his face, drying into his hair and soaking into his shirt and he gazed blankly at first, before slowly coming too.
With his hands clenched over his ears, he'd yelled, screeched at Peter, begging the older man to stop the pain, stop the buzzing in his ears and all the agent could do was look on and reassure him that it would stop. That was all he could do and it wasn't enough. Peter had locked Neal in a vice-like grip as he thrashed and hit the ground with his hands, slowly realising that there were no sounds reaching him.
Peter wasn't sure if Neal had hit his head on the ground, but his hair was drenched in his blood too, so he had to assume the worst. He was dizzy, nauseous and overly confused. A state, which again, was very foreign on Neal.
"Neal, look at me." Peter nudged the other in the ribs and he turned around, slowly. "How are you feeling?"
"I can't hear you, Peter!" Neal growled, though his frustration wasn't directed at his handler and they both knew that. "I can't hear anything!"
"I know, I know, buddy." Peter soothed and then realised no soft spoken words were going to make a difference to the con man.
"I don't know what you're saying." Neal's voice had dropped to a whisper and Peter barely heard it. "I don't understand….what if…"
Peter didn't bother getting his phone out again as he gasped with respite at the sight of the ambulance turning into the avenue. Neal didn't hear the sirens.
The paramedics rushed forwards, a determined look of professionalism as they worked and Neal became one of the many patients they treated on a day to day basis. He was strapped onto a gurney and was given a neck brace (at which he protested) but before he could go, a note was shoved into his hand and Neal stared woozily at Peter's scrawny handwriting.
There's no room in the ambulance. I'll be at the hospital the moment you get there. You're going to be fine. Peter.
"It's been hours."
Peter had long since given up counting the amount of leaves on the dying pot plant in the corner of the waiting room. Most of them had browned and now lay on the sterile flooring of the waiting room as the plant withered and succumbed to the one thing the hospital reeked of; death. The dead, the dying or the nearly dead invaded every space.
Elle took his hand and squeezed it, hoping her touch could do something for both of them. Her husband's pain was her own, it always had been but over the last year, she'd come to love that con man and his sly ways. He never failed to make her smile.
"Hon, he was awake, he was talking." She didn't sound as confident as she hoped she did, "that's a good sign."
"Is it?" Peter murmured, dropping his head so it landed on her shoulder and her hand came up to his head, brushing the surely greying hair. "I've seen guys damage their ears in explosions, Elle. But Neal – he couldn't hear anything. He was completely-"
"Shh, Peter." Elizabeth winced as her breath caught in her throat. "He'll be fine."
Peter didn't want to fall apart, let anyone see how truly worried he was, but with Elizabeth, it was okay because she understood. She knew. She shared it.
They waited another half an hour and Peter downed four more cups of stale coffee which only heightened his nerves. Then a short, slight middle aged doctor strode through the double doors, clipboard in her hand, face set as a few relatives looked up in hope, then glanced down at their shoes again.
"Family of Neal Caffrey?"
The Burkes were on their feet instantly.
"That's us. How is he?"
"Are you his next of kin?"
Peter paused, struck dumb by that question.
"Yes, we are. I'm, Elizabeth Burke and this is my husband, Peter." Elle nodded. "Well?"
"Would you like to sit down?" The Doctor gestured to the plastics chairs and dropped onto one herself, her feet aching inside her heeled shoes.
Peter took a steadying breath and sat, his hand clasping his wife's.
"I'm Doctor Rosanna Paige," She smiled grimly, but offered no hand. "Would you like the good news or the bad news first?"
"The good news." Elle answered.
"Right, well, Neal suffered only a slight bump to the head and has no concussion, which is fortunate as that can cause numerous complications. Also, the burns to his hands and left arms are completely superficial."
"So there'll be no scaring?"
"No, none at all. They'll be healed in a few weeks. " Rosanna stopped and then looked down at her clipboard. Breaking bad news never got any easier, no matter how many times she had to do it. It was the one thing she hated about being a doctor, realising that no matter how hard she tried, there were some things she couldn't fix, some patients she had to let go.
Peter cut to the chase. He needed to know. "And the bad news? What about his hearing?"
"Ah yes. Neal was sent for tests after the MRI to determine the extent of the ear damage. We performed an audiogram to analyse what pitches, if any, that Neal could hear. Now, the shockwaves from the explosion severely perforated both of Neal's ear drums and also damaged his inner ear, which is very sensitive. This has led to total hearing loss and extreme tinnitus in both ears-"
"But will his hearing return? In time?"
"I can't answer that. It may return partially or not at all. The outcome…doesn't look hopeful."
Elle shuddered and buried her face in Peter's shoulders, desperate to escape for a moment the overwhelming sense of despair, not for herself, but for Neal. He didn't deserve any of this. Peter pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, before straightening up. The Doctor still wasn't finished.
"What are his options now?"
"I'm going to refer Neal to Doctor Arnold; he's one of the best otologist's in the state. Neal is going to require a myringoplasty to try and repair his ear drums as best we can." Rosanna spoke gently, in a slight hushed tone, "It's done under a general anaesthetic and-"
Peter didn't even notice he was interrupting the woman, he was just sick of listening to a bunch of medical jargon that made no difference to Neal." Yes, but will it give him back his hearing?"
Rosanna blinked sympathetically.
"You have to accept Mr Burke, that Neal's total loss of hearing may be permanent."
There was a silence, a gap where no one said anything because there was nothing to say. No words could make it better. And apparently, it wasn't going to get better at all.
Peter swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat. "Can we see him?"
"Of course." Doctor Paige nodded, "We'll discuss details later. What you like me to tell Neal what's going on? Or shall-"
"We'll do it. It's better that it comes from us."
Neal had been made to change into one of those radiant white, open backed hospital gowns, the same shade of ivory as everything else in the damn place.
What was it with white? White symbolised purity, innocence and Neal thought perhaps it was easier to spot dirt on a white background. Still, he hated the colour. It was bland. Draining. Depressing,
He held the thin, flimsy material close to his lithe body, a little self-conscious about the fact he was near enough naked as his dusty, ruined suit had been confiscated and put in a draw by a very burly nurse who didn't seem to grasp onto the fact that he couldn't hear her as she babbled away. That wouldn't usually have bothered Neal, the nakedness, he could think of worse scenarios than a bunch of doctors or even Peter, seeing him bare. But at that moment, the gown was all that separated him and the hospital bed he refused to lie down on.
Rest.
Some nurse had written down for him with a shy smile. Even in his weak, rather pathetic state, she still gushed at the sight of Neal Caffrey. How the hell could he rest? Just lie back and pretend it was all okay when it wasn't. He couldn't hear for fucks sake, he was deaf, he was tired, he was aching, he was scared and he was alone.
It was all too much.
What if it was permanent? It could have been, at that moment, it felt like it.
No, Neal felt like an outsider. An observer in his own world, just watching life roll on by while he was locked outside, desperate the look in, ears pressed up against the glass. He could see the nurses giggling in the nurses' station, but the chirp, childish laughter was lost to him. Everything was lost to Neal and he'd only been trapped in the silence for no more than a few hours and it was still too much.
He tapped the metal railing at the end of the bed where he sat in the private room they'd allocated him.
Nothing.
Neal Caffrey then stood up and began fishing through the draws until he came across his blazer and dress trousers. He tugged them both on, his nose twinging at the dust and he sighed, feeling a little more like himself. The gown looked a little ridiculous, however.
Neal knew that no matter what sound he made, he wouldn't hear it, he couldn't actually be sure he'd even made it. Perhaps everything was mute. When he slammed the draw shut, there was nothing.
When he switched the TV on, holding down the volume button until it was as high as it would go, there was still nothing.
Neal couldn't even hear himself scream.
But, apparently the nurses could as they came running in, alert, anxious and they wrestled him back into his bed, talking to each other over Neal as he went limp and allowed himself to be manhandled. He was too exhausted to care.
And then Peter was there, eyes dark at the sight of the white knuckled hands around his CI's wrist and he snapped something, an order, and Neal could tell by the nurses faces that it wasn't very pleasant.
Peter watched as the staff hurried from the room, heads low and taking Elle's hand, he slowly approached the bed. Neal had been cleaned up and looked considerably more alive and less like the rugged corpse he'd resembled earlier. Deep rings had settled beneath his eyes and his dark hair flopped low over his forehead, making him look a lot younger than he deserved too but there was no trace of blood or bruising and the only bandages he had were around his hands.
Neal threw back the blankets as Peter settled on the edge of the bed and the agent felt his heart clench because somewhere deep in those blue, glistening eyes of Neal's, there was hope.
And Peter was about the smash it down.
"Peter, what's going on?" Neal sounded strange and he spoke awkwardly, pausing between every word because he was so unsure if the words in his head had translated properly on the way to his lips.
Peter Burke exchanged a glance with Elle, who nodded in understanding. Before leaving the room, she kissed the ex-con lightly on the cheek, remaining for a moment before she went to wait outside with the doctor.
"Okay Neal, no matter what I say, or what the doctor says, you could still recover from this. Don't lose hope just yet, okay?"
Neal frowned and shrugged lightly, completely at loss once again.
So Peter unscrewed the cap on his pen and began to write on the back of a receipt from Walmart, he wrote slowly, everything the doctor had said to him. He exchanged one last look with Neal before handing it over and so much was conveyed in that look, enough to tell Neal exactly what was coming.
Doctor Paige said that both of your ear drums have been badly perforated and the inner ear was damaged. They need to perform an operation after you've seen an otologist's and after that, we'll know more. But Neal, you need to understand that you might never hear again. The best case scenario is that you'll regain some level of hearing, but it's not looking good. I'm sorry, Neal.
The note felt distant and Peter found he couldn't say anything to comfort his friend. That's what he was supposed to do. What use was he if he couldn't?
Neal crumpled the note up in his trembling fist, wincing as the bandage tugged at his burns and he closed his eyes, turning his head away. He would not cry again.
Despite the sudden hotness of the room and the way his entire body was overcome with this numbness, he still managed to inhale a shuddery breath.
He had known it was coming, he just knew. It was no surprise because he was Neal Caffrey. He wasn't supposed to have a happy ending. Men like him just didn't.
This was payback for all the wrong things he'd done in his life. Revenge.
Peter bit his lip and settled a hand on Neal's head as the younger man bit down hard on his knuckles and a single, stray tear worked its way down his cheek. But Neal didn't sob or weep. He just cried silently because it hurt too much to do anything else. Peter ran his fingers running through Neal's unruly hair in what he hoped was a reassuring rhythm.
He didn't expect a reaction.
And he didn't get one.
A stranger called this morning
Dressed all in black and grey
Put every sound into a bag
And carried it away
The whistling of the kettle
The turning of the lock
The purring of the kitten
The ticking of the clock
The popping of the toaster
The crunching of the flakes
When you spread the marmalade
The scraping noise it makes
The hissing of the frying pan
The ticking of the grill
The bubbling of the bath tub
As it starts to fill
The drumming of the raindrops
On the window pane
When you do the washing up
The gurgle of the drain
The crying of the baby
The squeaking of the chair
The swishing of the curtain
The creaking of the stair
A stranger called this morning
He didn't leave his name
Left us only silence
Life will never be the same
- Roger McGough
Please review! Also, do you want Neals deafness to be permanent or temporary? I'll take a vote!