I miscalculated: There will be more than six chapters to this story. I think seven will do it. This is hurt/comfort so if you don't like that, don't read this. For those who are reading, thanks for all the nice reviews. They make me smile all through the day. Also, thanks to all who are following this story.

I own nothing but the mistakes, for which I accept all responsibility.

Chapter Five

The night passed and the early hours of the morning began. Derek felt that he had been tending the man for days instead of hours. But the coffee was working, and Derek felt alert and ready for whatever came. The storm continued at a fury outside, and he felt sure the only complications he was likely to face would be the deteriorating health of the man currently on his sofa. In spite of the man's confidence in his partner, Derek doubted that Peter had superhuman strength or the ability to be impervious to the brutal weather raging outside the cabin. The chances of him barging in to rescue his friend were slim to none. None is what Derek was counting on; It was the arrival of law enforcement, apparently U.S. Marshals, that he was anticipating with the arrival of morning and the departure of the storm.

"Where am I?" Derek was startled by what sounded like a coherent question. The man had been sleeping soundly, and Derek took this to mean that the fever had at least lessened to some degree. He looked towards the man and the blue eyes met his. For the first time they didn't seem fearful; only confused. Despite the lucidity of his question, his eyes still shown with fever.

"You are in my cabin," Derek explained, trying to determine the man's mental state, "Near Southfield."

That didn't seem to clear up the confusion in the man's face. His voice was quiet. "Did you bring me here?" As usual, the man didn't remember any of the previous conversations.

Derek shook his head, "No I didn't. You brought yourself here."

The man's brow furrowed as he contemplated that information. "How did I…." He paused before continuing "What happened?" the change in his tone as well as the look in his eyes indicated the usual fear was returning. Before, he had remembered at least part of what had happened. That now had apparently left him.

"I don't know," Derek knew some but didn't know if he should share. Keeping the man calm had become a big part of his tactic to keep him alive until help could arrive. He reached for the glass of water he had nearby, spiked with Tylenol "You were hurt. You just appeared on my porch. Drink." The man obeyed, Derek helping him navigate the straw and take few sips, but even that slight movement caused pain. He grimaced, hand going to his mid-section.

"I'm Derek," Derek said, for the sixth time since he met the man. "And you are?" At present, the man had evenly divided himself between being Nick and being Neal.

The man's eyes closed tightly. "It doesn't matter who I am," his voice was edged with panic, "This is bad. I shouldn't be here."

"Its okay," Derek assured him, putting a hand on the man's forearm to calm him. "You're safe and when the storm stops, help will come. "

"Peter," he whispered. Help to the man meant Peter, this much Derek knew. The pale face relaxed and after a few moment, he again slept. Derek sighed, taking his place in the chair again. Nick or Neal? He'd have to wait until next time for the tie breaker.

The morning hours passed slowly but no additional opportunity to ask the man's name arose. At times, he would sleep relatively peacefully. Derek would find himself dozing but when the fever would rise, he would be awakened by the man's restless movement or incoherent mumbling. When the man's forehead literally burned Derek's palm, Derek used snow packed into plastic bags, wrapped in towels, to make makeshift ice packs. These he placed around the man's head and neck, trying to bring the fever down. His patient tried to fight against him, shivering violently, but his hands flailed uselessly. Derek tried to explain his actions, but he knew the man didn't hear or understand him. The fever continued to be a battle and Derek worried about the infection that had to be ravaging the young man's body. He kept checking the wounds, but there was very little he could do to stop the obvious infection. He did not perceive any marked discoloration or hardness of the abdomen that would indicate internal bleeding. If he had, still, there would have been nothing he could do but wait and try to ease the man's suffering as best he could. In all his years, he had never tended to a sick or injured person. It seemed foreign to him in the beginning but as exhaustion set in instinct took over. It seemed strange to be speaking softly and reassuringly to a man he didn't even know. He didn't speak that way to people he did know. But then again, he thought, that probably made it easier. He didn't know the man. And after the Marshal's took him away, he would never see him again. But he would have answers about him. He would know if he was Nick or Neal, why he was in federal custody and how he had come to be on his porch during the worst storm of the decade.

At one point, his patient cried out loudly and tried to spring up from his place on the sofa. Derek restrained him, surprised by the sudden burst of energy that nearly brought the man out into the floor. Derek hadn't thought he had that in him; his struggles against the ice packs had been weak, to say the least. Derek had to keep holding him as he fought to get up, to go to only his mind knew where. Derek spoke calmly to him, but he continued to struggle. He had an unnatural strength; His eyes were wide. He did not seem to be seeing the cabin or Derek at all. It was as if the man was seeing something else. Real or imagined; it was a source of terror that made him desperate to escape. After several moments, his strength left him, and Derek felt him grow limp in his arms. His relief evaporated as the man began to weep uncontrollably, his body racked by sobs. Derek could only imagine what pain this had to cause to the man's midsection, but the emotional pain was far more obvious.

Derek was at a loss. Tending a wounded man was hard enough. He didn't know what to do with raw emotion. All he could do was speak quietly to the man, still holding on to him, rocking him in what he hoped was a comforting way. After a few minutes of continual reassurance, the man finally began to quiet, and Derek lowered him back onto the sofa. Derek hardly remembered what he had said; it was hard to comfort someone suffering acute emotional distress when you didn't even know their name, or what experience they were reliving. Even so, Derek had spoken reassuringly, stroked the man's head, and said all the things a person said when they didn't know what to say. And it had worked. The emotional outburst had run its course, leaving the man even weaker than before; he again slipped into unconsciousness. Derek looked at the clock. Four thirty. The storm outside the windows seemed less intense than it had been. No sleep and dealing with both the man's physical and emotional state had left Derek more than exhausted himself. He sat down in the soft chair near where the injured man lay. Morning and help were just a few hours away, and he really hoped the man would sleep, outburst free, until that time.