A/N: And once again, we go back in time about fifteen minutes or so in order to catch a scene happening simultaneously...
Neal awoke to a steady beeping from somewhere in the room. He was lying on a bed that was definitely not his (way too firm), and upon opening his eyes noted that it was nighttime.
He shifted, blinking hard and trying to sit up and get his bearings, but a firm pressure kept him down on the bed. The con followed the well-manicured hand on his chest to see it attached to Sara Ellis, wearing an FBI windbreaker and sighing in relief as she used the hand not against Neal's torso to move a pile of folders from her lap to the floor.
"Sara," he murmured, vaguely registering that his body felt somewhat surreal—a little buzzed maybe. "You're here."
"Shh, Neal: I'm right here," she assured him, letting her hand slide to his. "Mozzie called earlier—I think he's taking care of your wine collection until you're released."
"Where's here?"
"Bellevue Hospital. You got hit by a ricocheting bullet during your little showdown with Keller," she told him, her thumb grazing his knuckles gently. Neal, impulsive as always, reached to touch his shoulder as the memory of the incident flooded back to him. Stupid decision, as he winced with pain at the pressure in touching his gauze-padded injury.
"Elizabeth?" he asked, eyes widening in suspense as lucidity returned.
Sara smiled comfortingly. "She's going to be fine Neal— Peter's with her right down the hall." She patted his hand. "They're both getting some rest, which is what you should be doing too. It's been a long twenty-four-plus hours."
"Look who's talking," the con told her, nodding at the files on the floor. "What, work couldn't wait another day?"
"Busy work," she explained with a shrug. "I just wanted to be here when—" she trailed off, and Neal's face lit up in appreciation of the amazing woman who still cared enough to stand by him. "I'm really glad you're okay Neal."
"Me too," he told her with a chuckle. "Thanks, for everything—for being here."
She nodded, smiling as she squeezed his hand. "I'm going to grab some tea, maybe a cot," she told him. "You mind if I stick around a little longer?"
"Not at all," he replied, letting his peaceful expression linger as she stood. "Sara?" he called, trying to keep his voice casual, to maintain a normal level of friendly concern-and failing miserably. "How's Peter?"
Sara let her gaze linger on the man as she stood half in, half out of the doorway. Neal kept his face calm as she slowly walked back to him and took his hand again.
"Physically, he's fine Neal," she told him. "A little tired and overwhelmed, but some rest and Elizabeth should fix that up. Emotionally…" her voice trailed off and her green eyes gave him a significant look.
"I really messed things up, huh?"
"I think you really hurt him, Neal, and the damages may be worse than you'd like." Neal had to give the woman credit; she kept her eyes steady on him while she told him the painful reality, although he could tell it hurt her to do so. "And I don't think anyone knows how bad the consequences are for all of this yet. The Degas alone…"
Neal let his head drop at the mention of the painting. Of course they would have recovered it, authenticated it, and the whole Bureau would know that the treasure had survived. It had helped save El, Neal was sure, and he would have done it again in a heartbeat, but going back to prison for life…well, Peter always said he never thought things through.
"Hey," Sara's voice spoke up as she nudged him softly. He looked back up at her and she leaned over to kiss his cheek. "Whatever happens, I really think you did the right thing Neal."
Yeah, so did he. Even if that was all he had to take with him to the land of orange jump suits and six-by-ten feet of personal space. "Thanks," he told her. "Why don't you go grab that cot and we'll get some sleep?"
She nodded, and Neal watched her as she left the room. When she was gone, he made a second attempt to sit up, moving very slowly this time. He looked around, and noticed for the first time that his was not the only occupied hospital bed stationed in the room.
A twenty-something-year old blonde was lying quite still in the bed across from him, her heart rate monitor steady. Anyone else would have thought her to be sleeping, except Neal saw a slight glow in her Kelly green eyes reflecting the moonlight as she watched him.
"Bookworm?" he guessed. "Brooke Werner?"
"Neal Caffrey," she replied, giving up the façade and shifting upward to sit. Neal caught sight of multiple bruises and bandages before she readjusted her hospital gown. "That's the first time your girlfriend's left since they brought you in here."
Neal didn't bother to correct her mislabel; it was kind of nice to pretend he and Sara were still together while it lasted. "What time is it?"
She chuckled. "A little past three. You've been out awhile—they took you to surgery to pull out the slug, and I think the pain medication and stress left you dead after that."
"Keller?" he'd forgotten to ask Sara what had happened to him.
"Guess third time's not so lucky," she told him with a slight relish he didn't blame her for. "Not dead, but with a shattered hand and a fractured T-4 vertebra, he's going to have one hell of a time pulling anything over anybody. And he still has to deal with the Mob."
"So that wasn't them at the docks?"
"Allegedly, it was some low-level thugs that claimed-in heavy Russian accents- that Keller jilted them out of a random drug deal," she told him, rolling her eyes. "Disposable." Brooke sighed as she pulled herself out of bed, unhooking her wires and IV's and pausing at the window. "Seems to be a recurring theme lately."
"How are you holding up?" he asked her, noting the cast.
"Eh," she replied, turning in slow motion to show off her various bandages. "Oblique fracture on the lower tibia, bruised ribs and everything else, recovering from an infection; but I'll live." She walked over to his bed and took the seat Sara had left. "I've been on antibiotics and pain meds for the last eight hours, so I think I'll be fine."
Neal said nothing, so she continued, combing her fingers through her recently cleaned corn-silk strands, "Elizabeth's okay too, you know." Neal nodded. "Couple of bumps and bruises, but mostly they're just keeping her overnight for observation. Emotional stuff; that's why she's not here here."
Neal's eyes cast downward. Emotional stuff. He wondered how badly this whole situation would traumatize the woman he cared about almost as much as Peter. "I'm just glad she's going to be alright," he told her.
"Her husband's been by a lot," she added, apparently trying to cheer him up. "Fed's been checking in all the time to see how you were. Seemed like it really tore him up he couldn't be in both places at once—" she looked away again. "—like you're really important, you know?"
Neal could hear the slight tinge of sadness in her voice. "Has your dad been by?"
She looked surprised, then masked her face in indifference, brushing a strand of hair behind her ears. "Nah," she told him. "I think this place…you know, with cops everywhere and everything…I'm sure-later…" She let her sentence die unfinished.
Neal nodded his head, a little worm of thought crawling through his conscious. "Do you think you'll ever forgive him?"
"For not being here?" she asked, arching her eyebrows. When he said nothing, she corrected herself, "For everything." He shrugged, and so did she, wrinkling her nose as she gingerly touched her ribcage in reaction to the gesture.
"It's complicated," she finally told him. "I mean, I'm angry, and the damage—physical and otherwise—it's exhausting to even think about. But…I don't know. He didn't mean to, right?"
"But maybe if he hadn't been involved in all of this," Neal pushed. "If he'd never gotten involved with Keller, never been in the Mob; it never would've happened, right? I mean, can you forgive someone for practically causing your involvement in the situation?"
Brooke tilted her head to study her roommate, pressing her lips together. "We're not talking about my dad and me," she confirmed to herself. She looked back toward the door for a moment, shifting the chair closer to the con man's bed.
"You look like you could use a story," she told him, and Neal gave her a quizzical look.
"Once upon a time," she told him. "There was a college student from UC Berkley working toward her doctorate. She was doing a dissertation on the the Symbolism of King Hamlet's Ghost, and it was brilliant."
"Really?" Neal replied, and the girl smirked. "And what happened to this girl?"
"She heard about a new exhibit going on display at the Fleischer Museum in San Francisco—a two month display of Mikhail Vrubel's work, including his illustrations from a priceless 1887 edition of Hamlet."
Brooke leaned in closer. "Now, you can understand; the girl's entire thesis- her world for the last five years- was based on this play, and recently she'd discovered that her father—whom her mother had insisted on keeping out of her daughter's life despite his monetary contributions and her imparting pictures and updates—was full-blooded Russian. Throw in that she was a bit of a daredevil, like her mom, and it was regular kismet—the ultimate tribute heist."
"Destiny," Neal agreed, propping himself up further on the pillows, enjoying the story of a good "theoretical" score. "So how did she pull it off?"
"Hypothetically, she had it all planned out," the green eyes shone in excitement. "She memorized the guard and staff schedules, scouted the cameras, had a perfect laser key made to open the display case without triggering the alarm, all the while pulling a misdirect by faking a hit on the Gourin exhibit on the far side of the building using timed-release liquid nitrogen charges against the heat sensors, then escaping from the roof by hang-gliding off the eastern side to another building a mile downhill and an off-the-books mercedes all set for the getaway." The young girl grinned. "It was golden."
"And?" Neal prodded.
"And then, a week after her dissertation and the day before the heist was meant to go down, the girl got a call that her mother had collapsed during a simple drop on Napoleonic Francs back in San Diego," Brooke told him. Neal felt all of the air get sucked out of the room as her eyes drifted toward the window again, shadows playing on her discolored skin. "She jumped the first plane to meet her at the hospital, and by then they'd already found the mass and diagnosed it."
Neal watched as the girl fell back against the chair, causing it to slide away from his bed. "We went through procedure after procedure, medication after medication. And the drugs made her sick and the treatments made her look awful, and the whole time the cancer just got worse." The blonde covered her face with her hands, not noticing her change in pronouns. "It was excruciating to watch."
The con put his hand over hers in sympathy. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
She looked up at him, a sad smile on her face. "You read my file?" she asked. When he nodded, she continued, "So you know my mother died approximately six months ago."
Neal nodded again, "Right before you came out here to find Gavrikov."
Brooke's eyes drifted to the floor, and the con had an ominous feeling. "Yeah, well; what's not in the file is that a week before she died, my mom fell into a coma, and for two days I watched a machine breathe for her." She finally forced herself to look up at him. "The day my mother died, I was allegedly in San Francisco breaking into the security vault of the Fleischer and stealing the Hamlet. When I got the news that she was gone, I was sitting in an airport in Chicago."
The room was silent except for the steady beep of Neal's heart monitor. The con had heard a lot of stories in his life, had done a lot of questionable things in his own past, but he was at a loss for words at the girl's confession.
Brooke shifted back to her feet, breathing deep as she seemed to blink back tears, then wobbled to her bed, pulling out a clean pair of blue nursing scrubs.
"I sent money to a friend to take care of everything," she concluded, her back turned to him as she slipped the shirt gingerly over her head. "But I didn't go to her funeral, the cemetery—hell, I haven't even been back to the state since." She finished adjusting the pants around her cast, attaching a nurse's name-tag before grabbing her bag and walking back to Neal.
"I made a choice that day, Neal Caffrey, and honestly?" she told him flatly. "It kills me to look in the mirror every day and know I made the wrong one. You made a mistake, and it's going to probably cause all sorts of hurt and fall-out. But you made the right choice—you stayed here. It's because of you that Elizabeth is in the room down the hall and not downstairs in the morgue. And after all of the anger and hysterics finally blow over, they're going to remember that." She touched his arm, smiling gently. "So just hold onto that, okay?"
He watched her walk away, "You going to be okay getting out of here?" he asked.
She glanced at her foot, then back at him. "I'd say the worst is over," she replied. "Tell Elizabeth I said thanks, okay? And that...she's in good hands." She took one step out, then turned back, "By the way, the Tamerlane? Amazing work—major props." And with a mutual smile, she disappeared down the hall.
A/A/N: As one of my awesome reviewers pointed out, I really shouldn't use these footnotes to explain my character's actions too much- it distracts from the piece. But, I am curious about something, so I'm going to put it out there in case someone knows the answer: is Neal's fear/dislike of hospitals actually taken from a reference in the show, or is it just inferred for FanFic purposes (which is completely valid in creative licensing)? Just wondering...