Peter looked up from his now unconscious friend, relieved to see Elliott and the medical team clamoring through the doorway, the stretcher loaded with equipment in tow. When they reached them, Peter scrambled up, giving them room to work.
Elliott must have briefed them on the way because they immediately slipped an oxygen mask over Neal's face, explaining it would help increase the efficiency of his limited blood supply. He and Elliott stood there and watched as the team assessed their patient, taking vitals and speaking medical jargon in terse tones as all medical professionals seem to do.
"I know Branson is crazy," Peter said quietly, watching as a blood pressure cuff was wrapped around Neal's limp arm. "But what was the purpose of slowing bleeding him to death?" Neal paled at the sight of blood, and the thought of him tied up, watching as his blood was drained from his body, tore at him. "Was it to torture him?"
"I don't think so," Elliott replied. "Not entirely, anyway." Peter felt the man's eyes shift to him. "Did you see the art?"
Peter looked at him. The art. Peter tore his eyes from Elliott and glanced around the room. Several paintings were sitting around the room in various stages of completion. They were all sunsets. Mostly red sunsets. He knew before Elliott verbalized it.
"They've been painting with blood."
"They?" Peter echoed, eyes still on the horrific collection around them.
"They," Elliott confirmed. "Look at Clay's hand." Peter did so, just now noticing the crusted blood coating his fingers. "Branson has been making him paint with his own blood. If that's not torture, well," Elliott shook his head. "I don't know what is."
Peter couldn't imagine what kind of sick mind would do such a thing or what effect said thing would have on a normal one. But they would cross that bridge when they came to it. The important thing was that Neal was alive and going to stay that way.
The medics placed Neal on the stretcher and took him from the room to the waiting vehicle below. Peter followed closely, and when Neal was loaded into the back of the ambulance, a wave of sick familiarity and deep dread washed over him.
"I'm riding with him." The firm declaration came out without thought. That was one of many regrets he'd had that day. That he had let Neal ride and, he'd thought, die alone.
The medics exchanged glances. "I'm sorry, sir, but-"
He had his creds, and he wasn't afraid to use them. "I'm afraid I must insist."
One medic quickly reached inside, producing a sheet. "You will have to sign a waiver, stating-"
Peter scribbled his name on the bottom with a shakey hand, cutting off all explanations, and climbed into the cramped space. Another regret rectified.
WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC
Neal hadn't regained consciousness during transport to the hospital, but the medic in the back with him had been able to assuage some of Peter's fears. They had determined Neal was suffering low-volume shock, but his vitals indicated he hadn't yet reached a critical stage. Their immediate course of action was to help his body deal with the lower blood volume and push plasma and fluids. They assured Peter, given his age and physical condition, his chances of a complete recovery were very good.
But Peter had seen their exchanged glances when they had taken in the scene in the apartment. They, too, knew there was more to recover from than just the physical damage that had been wrought there. Again, Peter told himself, they'd cross that bridge when they came to it. The important thing was that Neal's injuries weren't life-threatening; anything else they could work through.
They'd let him stay with Neal as he was rushed through the doors into the ER, but as he was wheeled into the curtained cubicle, he'd been asked to step out and provide admission information while they stripped, assessed, and cleaned up their patient.
The doctor emerged just as he finished up with the lady and her rolling computer.
"How is he?" Peter asked without preamble.
"We have him stabilized, but he has mild tachycardia as a result of low blood volume," the doctor told him, "We've estimated blood loss at about 1800 cc, which means he's suffering from level 3 hypovolemic shock. We believe we've intervened quickly enough to reverse the effects, but we'll know more in ten to twelve hours. They are getting a room ready for him in the CCU. We'll keep him there to monitor his progress for the next 24 hours and watch for any complications."
"Do you expect any?"
"We never know what to expect," he gave a tired smile. "That's why we observe. But I'm optimistic; he is young and otherwise healthy." He practically repeated verbatim what the medic had told him on the way in. "Except for the blood workup, " he continued, "which we will do later, we're doing a complete forensic examination. We bagged his clothing, did a draw to check for drugs or alcohol, and scraped his nails in case he got a piece of his attacker. We have cataloged his injuries, and they are now finishing up with the photographs. We will have the exam findings documented with detailed descriptions and photos as soon as possible."
He hadn't even thought about evidence. He wasn't being much of a Federal Agent. But then again, today, that was Agent Elliott's job, Not his. Badge notwithstanding, he was here as Neal's friend.
"What injuries did he have?" All he'd seen were the bruises on Neal's arms where Branson had practiced phlebology.
"Some substantial bruising on the arms and around his left ankle. There are also several whirl-shaped burns on his torso, consistent with a tazor used at full power." That must have been how Branson overpowered Neal on the street. Since there was more than one, Peter guessed that was how he'd managed him in the apartment, too. He didn't see Neal willingly going along with any of the man's warped artistic endeavors. "All his physical wounds are superficial; the blood loss is the issue we are dealing with." The swishing of the curtain caught their attention. Neal, cleaned up and looking pale and small in the bed, was being rolled out. "I suggest you get some rest," the doctor put forth. "Between his physically depleted condition and the medication we're giving him, Mr. Clay will be out of it for the next several hours. Leave your contact information, and I will have someone call you when he regains consciousness or if there are any changes."
Peter glanced at his watch. It was almost seven; Elizabeth would be worried to death. She'd known they had a lead and were going to the address hoping to find Neal, but he'd made that call over two hours ago.
"I want to stay with him," Peter told the doctor. "At least for a little while, but I do need to call my wife first."
The nurse accompanying Neal's bed spoke up. "He'll be in room 520. Just buzz at the door to the CCU and tell them the room number, and they will let you in."
Peter thanked her and pulled his phone from his pocket as they wheeled Neal down the hall and to the elevator.
"We found him, El, and he's gonna be okay." It was the first thing he said when she answered, knowing those were the most important questions she'd have.
"Thank God," she breathed shakily. "What happened? Who took him?"
From there, Peter filled her in, explaining it was a mentally ill artist who'd taken him and not some enemy from the past. He had to tell her where he was, that he planned to stay, and why. That, of course, triggered new concerns and questions about Neal's condition. He didn't get into the creepy details; he just said Neal was being treated for blood loss and would be in the CCU for at least the next 24 hours."
"The last time he woke up in the hospital," Peter recalled the finale of the Cordero investigation. Disoriented, Neal had awakened in the hospital, unsure of who he was and with little memory of how he'd gotten there. "He was agitated, and I wasn't there. I want to be there this time."
Of course, Elizabeth understood and said she'd get the word out to everyone that Neal, or Nathan Clay, had been found. Except for Elodie, she'd told him she'd leave to Ms. McBride. With firm instructions from Elizabeth to call her to say goodnight, the call ended. After a stop at the coffee machine, Peter made his way to the fifth floor.
WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC
Even though he'd rather stay in the safety of unconsciousness, there was a sense of triumph when Neal felt himself rising to the surface. Each time he drifted off, there was the underlying fear that he might never return. How much blood could a man lose before his body shut down? Before he was lost to the darkness forever?
He couldn't hear Branson, and he seemed to still be on the floor. Maybe Branson had left him there for the night. If so, he wouldn't be taking any more blood, and with every hour that passed, Neal had to believe Peter was getting closer.
But was he? Doubt crept in the back of his mind. None of his lists of possible suspects had included Creedence Branson. He'd only thought of the enemies Neal Caffrey and his group of alias' had amassed, for the most part, especially after his brief conversation with Agent Elliott that ruled out the former New York Crime organization run by the Cordero family. Those lists were so long it could take Peter days just to determine their whereabouts. And he didn't have days left in him. He felt warmer and more comfortable than usual and wondered if that was just the preliminary stages of a complete body shutdown. He'd heard that when a person suffered from hypothermia, they began to feel quite warm and comfortable in the moments before they died.
He was warm and comfortable, and it was tempting to just relax and drift away...
But if he was never found, would Peter begin to doubt him? Think he'd returned to his former ways and run off to start a new life of crime? Would he regret ever knowing him? Regret allowing him back into this life? Into the life of his son?
He couldn't let that happen; he didn't want to die. He had things to do, important things to do. Important things to say. To Peter.
He had to find a way-
Suddenly, the band tightened around his arm, the precursor to Branson making yet another stick in his veins. He gathered all his strength and tried to jerk free of the man's grip.
"Enough!" he tried to shout, but it didn't leave his mouth that way. It was more of a weak whimper. Damn. The pressure continued to constrict his arm. He tried to shift his arm away from his tormentor, but his body was heavy. Concentrating on enunciation, he tried again. "No more."
"Neal?" He felt a hand on his forehead. "It's okay, Neal," a familiar voice soothed. Was his mind playing tricks on him? Giving him his most desperate wish so he'd stop fighting? "You are safe now."
He so wanted to believe that. He fought to open his eyes, to validate that the voice was real and not a trick of his mind, but they felt as leaden as his limbs. With much effort, he managed to pry them open. Peter's face swam before him in the dim light. He blinked hard, trying to clear his vision, to bring the face into sharper focus.
"Peter?" his voice was weak and raspy.
"Yeah, Neal," the face broke into a grin, and the hand moved gently upon his brow. "It's me, and I'm really here."
He frowned. Peter was good, but could he actually read minds? He tried to take in his surroundings to determine the reality of his situation, to know if the tired but smiling Peter Burke was truly here. There was a faint beeping sound coming from somewhere, and the floor wasn't a floor; it was a bed. He wasn't in the nightmarish room Creed called a Studio. He was in a hospital. It even smelled like a hospital, which was a welcome change. If it was a delusion, it was a very convincing one.
"Hope so..." he tried to moisten his lips, but since his tongue was equally dry, it didn't help at all. "...been waiting on you."
Peter removed his hand, and a moment later, a large plastic cup, straw extended, was held to his lips. Neal sipped the cool water gratefully.
"I know you were, Neal," Peter said gently. "And I got there as fast as I could. How you feeling?"
"Tired..." It was true. His eyelids were getting heavy again. He could feel the darkness starting to creep in, and despite what his senses told him, he was still wary. "But I'm afraid to sleep. I'm afraid..."
"Afraid you'll wake up and still be there?" Neal again wondered if Peter had some mind-reading superpower, at least where he was concerned. "It was the same for me after you got me out of that cell in Venezuela," Peter explained. "I'm not gonna lie; this is probably gonna stick to you for a while. It did to me. But I promise," he leaned close, his hand again settling on his forehead. "You'll get through it, and you won't be alone, you understand?"
Neal felt his throat tighten. He wasn't alone, He knew that. Not just here, in this dimly lit hospital room, but in life.
"Thanks for finding me, Peter," he mumbled. "For saving my life."
Peter had done that years ago, and he needed to tell him that. But not now, when he could feel tears stinging his eyes. Peter was right; he needed to rest, to recover. They'd have this conversation in daylight when his emotional state wasn't so tenuous.
"Just returning the favor," Peter chuckled. "Now, get some rest."