Bonded and Forged For Life (PG) Part 1 Neal & the Gang

[huffydoo]

Title: Bonded and Forged For Life
Author: huffydoo
Rating: PG
Characters: Neal and the Gang - Gen
Word Count: 2,606
Spoilers: None
Warnings: mention of child abuse, mention of child witnessing murder, some medical squickiness to come

Done in answer to embroiderama's great prompt on collarcorner, and a thank you to the great story she just posted.



The young man laid there in the rain, too weak and hurt to move or speak. No one had seen him in the dark. No one, he thought, had probably even cared. Everyone had swarmed over Peter and even the suspects. He’d been lost in the shuffle. Diana had been mere inches from him, so close his fingers had brushed the leather of her shoe. She hadn’t noticed. Jones had been nearby. He could hear Jones. He was glad Peter was alive. He’d been scared when he’d missed the first shot. He’d pushed Peter out of the path of the second and third shots. He hadn’t been so lucky but he didn’t really care about that. He did wish though someone was there. He wished someone cared enough to notice he was missing. He wished someone would hold his hand or stroke his hair. Kate never did. Kate wasn’t gentle or maternal. She didn’t think it was her place. On the rare occasions he would get sick or injured, Kate managed to disappear for parts unknown. It got to the point where he would hide it from her, doctor himself in secret, rather than face the pain of being alone.

He was alone now though. He didn’t have an illusion of Moz showing up. Moz didn’t do illness or injury. He at least tried. Moz had gotten the itch and was in Boston running a scam. He and Neal had an agreement that he wouldn’t run any in New York where it might end up on Peter’s desk. He wouldn’t reform, but he also wouldn’t make Neal choose anymore. He wished Moz was here, even if it was to listen to Moz telling him ‘I told you so.’ Moz didn’t know though. He couldn’t express what being with the FBI really meant to him. He was able to wear a white hat and for a moment forget he was the deformed, evil, morally bankrupt wretch his father had beat into his head. He had hated his son from birth and it wasn’t long before the feeling was mutual. Funny, his father was a low down grafter who’d pistol-whipped his wife to death in front of their son. Neal was six, it was his sixth birthday and his mother had spent some of his father’s drug money for a present. It was a little car, it was cherry red Neal remembered. His father had been furious. He’d tied Neal to a chair and made him watch what his greed caused. Neal tried to shut out the memory but his mind was flooded by her screams and her begging her husband to let the boy go.

The sky erupted into a lightning show, streaks lighting the sky like strokes of white paint on a black canvas. The thunder rolled and the lightning crackled. Neal started to drift off.

Neal…no sleeping. You have to stay awake.

“N-no. Tired, so tired. Let me take a nap.” Neal murmured to the Peter in his head.

No. You’re on a case. No sleeping on the job.

“Not sleeping. Just want to rest my eyes.”

Neal, this isn’t a request. It’s an order.

“No fair. I’ll just take a little cat nap, just a tiny one. I can’t even put my feet on your desk.”

I own you. You do as I say.

“You ain’t even here, how’re you gonna even know?”

I know all. I see all. You know I can tell what you are doing, when and where. Deal with it. Now, wake the hell up.

“Piss off. If I got to die, I should do it on my terms.”

You’re not going to die. We’re both too damn ornery. Now, I’m just going to keep on you until you do what I say.

Neal blew a raspberry.

Real mature, Neal. Where did you learn that, pre-school?

“B-bite me. I’m sleeping.”

Like hell you are. Okay, genius. It’s dark and raining. How in the hell are they going to find you if you fall asleep?

“Makes a faulty presumption. Assumes anyone other than you cares.”

Self-pity doesn’t look good on you.

“It ain’t self-pity, its reality. Now, shut up for a few minutes.”

Elizabeth Burke walked over to the window in the waiting room. She looked out and watched the storm. It was a good one. Normally she loved watching storms. She would wrap herself in one of Peter’s sweatshirts, curl into an afghan on the sofa and watch the storm while sipping on a cappuccino. It was beautiful and haunting. Tonight though, the storm seemed different to El. It seemed mean and angry, as if the skies were raging over an injustice or other.

She turned away from the storm and looked at the clock. She’d been waiting for two hours. Thankfully Peter was going to be alright but he was in surgery to correct his shoulder and stitch up a bullet graze to the side. She chewed her lip. She wondered again where their friend was. She’d expected Neal to come charging in in a near panic at least 90 minutes ago. She pulled out her Blackberry and checked her messages. There wasn’t anything from Neal. This was odd. Neal was annoyingly punctual with returning messages. He even made sure Peter returned her messages promptly. In the world of Neal Caffery, a delay of more than ten minutes in replying was a social faux paz of the grievous kind.

Elizabeth tried to think of reasons why Neal was reacting so strangely. Three years ago, she would have considered he’d run. Now, that wasn’t even a remote possibility in her book. He and Peter were joined at the hip. He’d done his time and was now a trackerless CI. He’d really wanted to be an agent but there was his criminal past, and well there was also the issue that no one could guarantee he could come back to New York, so Neal had decided to stay as Peter’s consultant. Peter had been relieved as the incident with Fowler had intensified Neal’s fear of guns. Peter had tried taking Neal to a shooting range to see if Neal could handle a handgun. It was an important pre-requisite to law enforcement. Peter had told her how Neal couldn’t do it, he’d had a massive panic attack just holding Peter’s unloaded gun. They’d had to leave as Neal was having a major meltdown. Also there was the fact that he’d passed out cold and got a concussion when Hughes had tried to get him to view an autopsy in preparation. He’d lasted as long as the sheet being removed and he promptly passed out. Moz had yelled at Peter all night over it. She felt Moz believed it was a deliberate plot to injure Neal. Neal had a weak constitution for needles and blood so this was the best solution for everyone.

“Diana, Clinton, where’s Neal? Was he there tonight?”

Diana startled. “Neal?” She hadn’t even given the consultant any thought.

“Yes, you know, young man, about my height. He’s usually pretty close to Peter’s side. He has longish dark hair, bright blue eyes, and wears a fedora.” El knew she was sounding a little snarky but it annoyed her how after all the times Neal had helped save their bacon, it was sadly apparent he was often seen as an afterthought.

“I am aware of what he looks like. I was busy securing the scene. Protocol states that when Peter is unavailable and I’m busy, handling of Neal falls to the next senior FBI personnel. In this case that would be Jones.” Diana answered, though she was going through the protocol and didn’t remember however seeing Neal at the scene. She guiltily realized in the chaos and mud, she hadn’t even wondered. She went right into proper procedural training, and Quantico didn’t cover as a pre-requisite the “Care and Feeding of C.I.s” They basically instructed the eager young cadets that they were expendable.

“I know I’m snarky. At the moment I am tired and tense. I’m worried about Peter in surgery and now I am worrying where Neal is. He hasn’t answered my texts and that is not like him.” El sighed. “Hopefully it’s because he is somewhere warm and dry and just without a cell signal. “I’ll wait a bit and then try Mozzie and see if he knows anything. It’s just so un-Nealike.”

Diana understood. “You go up to the surgery waiting room. I will wait here for Clinton. I’ll come up as soon as I know something.”

“Alright.” El wasn’t totally convinced, but she knew Diana and Clinton were good people. She knew they would never be knowingly neglectful or cruel. It was just Neal was special and sometimes it fell to her and Peter to be able to determine if he was ill or hurt. She handed Diana her cell phone. “Please, keep trying for me?”

“I will. You and Peter aren’t the only ones who think of him as family.” Diana teased. Neal was her brother. He could annoy her to death and make her want to slug him or hug him multiple times a day. They could bicker and squabble to the level that Peter would sigh and say how he wished he could just sent them both to their rooms. Hughes was having the office renovated and asked Peter if he required any additions. Peter had looked pointedly at Diana and Neal who were bickering about something minor and groused loudly, “Yes, Reese. I want a time out room.”

Neal sat bolt upright as a pain lanced right through him. “Shit!”

I told you to wake up. You weren’t listening. I figured you would not be adverse to the dramatic.

Neal looked around again for Peter but nothing of the scene had changed. The only different was the fact he was now seated, and he was also totally soaked.  “I didn’t think angels were supposed to torture the dying.”

Now you are the one using a faulty premise, no two of them. First faulty premise is that I am an angel. To be an angel you have to be dead and I am most definitely NOT dead. I am anesthetized, freeing my brain to be with you and kick your ass. Second, you aren’t in great shape but you aren’t dying, unless you stop following my orders.

“It’s cold. It’s raining, I’m bleeding, now I am getting lectured by a voice in my head that is really pissing me off.” Neal hissed. “I’m also getting a headache, thank you.”

Oh poor baby, do you want some cheese and crackers to go with such a fine whine?

“I am seriously telling Mozzie and Elizabeth on you.” Neal shook his head. “I am seriously losing it. I’m threatening to report my best friend for picking on me when he isn’t even here. I try and they will be soothingly patronistic. Moz will then try to secret me into a CAT scan or an MRI and make sure the FBI hasn’t implanted any devices in my brain.”

Once again, just because Mozzie says something, and is very convincing, it doesn’t make it true. I thought we had settled this last summer during the infamous Red Dye incident.

“Low blow, I thought you said you would never bring it up again.” Neal grumbled. “Ok, Sherlock, instruct me as to what I need to do as at the moment I’m beginning to feel a little odd.”

Finally you are ready to shut up and listen to reason. It’s okay, you aren’t dying, but you are dangerously close to shock. Now, take out your cell phone.

Neal made an obscene gesture. “You don’t need to patronize me. I would have thought about that, eventually.” He pulled out his cell phone. He was relieved that he at least had two bars of service. “Peter, maybe it might be better if I just opt to die here?”

Why?

“I missed two texts from Elizabeth. I was just rude to your wife. I can’t believe it.” Neal felt embarrassed at his lapse.

I think being passed out from pain and blood loss will be viewed as an acceptable excuse. She also will be more grateful that you saved my life. It was

“Save it!” Neal hissed. “You’re my best friend and partner. There is never going to be a day when I let you get shot and do nothing. Ain’t never going to happen so you just need to deal with it.”

I will, and a box or two of mortgage fraud cases while you are chained as a desk jockey is just calling my name. They miss you.

“Crap. They are all showing no service available.”

They are in a hospital Neal and most regulations only have a limited area where people can take a cellphone.

“Nah, they work everywhere. They do get funky on an ICU, just saying. I mean not that I know that from ah any personal experience of course.”

I don’t want to know right now. Ok, now if you can’t call them, who else can you call?

Neal thought about this. He couldn’t call June. He didn’t want to upset the lady. Sara was finishing up a case in Detroit. She would also ream him out for calling her in Detroit as opposed to a more realistic chance for help. He punched in a contact. “Yes, I need a taxi.”

OK buddy. I told you that you are shot. You are losing blood. You are very close to lapsing into shock. There is a nifty little service called 9-1-1.

“There is also though the little matter that I’m an ex-felon, even if I am a C.I. Police tend to get very interested in how an ex-felon ends up shot, and in my case my FBI handler is shot and no one else is around.  Besides the cab said they were sending someone right over.”

A cab company promising to be right over? Ok, my surgery is over and the anesthetic is going to start wearing off. I have to leave you on your own. Just make sure that you arrive alive or I will have to come and kick your lazy ass out of the hereafter. I still can’t believe you call a cab. Unreal.

Neal suddenly felt alone again. He crawled, rolled over to the curb and waited. He smirked as the cab arrived ten minutes later. He bet a bus would have taken longer. It was also simple mathematics. There were more taxis in New York City then there were ambulences. Also, no cabbie was trying to shoot syringes of unnamed shit in your veins, well at least not unless you paid them very well and they were ethically challenged. You also knew where you would end up in a cab. You didn’t know which hospital the ambulance would take you to. He may end up at Peter’s hospital, or he could wind up at a fleabag dive. He pulled his wracked body into the back seat and told the driver the destination. He was also an annoying prick and refused to swipe his, or rather Peter’s credit card until they got just outside the ER. Neal did give him a generous tip in self preservation as the cabby was threatening to curse his line for the next five generations.

He walked in and felt wobbly. It was warm and he was exhausted. He saw a chair right by the door and sat down. He would just catch his breath before he made his way and admitted himself. What harm could a little rest do?