Allies, Part 2
Continued from part one.
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Listening in on an extra headset, Peter was caught off guard when it was Neal who finally answered the phone. He knew better than to disrupt this initial contact by breaking in to talk to him directly, but he was burning up with curiosity to know exactly how he had ended up as the hostage taker’s go-between-all the more so when he introduced himself to the negotiator as Nick Halden.
Realizing she probably wouldn’t recognize either his voice or the alias, Peter picked up a pen to scrawl a quick note, sliding it over in front of her. She scanned it quickly, then met his eyes, nodding.
“Mr. Halden, we know that the man holding you is John Farrel. Can he hear what I’m saying to you?”
“No. He doesn’t want to speak to you right now, so he’s asked me to relay his demands for him.”
“Alright. But before we can look at getting him what he wants, we need to know that everyone in there is alright. Can you tell me if anyone’s been injured?”
“No-no, we’re all fine. No one’s hurt.” There was a pause as Neal was interrupted by an indistinct voice in the background-apparently Farrel, because after Neal added, clearly under orders, “For now, unless he doesn’t get what he wants. But he says that if you need someone to get hurt before you’ll take him seriously he’ll be glad to make sure that happens.”
“Tell him we are taking him very seriously, and that we’re going to do everything we can to work this out so that no one does get hurt.”
Neal relayed her assurances, and received Farrel’s response. He’d apparently covered the receiver because both sides of the exchange were muffled, but they could hear the two of them go back and forth several times before Neal’s voice came back on the line.
“Farrel wants the police to move back further, for starters. He doesn’t like having them in so close to the building.”
“Okay, I’ll see what we can do about that,” Agent Acken told him. “But before you tell him, I need you to answer a few questions if you can. One word answers are fine if that keeps him from getting suspicious, we just need a better idea of how things look in there.”
“That should be alright.” Neal agreed, keeping his tone neutral, as if she was still talking about the details of arranging to meet Farrel’s demand.
“Is everyone still located near the front of the store?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“According to our information there are five hostages including yourself, three men and two women, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know if he has any weapons with him other than the gun?”
“No-”
Farrel could be heard in the background, getting pretty impatient by the sound of it. Neal didn’t bother covering the mouthpiece this time when he broke off to address him.
“She says they’re working on it. It’s taking a little while because they’ve got a lot of equipment, but they want to make a show of good faith to prove they’re taking you seriously.” Then, addressing Acken again, he said, “He wants you to hurry up.”
“Okay, you can tell him that if he wants to look out the window he can see that we’re almost finished moving back.”
Again the message was passed along, and Farrel responded.
“Hang on,” Neal told Acken “He thinks you have snipers waiting to take him out, so he wants me to check for him.” An instant’s pause, then he added quietly, “Um, if you do have snipers out there, please don’t shoot me, okay?”
Peter’s eyebrows rose. Apparently Neal had worked himself further into Farrel’s trust than Peter had suspected, if the man was willing to take his word on whether the police had actually done as they’d said. Acken exchanged a look with him. Judging by her expression she was equally surprised. It was an interesting development-and potentially a very good one.
It didn’t take long for Neal to come back on the line.
“Is he satisfied?” Acken asked him.
“For the moment.”
“Good. I want you to ask him if he can do something for me now. We’ve given him proof that we want to work with him on this. Now I’d like him to do the same for us by releasing one of the hostages.”
Farrel’s response to that was loud enough that they could make out the occasional word, even over the telephone line.
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen right now,” Neal informed them.
His voice was still steady and matter-of-fact, but Peter could hear the edge of strain that’d crept into his tone. He broke off again, moving the phone away as he spoke to Farrel, though they could still just make out what he was saying-reassuring Farrel that it was alright, the police backing off hadn’t been just a trick to get him to do what they wanted, there was no need to get angry, of course they were going to ask him about releasing hostages, that was their job, it wasn’t anything unexpected, he was still in control here, he just needed to keep calm and think before he did anything….
Peter cursed softly, tightening his grip on the back of the chair Acken sat in. Clearly the situation in there wasn’t quite so under control as it had sounded. He all but held his breath, bracing himself for the sound of gunshots, but they didn’t come. Finally Neal came back on the line.
“Still there?” His light tone was belied by a slight breathlessness. It didn’t require someone with Peter’s in-depth knowledge of him to tell he was shaken.
“Still here,” Acken confirmed. “Is everyone alright?”
“Yeah. Yeah, everyone’s okay. Farrel says to tell you he wants the police to leave. Now. He says he’ll release everyone if the police will stand down and let him go.”
Acken grimaced, but kept her voice calmly professional. “Tell him-tell him my boss won’t let me do that. We can’t leave while there are still people in danger.”
Negotiation was a delicate business at the best of times. Doing it without direct communication, especially when the middleman was untrained for it, only increased the potential for slipups or escalation.
For the first time it occurred to Peter that she wasn’t addressing Neal quite as she would a law enforcement officer in the same position. Probably just as well, seeing as Neal didn’t have either the background or the temperament to respond the same way a LEO would. Acken wasn’t treating him as a negotiator would the typical civilian, though. She might maintain a deliberate, calming tone-either through trained reflex or in hopes of instilling that same reassurance into his tone as he passed the messages along-but she didn’t waste time on platitudes, assurances that he was doing fine, or that they were going to do everything they could to get the hostages out safely.
The realization that she viewed Neal as a proxy to be coached rather than a victim to be eased along and reassured was a welcome one. If there was anyone he would trust to sweet talk a panicked, angry person into thinking things through before doing anything drastic it was Neal-but not everyone was so ready to trust or take advantage of Neal’s… experience in such situations.
“He says you’d better tell your boss to reconsider, because he’s running out of patience.”
“Okay, we need to slow things down here. Tell him that I’ll talk with my superiors and see what I can do. In the meantime-” she paused briefly, evaluating options. Farrel hadn’t given them a deadline yet, which was a good thing. If they wanted to keep it that way, they needed to redirect his attention.
Peter caught her eye, and mouthed, “Food?” She nodded.
“In the meantime, ask him if he would like us to send in some food. It’s getting pretty late for lunchtime, and I’d bet everyone in there is getting hungry.”
This time the discussion went better, at least judging by what they could hear of Neal’s side.
“Yeah, of course we make food. But that’s just cakes, pastries-I don’t think we’ve even got a loaf of bread here. If you want to exist on pure sugar you’re welcome to it. You’re the best judge of what’ll keep you at the top of your game right now. Personally, though, I’d take something more solid as long as it’s being offered. Besides, it’ll make them happier knowing everyone in here’s being taken care of.”
Farrel spoke, his voice sharper again.
“If you’re that worried about it then just ask for something like pizza, where we’d all be eating the same thing,” Neal advised. “You can let everyone else eat some first to make sure it hasn’t been messed with.”
The argument was apparently convincing enough.
“He wants you to send in two pizzas.” Neal informed them. “But don’t let your people get too close. He doesn’t want anyone armed coming near the building. Call when it’s ready, and he’ll send one of the hostages out to get it.”
Catching Diana’s eye, Peter signaled her to start things rolling with getting the food ready to send in. She was worried, that much was plainly visible, but she simply nodded, heading out of the van. The mild triumph of getting Farrel to back down enough to work with them on a point, even one as insignificant as food, was all but negated by the prospect of losing contact.
“Wait, don’t-” Acken began, but Neal cut her off.
“I have to get off now. Get the food ready as quickly as you can. And remember, no one armed comes near the door.”
And with that the line went dead. Agent Acken blew out a long breath.
“That could have gone better,” she said.
“Could’ve gone worse, too,” Jones countered mildly.
“It could’ve,” she agreed. “I just wish there was some way we could see what’s going on in there. As it is, it’s hard to assess the risks or timing of an all-out assault, and without speaking with him directly it’s difficult to determine just how imminent a threat he is.”
“I have an idea that may help with that,” Peter put in. “How quickly can we get a button camera over here?”
No one armed. Whether Neal had intended the emphasis on that point to be a hint or not, it was a possibility. A risky one, but worth it. He hoped.
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The atmosphere of tension in the bakery increased exponentially as they waited for Mehdall to return with the food.
Farrel had discussed with Neal the safest way to go about the pickup. Neal had hoped he might be able to go and get the food himself-the opportunity to communicate unmonitored with the FBI, even if he wasn’t able to talk to Peter directly, could be golden.
But Farrel had been unwilling to risk losing him if the police wouldn’t let him come back. He was worried that the offer could be simply a ploy, intended to get a hostage out of his reach, with no intention of sending the food in at all. For that same reason he had been reluctant to send either of the women (he being of the pragmatic, if somewhat bigoted, opinion that their welfare was the most likely to evoke sympathy and concern from those outside, therefore giving him the greatest leverage). Mehdall, he had ultimately determined, was the least sympathetic and therefore most dispensable of his hostages should anything go wrong. Lucky man.
It made Farrel twitchy, though, even more so than he had been already. As if allowing even one of his hostages beyond his direct supervision might somehow loosen his control over the entire situation. And who knew, maybe it would.
In any case, he was currently attempting to assuage his anxiety regarding what might happen outside by compensating with an even tighter grip on what was going on inside. Everyone was sitting tightly packed together against one wall, Neal included. He’d tried to talk Farrel into letting him stand watch and keep an eye on what was going on outside-Farrel was still too afraid of snipers to risk going near the windows anymore himself-but for the moment Farrel had decided that he wanted everyone within his field of vision, where he could easily cover them all with his gun at the same time.
Neal was, however, tasked with unlocking the door to let Mehdall back in when he returned. And, of course, confirming that he came alone, and not, say, accompanied by a SWAT team. Being given that role at least was a positive. Who knew what opportunity might present itself when the time came….
When the knock did come, it startled all of them into jumping. A man’s outline could just be made out on the other side of the door, but the shade covering it made it impossible to tell who it was. Protection against snipers, yes-but also vulnerability in the unknown.
Farrel hesitated, fingering the gun’s trigger nervously. Neal waited for him to give the go-ahead before getting up to answer. On finally receiving the nod, he pushed himself off the floor, pulling out of his jacket pocket they key he had claimed from Michael earlier.
Inserting the key into the lock, he paused before turning it to pull back the shade just enough to peek outside and see… Peter. He wasn’t wearing either suit jacket or bulletproof vest, and his holster was missing as well. He seemed to be entirely unarmed, in fact. Mixed relief and anxiety-for how Farrel might react to this development, whether the surprise would push him into a snap reaction-warred inside him, but in the end relief won out. He and Peter might have very different ways of accomplishing their various ends, but when it counted he knew he could trust Peter to back his play, even when he didn’t understand. And even more telling-he trusted Peter enough to do the same when the situation was reversed.
For a split second, he considered just opening the door, and trying to talk Farrel into believing that he hadn’t gotten a good look at Peter’s face and had thought it was Mehdall coming back, since he was alone. Peter’s clothes and general build were just close enough that it might work. But in the end he couldn’t take the risk of Farrel panicking and shooting Peter the moment he walked in the door. He’d have to give him a chance to prepare himself and hope for the best.
“It’s not Mehdall,” he told Farrel. Before Farrel had a chance to explode, he added quickly, “Just one guy, though, doesn’t look like he’s armed. And he does have the food.”
“I told them-”
“I know,” Neal cut in quickly. “I know. Probably someone higher up stepped in and told them they couldn’t send a civilian back into a situation like this. But it is only one guy, and even if he does have some weapon hidden he can’t get to it with his hands full. Two pizzas and some bottles of water, it looks like. There’s no way he can move fast enough to get the drop on you when he’s carrying all that. You can cover him with your gun until he’s searched and you can confirm he’s not a threat. I don’t see any harm in it.”
“I don’t know.” Farrel scowled. “He’s still a cop. You never know what they could be planning with this.”
“Yeah, but surely we can handle just one of them, right? Besides, you know they’re not going to risk sending in a team with guns blazing if one of their own’s in here. It could be an advantage.”
The anger in Farrel’s eyes shifted into something more like speculative interest. “True…” he said. Then, more decisively, ordered, “Okay, let him in. But close the door again behind him right away, and lock it.”
Neal did so before Farrel had a chance to change his mind. With his back turned no one else could see his expression. He gave Peter a brief smile of welcome, before stepping back to let him in.
“No fast moves,” Farrel ordered sharply. “Stand right there until I can make sure you’re not armed.”
“I’m not armed,” Peter assured him. “I just came to talk.”
“Yeah?” Farrel scoffed. “Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it. You can talk, but you’re not going back out that door until I say you can. Turn around, slowly.”
Peter did as he was told, demonstrating that he had no hidden holster or gun tucked into the back of his waistband, no place to have concealed one.
“Satisfied?” Peter asked.
Farrel didn’t answer directly, still scowling and shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Put the food down there,” he told Peter. “Then put your hands behind your head and take a step back.” When Peter had again complied, Farrel gestured Neal toward the boxes. “Check it.”
Neal flipped open the lid on each box in turn.
“Just pizza,” he informed Farrel, turning them so that he could have a look inside for himself. “Nothing dangerous here. Looks like he’s clean.”
“Okay.” Farrel nodded at Peter. “Over there with the others. Then you can say whatever you came to say and I’ll decide what to do with you.”
Peter hadn’t gotten two steps before Farrel stiffened, his grip on the gun tightening again.
“Wait!” When Peter froze, Farrel told Neal, “Ankle holster. Check him for an ankle holster.”
Smart man. Neal winced inwardly. He could only hope Peter had remembered to remove his backup piece. His partner was keeping up an excellent poker face, but Neal detected a hint of worry in his eyes.
Kneeling, he tried to casually use his body to hide Peter’s legs as he checked, hoping that if there was a gun there he could either simply tell Farrel there was nothing or pocket it himself to slip back to Peter later. Farrel, however, shifted a step to the side to keep an eye on things.
There was no gun. The ankle holster was still there. Unfortunately, Farrel overlooked the first detail, and panicked at the second.
“I knew it!” he shouted. “They sent you in here to shoot me in the back. I said it-I said the cops couldn’t be trusted-”
“It’s empty!” Peter insisted, holding perfectly still to avoid doing anything that might be taken as threatening. “Take it easy-I’m not armed!”
Neal rose, holding out a placating hand and hastily added his own assurances. “It’s okay-there’s no gun. The holster’s empty. Just slow down….”
Then things happened quickly, too quickly. Michael shifted, maybe nervous, maybe preparing to jump in if he saw a chance. Whatever the case, the motion caught Farrel’s eye, and he swung the gun around to cover him.
Alarmed, Peter instinctively held out a hand in the same calming gesture Neal had used. Only the effect was far from reassuring. Farrel turned his gun on Peter again.
“Hey! I told you-”
The phone rang. Farrel flinched, his hand tightening on the trigger. The gunshot sounded more like an explosion in the confined space. For long seconds everything seemed perfectly still, as if all the tension and fear and anger in the room had been released in that one, brief moment of violence, leaving everything peaceful. No one moved or spoke.
Neal wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up sitting half-sprawled on the floor, as if his legs had simply dropped out from under him. Had he ducked? Farrel hadn’t been aiming at him, he’d been aiming toward Peter. Peter- A glance told him that Peter was unharmed. He looked worried, even afraid, but he hadn’t been hit. Farrel had flinched, and missed. Farrel himself was looking something close to horrified. He hadn’t meant to shoot at all.
“I- I didn’t mean- It was an accident.” Farrel stammered, echoing Neal’s thoughts. “I’m sorry.”
Neal couldn’t understand his sudden change of attitude. The gunshot had been a shock, a wakeup call to all of them, but…. Strangely, Neal didn’t feel startled into high alert, as the adrenaline rush would normally have done. His reactions felt sluggish, detached, as if the whole situation had taken on a dreamlike, surreal quality.
“I know, I know you didn’t mean to. And I’ll tell the other agents that. It’ll be okay. You still haven’t done anything that can’t be fixed. We can handle this.”
Peter’s voice was reassuring, almost gentle, as if he was trying to coax a frightened animal into cooperating, but to Neal’s practiced ear he sounded scared. Really scared. Neal couldn’t understand it. He was the one who got scared when people pulled guns, not Peter.
“I’ve never-never actually seen- That’s-” Farrel stammered, finally concluding, “It’s bleeding a lot.”
Following Farrel’s gaze, Neal looked to his own right thigh, which was, indeed, bleeding rather a lot. Oh. That did explain a few things.
“Yeah,” Peter agreed, talking with a deliberation that spoke of controlled panic rather than true calm. “And since I know you didn’t mean to kill him, we need to get it stopped. I’m trained in first aid, so Michael,” he nodded toward the manager, “is going to toss me some of those cloth napkins. I’m not going to do anything to you, I’m just going to help Nick, okay?”
Neal noted his almost imperceptible hesitation on the “N,” and was glad Peter had remembered to use the alias. A slipup like that might’ve been enough to set Farrel off again. As it was, he barely even hesitated before nodding in agreement. Nice to know his captor still considered his life so valuable.
“Are you alright?” Farrel asked him.
Which, all things considered, was a pretty ridiculous question, but given the unexpected show of concern Neal was willing to let that pass. He managed a weak smile.
“I’m fine. Doesn’t even hurt.”
Although, come to think of it, he was starting to feel it now-not so much sharp pain as like the beginnings of a muscle cramp. He was also starting to feel distinctly lightheaded, and vaguely nauseated.
He wanted to lie back, shut his eyes, but the thought of laying flat on the floor made him feel far too vulnerable. He already felt helpless enough, with Peter and Farrel looming over him like a pair of dogs getting ready to fight over a bone.
No, that analogy wasn’t quite right. Peter could actually be really good at the whole non-confrontational thing when he wanted to be, and Farrel…. was still looking too scared and worried to be territorial. They were more like… like…
He really needed to do something before he fell over. His arms were starting to shake, as the lightheadedness intensified-he wasn’t going to be able to prop himself up much longer.
Peter immediately picked up on his attempt to push himself backward toward the nearest wall and moved in to help, for which he was immensely grateful. He likely wouldn’t have made it the scant three feet or so on his own.
The movement seemed to awaken that distant muscle ache in his leg into full-blown pain, as if a red-hot vice was locked around his leg and squeezing down. It definitely pulled him back into a state of full alertness-and made him wish that merciful grace period of shock-induced daze and numbness would return. Maybe if he was lucky blood loss would bring it back.
But for the time being, at least, he was very, very conscious. Shutting his eyes, he alternated between panting and swallowing hard to keep the nausea at bay.
When he regained a measure of control and opened his eyes again, it was to look directly into Peter’s gaze. He was kneeling down beside him, one hand still on Neal’s shoulder to steady him. Seeing Neal recovered enough for awareness, he tightened his grip in a brief squeeze.
“The napkins?” Peter looked over at Michael.
It was more order than request, and Michael didn’t hesitate, gathering up the folded cloth napkins from the wedding display on the table across from him. Rather than keeping his distance and tossing them, he stepped closer to hand them to Peter, before quickly retreating again to keep from aggravating Farrel. Farrel, however, seemed for once too distracted to care much about his failure to strictly follow The Plan.
Folding a few of the napkins into thick pads, Peter set them on the floor next to him. Then he grasped Neal’s right leg at the knee.
“I’m going to need to raise your leg up for a second, to check whether the bullet went all the way through,” he informed Neal.
“Just… make it quick,” Neal asked.
“Fast as I can.”
Not allowing him a chance to tense up, Peter lifted the leg slightly, checking for any other tears in the fabric, then lowered it again. As promised, the movement was quick, limiting jarring to a minimum. The pain didn’t dissipate quite so quickly. Neal hissed, gritting his teeth and hitting a fisted hand against the floor as he worked through it.
“No exit wound. At least that means you’re only bleeding from one place, which may make it easier to stop. Holding up okay?” Peter asked quietly.
Neal managed a nod in response.
Apparently deciding that letting him think about it any longer wasn’t going to help-he was still losing blood, and giving him more time to recover himself wasn’t going to help that-Peter placed the folded napkins against the wound and, without further warning or preparation, pressed down, leaning his weight into it.
Neal cried out, gripping his leg above the wound, as if holding it hard enough could block the pain signals from getting through. Resisting the urge to push Peter away, to just make it stop, he pressed back hard against the wall, alternately holding his breath and breathing in quick, shallow gasps. He wasn’t sure which helped more-probably it would’ve been best to do neither, but he couldn’t seem to find enough air for deep breaths.
After a few minutes-or was it only seconds?-the pressure loosened briefly as Peter lifted his hand to add another couple of napkins to the now-bloody wad on his leg, but a moment later he pressed down again, more firmly than ever.
He must have phased out briefly at some point, because when he opened his eyes again Peter had removed his tie and was knotting it over the makeshift bandage to keep it in place. Neal had no memory of Peter getting the tie around his leg. Which was all for the best, actually.
“Is he alright?” Farrel asked Peter. He was pale, probably almost as pale as Neal himself was, and looked distinctly shaken.
“No,” Peter said bluntly. “He’s not alright. He’s been shot, he’s in pain, and he needs proper medical attention.”
“But-but he’ll be okay, right? I mean, he’ll recover. He’s not…bleeding to death, or something? You got it stopped?”
“It’s slowed,” Peter corrected. “For now. Time will tell whether it’s stopped. And even if it has, a little movement could start it up again. Depending on where the bullet’s lodged, something could shift and open up an artery. If that happens, he could bleed to death within minutes.”
Which… was kind of a little more than Neal needed to know right now. The knot that had formed in his stomach tightened a little bit further. Even if it wasn’t anything he hadn’t known, hearing it said in such a straightforward way…. But he had a pretty good idea of just why Peter was putting it all to Farrel so directly.
“How... how will you know if he’s bleeding too much again?” Farrel asked. “If it’s getting dangerous, I mean.”
Peter briefly locked eyes with Neal, who gave a very slight nod. Yes, he understood, and he’d back up Peter’s plan to the best of his ability.
“Like I said, it could be fast. But there are signs to watch for,” Peter said. “Shaking, sweating, rapid breathing and heartbeat, dizziness, nausea, loss of consciousness….”
Actually, that might not take all that much acting, Neal thought. Because the signs of deathly-dangerous blood loss could also pretty much apply to your plain old run-of-the-mill blood loss and shock that’s only to be expected if you’re clumsy or stupid or just plain unlucky enough to get in the way of a bullet.
The nausea that had been ebbing and flowing suddenly roiled again, and he only managed an inarticulate croak of misery as warning before twisting to the side-he just barely summoned the presence of mind to do so away from Peter-and emptying his stomach. Not that there was much to empty, aside from bile. It’d been a long time since breakfast.
Peter caught him before he could slide sideways, helping him straighten. Once he was sure Neal wasn’t going to fall over, he dropped one of the napkins over the mess, his mouth twisting in mixed sympathy and disgust.
He was worn out enough by the purging that the tremors running through his body needed no feigning. Instead of taking advantage of his newfound ability to draw in deep, even breaths, he deliberately began to shorten them, making them shallower, gradually increasing the speed. He was careful not to rush things too much, knowing well that overselling could be just as dangerous as failing to be persuasive enough.
“He’s-That’s not good.”
For the first time, he welcomed the increased alarm in Farrel’s tone. This time, it marked potential success.
A little too much success, possibly, because the near-hyperventilation was starting to make him truly dizzy. He shut his eyes in an attempt to escape the spinning sensation.
“Do something! You have to help him!”
“I can’t!” Peter met Farrel’s steadily growing alarm with the perfect balance of frustration and helplessness. Neal had to hand it to him-it was really quite convincingly done. “I told you, he needs real medical help, a hospital. Even if I was a doctor, there wouldn’t be much I could do here without all the right equipment.”
“You can’t just let him die! I never wanted…”
That, he decided, was the perfect moment to let his head loll back and to the side, forcing his tightly-strung muscles to go limp, and finally letting his breath ease back into something closer to normal-still shallow, but no longer on the verge of hyperventilation.
And maybe that was just a touch too convincing, because Peter actually cried out, surging forward.
“Neal!”
Neal could feel the trembling in Peter’s fingers as he felt at his neck for a pulse. He was careful not to react to the touch. Fortunately, Farrel was either too distracted to notice Peter’s slip, or simply thought that Peter himself had been too distracted to get the name of an almost-complete stranger correct.
“Is he…?” Farrel’s voice sounded half-strangled, actually going high-pitched with fear.
“He’s alive. For now.”
Okay, make that ‘had definitely been a touch too convincing.’ Because, much as he might appreciate the man’s abilities, his partner was not a good enough actor to feign that tremor in his voice. Peter was really worried.
But, tempted as he might be to make some sign to reassure him, Neal knew he couldn’t risk it. Not now.
“He needs to be in a hospital,” Peter reiterated. “Look, what I said still holds true. At this point you still haven’t done anything that can’t be fixed. If you surrender peacefully now, let us get him taken care of, it’ll look very good for you. You can still come out of this well. But if he dies, that changes. And the way the agents and cops out there look at you changes too, because they’ll know that you’re willing to kill.”
It was dangerous, pressing him like that, giving him an ultimatum. Probably no experienced negotiator would recommend such a tactic. But it seemed Peter had read him correctly. After a few seconds’ hesitation, Farrel responded, sounding subdued.
“If I give you my gun now… they won’t shoot at me or anything? They’ll just take me in quietly, and then get him to a doctor?”
“Absolutely.”
There was no wavering or hesitation in Peter’s voice now. He’d won. They’d won.
True to his promise, the agents’ entrance was as low-key as possible. No shouted orders or threats, no breaking down doors, no room full of leveled guns, just calm instructions. Once he’d made up his mind to it, Farrel was as compliant a subject as any law enforcement officer could wish for.
Neal wasn’t aware that the rest of the team had been among the agents until he heard Diana’s voice.
“Ambulance is on the way, Boss. They should be here in a few minutes. How’s he doing?”
Mildly irritated at being talked over, Neal mumbled, “M’fine.”
“Yeah?” Peter asked. “Then why aren’t your eyes open?”
Right. He’d forgotten about that, actually. Somehow it seemed like an insurmountable amount of effort to put forth, but he pried them open anyway, just to prove Peter wrong.
“Happy?” he asked.
“Very,” Peter replied with a thin smile.
Neal didn’t realize that he’d drifted off again, until he felt Peter’s hand on his shoulder.
“Hey, you still with us?”
He blinked, bringing his rather vacant stare into focus on his outstretched legs.
“Was… a really nice suit,” he sighed, plucking listlessly at the pant leg. Somehow the statement seemed to sum up his feelings about the day nicely.
Peter huffed, relaxing slightly. “Yeah, well, now you know why FBI agents get such cheap ones.”
“No excuse,” Neal muttered, then, with a groan, added, “Could really use some pain meds about now.”
“I know, buddy. I’m working on it.”
Despite his attempts to stay alert, he could feel his eyes sliding shut again. Neal could hear Peter talking into a radio, demanding that they hurry up and get the EMTs in there. If anyone could get them there fast, Peter could. He knew he should probably stay awake for them, but he was getting so tired, and even the pain suddenly seemed less important….
As the sounds around him faded out of focus, he could feel Peter’s hand come to rest on his head, ruffling the hair slightly, and he knew it was okay to rest now. Just for a while.
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The wait at the hospital was a nerve-wracking one, after hours that had already been far too filled with tension. Even knowing Neal’s dramatic decline had been (mostly) an act, Peter had been more than a little afraid for him. The fact that Neal had celebrated the arrival of backup by virtually passing out in his arms hadn’t helped things-especially when he hadn’t even woken when the EMTs had arrived, checked his condition, and loaded him into the ambulance.
In the end, however, he’d been relieved to hear that the injury was-relatively speaking-minor. Yeah, it was going to be bothering Neal for a while, but the bullet was low-caliber, the damage, though definitely more than a scratch, was limited, and the doctors were confident that he would make a full recovery. They wanted to keep him overnight for monitoring (in part because he had lost a fair amount of blood), but informed him that, barring complications, they expected to be able to release him in the morning.
It was only in the wake of that release from worry that he remembered that he hadn’t called yet to tell El what had happened. Things had moved so fast… Maybe it was for the best that she hadn’t had to worry until he could give her reassurance and good news all around, but he still couldn’t help feeling a certain sense of guilty trepidation as he dialed her number.
But El, bless her, had skipped right over any panic or recriminations, only wanting to know whether everyone was alright. He’d assured her that Neal would recover, no one else was harmed, the hostage-taker was in custody, and all was on its way to being as well with the world as things got. Once she’d been reassured yet again that he, Peter, was also doing alright-even though he’d already told her he hadn’t been hurt-she was satisfied for the time being. She hadn’t even batted an eye at the suggestion that Caffrey should spend the first few days of his recovery at their place. She’d simply told him to ask whether Neal thought he’d be feeling up to eating Fettuccine Alfredo, or if he’d like something a little plainer for dinner tomorrow.
He never did get the chance to ask, though. Between painkillers, blood loss, and exhaustion, Neal looked likely to be dead to the world for the rest of the night. After ensuring that the doctors would notify him if anything changed, he’d headed back to work to wrap things up for the evening before going home to unwind and enjoy the company of his lovely wife.
And as it turned out, said lovely wife ended up getting landed with the duty of picking Caffrey up from the hospital the next morning. Peter had fully intended to pick him up himself. He’d gotten up early to head to work-yes, it was Saturday, but hostage situations and CIs getting shot generated an astonishing amount of paperwork, and he hadn’t wanted to start the next week already falling behind.
Unfortunately, the paperwork ended up consuming even more time than he’d expected, and by the time he came up for breath the morning was nearly over and lunchtime was fast approaching. He’d called the house to let El know he was leaving work but might be late for lunch, and apologize for losing track of the time. He’d expected that his next call would have to be to the hospital, to let a likely-impatient Neal know that he was on his way. Instead, however, he’d been greeted with the cheerful news that she’d already been to the hospital, found him ready to be discharged, and brought him back with her, and that if he started for home now the food would be hot when he arrived.
Some days, he was really glad he’d been lucky enough to marry such a woman. Other days… he just didn’t know what he’d do without her.
He was a little surprised when Satchmo wasn’t at the door to greet him. He put it down to the food currently being prepared in the kitchen taking precedence over loyalty… until he caught sight of the dog coming down the stairs, dragging a pillow. And not just any pillow-Peter’s pillow. The one from his bed. Which Satchmo never laid on without permission, much less stole things from.
Not only that, but Satch, apparently, was a dog on a mission. Bypassing Peter with barely a glance, he headed straight for the living room. To the couch. Which Neal was stretched out on. Dropping the pillow-which was noticeably wet with dog slobber by that point-in Neal’s lap, he received the expected praise and pats for his hard work.
“I see you’re settling in.”
Peter thought he’d actually done a pretty good job of keeping his tone neutral-until he realized he’d automatically placed his hands on his hips in what Neal referred to as his “FBI Agent” stance. Attempting to take a more relaxed attitude only ended with his arms crossed, a very slight improvement.
“Morning, Peter!” Neal raised a hand-the one that wasn’t currently rubbing Satchmo’s ears-in greeting.
He was looking… surprisingly good, actually. Pale, yes, and there were subtle lines to his face that spoke of pain not quite controlled by the meds he was on. But he was alert and, from the looks of his oh-so-guileless expression, in high enough spirits to start searching for trouble.
Which made Peter feel somewhat less guilty about asking very, very mildly, “What’re you doing?”
“Teaching Satchmo to fetch,” Neal replied, utterly un-phased, as if it should have been obvious.
Satchmo, at least, had the grace to look vaguely guilty at that point, ducking his head and watching Peter out of the corner of his eyes.
“He knows how to fetch,” Peter pointed out.
“Well yeah, but I don’t think Elizabeth would like me throwing tennis balls in the house.”
Peter had to wonder whether he’d figured out that ‘Elizabeth wouldn’t like it’ before or after having tried it.
“So you decided…” he said slowly, inviting an explanation of how, exactly, that conclusion had led to…this.
“So I decided to try getting him to retrieve useful things. He’s really smart, you know. I bet you could teach him to get your slippers or the newspaper really easily. He brought me this.” Neal held up a magazine, which looked somewhat the worse for wear between the wrinkles, dents, and occasional tears.
“I can see how useful that would be,” Peter agreed drily.
Looking more closely at the magazine in his hand, Neal shrugged. “We had to work on the part where he actually gives it over once he’s brought it. He did just fine with the pillow, though.”
“My pillow.”
“Oh. Is it?” Neal regarded it with an expression of innocent surprise. “I got him to understand what ‘pillow’ means, but we haven’t quite graduated to ‘from the guest bedroom, not the master’ yet.”
Shaking his head, Peter muttered, “Even corrupting my dog now…” Knowing that the same would have little effect if it was leveled on his CI, he favored Satchmo with a stern look. “You’d better stop listening to him when he tells you to take things that don’t belong to you, before it gets you in real trouble.”
Satch whined, thumping his tail once uncertainly.
“Aw, don’t be so hard on him, Peter. He was just trying to be nice. Besides, we were only borrowing it.” Grinning, Neal offered the pillow back to Peter, who eyed the damp pillowcase with distaste.
“Might as well keep it for now. It’ll have to be washed before I use it again anyway.”
“True.” Neal tilted his head. “Well, if you’re willing to lend it to me, then-help me prop my leg up a bit?”
Neal pushed himself up into a half-seated position, freezing for a moment with a hiss once he had achieved it, before wincing and cautiously relaxing. Waiting for Neal’s nod to signal his readiness, Peter helped him arrange the pillow to better cushion and support his leg.
Neal had sucked in a deep breath as his leg was shifted. Now he released it in a slow, shaky sigh.
“Better?” Peter asked.
Neal nodded. “Getting there.”
Still crouched down next to the couch, closer to eye level, Peter met his gaze seriously. “You did good yesterday, you know.”
Neal actually looked startled. “Hey, you were the one who talked him down. All I did was conveniently get shot.”
“By a bullet that probably would’ve hit me otherwise.”
“True,” Neal allowed after a moment’s consideration.
“Besides,” Peter pointed out, “the only reason I was able to talk him into surrendering was because you managed to get on his good side and get him into the right frame of mind for it. You hooked him, I just reeled him in.”
Neal made a face. “Fishing analogies, Peter? Really?”
“Yes, really,” Peter responded calmly, refusing to be drawn out by the attempt at evasion.
“Okay then.” Surrendering, Neal finally met his seriousness with equal gravity. “Thanks. And… thanks for being there, coming in to help like that. It makes a difference, knowing someone’s got your back.”
Peter nodded. “Anytime.”
Satch, apparently deciding that all this seriousness had gone a bit too far, finally found the temptation of Peter being down at his own level too much, poking a cold nose into his ear before beginning to enthusiastically lick his face and neck. It certainly did a thorough enough job of breaking the moment, and for all he had felt those things needed to be said, and was glad to have had the opportunity, Peter couldn’t help a certain sense of relief at the diversion.
“Okay, okay, enough, you’re forgiven!” Peter laughed, holding the dog off at arm’s length and scratching his ears until he settled, content.
“Wish I could get you to forgive my lapses in discernment that easily,” Neal mock-sulked.
“Try it and you’ll find yourself back behind bars.” Peter warned. “Harassing a federal agent is definitely a violation of your parole.”
Neal screwed up his face. “That is so not what I meant, and you know-”
He broke off as the kitchen door opened and El stepped into the room.
“Ah, I thought I heard your voice! Hey, hun.”
Peter stood, stepping over to meet her. She rose slightly on her toes to give him a quick kiss.
“Lunch is just about ready, so no sense in going to get changed now,” she informed him. “I could use your help wrapping things up and carrying everything out, though.”
“Sounds good.” He smiled, inhaling appreciatively. “Smells great, too. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was getting.”
A timer sounded shrilly from the kitchen.
“And there’s my signal. I’d better go check on that, though it probably needs another minute or two-come help me in a couple minutes?” she asked Peter. Receiving his nod of agreement, she turned to Neal, “I thought we’d eat out here, so you don’t have to move.”
“Thanks, El. I appreciate it.”
Neal fairly beamed with said appreciation. Elizabeth smiled back, all concern and inclination to dote upon their-temporary¬-resident invalid. Peter rolled his eyes at the blatant favor-currying, and it’s just as obvious success, but neither of them seemed to notice. Ah well. Caffrey would be well soon enough. In the meantime, he supposed he could spare him a little of Elizabeth’s attention. He did kind of deserve a bit of mothering, after all.
As El left to respond to the timer’s insistent beeping, he started to follow her into the kitchen, figuring he could get a head start getting out plates and silverware while she checked on how things were coming along. But before he had taken more than a step, he paused, turning back.
“Neal?”
Neal raised his eyebrows in inquiry.
“If you want to train an animal to do your dirty work, get your own dog.”
He blinked. “I can’t get a dog. I’m-”
“What?” Peter countered. “On the run? Planning on going anywhere in the next few years?”
“Hey, you’re the one who keeps pointing out how tenuous my probation is.”
“So don’t do anything to land yourself back there.” For once, it wasn’t a challenge, just a genuine request from someone who cared.
“You know it’s not always that simple.”
“But this time?”
Neal hesitated a moment before conceding. “Maybe. I guess we’ll see.”
“Guess so.”
Peter accepted the temporizing with only mild disappointment. Yeah, it was probably too much to hope for any out-and-out promises from him. And maybe he didn’t even want them, just yet. Not until he was sure that Neal would-could-keep them.
For now, it was enough. For the future… well. They’d face that when they got to it.
The End.
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And there you are! I very much hope that it's the sort of thing you were looking for. :3
As much as I struggled with this one, I only wish that I'd been able to have it beta'd. But, despite a couple of very kind offers for the help, by the time I'd finished this it was too close to deadline for any reasonable person to ask someone to go over it. XD So - any issues or problems are my own fault entirely!
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Listening in on an extra headset, Peter was caught off guard when it was Neal who finally answered the phone. He knew better than to disrupt this initial contact by breaking in to talk to him directly, but he was burning up with curiosity to know exactly how he had ended up as the hostage taker’s go-between-all the more so when he introduced himself to the negotiator as Nick Halden.
Realizing she probably wouldn’t recognize either his voice or the alias, Peter picked up a pen to scrawl a quick note, sliding it over in front of her. She scanned it quickly, then met his eyes, nodding.
“Mr. Halden, we know that the man holding you is John Farrel. Can he hear what I’m saying to you?”
“No. He doesn’t want to speak to you right now, so he’s asked me to relay his demands for him.”
“Alright. But before we can look at getting him what he wants, we need to know that everyone in there is alright. Can you tell me if anyone’s been injured?”
“No-no, we’re all fine. No one’s hurt.” There was a pause as Neal was interrupted by an indistinct voice in the background-apparently Farrel, because after Neal added, clearly under orders, “For now, unless he doesn’t get what he wants. But he says that if you need someone to get hurt before you’ll take him seriously he’ll be glad to make sure that happens.”
“Tell him we are taking him very seriously, and that we’re going to do everything we can to work this out so that no one does get hurt.”
Neal relayed her assurances, and received Farrel’s response. He’d apparently covered the receiver because both sides of the exchange were muffled, but they could hear the two of them go back and forth several times before Neal’s voice came back on the line.
“Farrel wants the police to move back further, for starters. He doesn’t like having them in so close to the building.”
“Okay, I’ll see what we can do about that,” Agent Acken told him. “But before you tell him, I need you to answer a few questions if you can. One word answers are fine if that keeps him from getting suspicious, we just need a better idea of how things look in there.”
“That should be alright.” Neal agreed, keeping his tone neutral, as if she was still talking about the details of arranging to meet Farrel’s demand.
“Is everyone still located near the front of the store?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“According to our information there are five hostages including yourself, three men and two women, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know if he has any weapons with him other than the gun?”
“No-”
Farrel could be heard in the background, getting pretty impatient by the sound of it. Neal didn’t bother covering the mouthpiece this time when he broke off to address him.
“She says they’re working on it. It’s taking a little while because they’ve got a lot of equipment, but they want to make a show of good faith to prove they’re taking you seriously.” Then, addressing Acken again, he said, “He wants you to hurry up.”
“Okay, you can tell him that if he wants to look out the window he can see that we’re almost finished moving back.”
Again the message was passed along, and Farrel responded.
“Hang on,” Neal told Acken “He thinks you have snipers waiting to take him out, so he wants me to check for him.” An instant’s pause, then he added quietly, “Um, if you do have snipers out there, please don’t shoot me, okay?”
Peter’s eyebrows rose. Apparently Neal had worked himself further into Farrel’s trust than Peter had suspected, if the man was willing to take his word on whether the police had actually done as they’d said. Acken exchanged a look with him. Judging by her expression she was equally surprised. It was an interesting development-and potentially a very good one.
It didn’t take long for Neal to come back on the line.
“Is he satisfied?” Acken asked him.
“For the moment.”
“Good. I want you to ask him if he can do something for me now. We’ve given him proof that we want to work with him on this. Now I’d like him to do the same for us by releasing one of the hostages.”
Farrel’s response to that was loud enough that they could make out the occasional word, even over the telephone line.
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen right now,” Neal informed them.
His voice was still steady and matter-of-fact, but Peter could hear the edge of strain that’d crept into his tone. He broke off again, moving the phone away as he spoke to Farrel, though they could still just make out what he was saying-reassuring Farrel that it was alright, the police backing off hadn’t been just a trick to get him to do what they wanted, there was no need to get angry, of course they were going to ask him about releasing hostages, that was their job, it wasn’t anything unexpected, he was still in control here, he just needed to keep calm and think before he did anything….
Peter cursed softly, tightening his grip on the back of the chair Acken sat in. Clearly the situation in there wasn’t quite so under control as it had sounded. He all but held his breath, bracing himself for the sound of gunshots, but they didn’t come. Finally Neal came back on the line.
“Still there?” His light tone was belied by a slight breathlessness. It didn’t require someone with Peter’s in-depth knowledge of him to tell he was shaken.
“Still here,” Acken confirmed. “Is everyone alright?”
“Yeah. Yeah, everyone’s okay. Farrel says to tell you he wants the police to leave. Now. He says he’ll release everyone if the police will stand down and let him go.”
Acken grimaced, but kept her voice calmly professional. “Tell him-tell him my boss won’t let me do that. We can’t leave while there are still people in danger.”
Negotiation was a delicate business at the best of times. Doing it without direct communication, especially when the middleman was untrained for it, only increased the potential for slipups or escalation.
For the first time it occurred to Peter that she wasn’t addressing Neal quite as she would a law enforcement officer in the same position. Probably just as well, seeing as Neal didn’t have either the background or the temperament to respond the same way a LEO would. Acken wasn’t treating him as a negotiator would the typical civilian, though. She might maintain a deliberate, calming tone-either through trained reflex or in hopes of instilling that same reassurance into his tone as he passed the messages along-but she didn’t waste time on platitudes, assurances that he was doing fine, or that they were going to do everything they could to get the hostages out safely.
The realization that she viewed Neal as a proxy to be coached rather than a victim to be eased along and reassured was a welcome one. If there was anyone he would trust to sweet talk a panicked, angry person into thinking things through before doing anything drastic it was Neal-but not everyone was so ready to trust or take advantage of Neal’s… experience in such situations.
“He says you’d better tell your boss to reconsider, because he’s running out of patience.”
“Okay, we need to slow things down here. Tell him that I’ll talk with my superiors and see what I can do. In the meantime-” she paused briefly, evaluating options. Farrel hadn’t given them a deadline yet, which was a good thing. If they wanted to keep it that way, they needed to redirect his attention.
Peter caught her eye, and mouthed, “Food?” She nodded.
“In the meantime, ask him if he would like us to send in some food. It’s getting pretty late for lunchtime, and I’d bet everyone in there is getting hungry.”
This time the discussion went better, at least judging by what they could hear of Neal’s side.
“Yeah, of course we make food. But that’s just cakes, pastries-I don’t think we’ve even got a loaf of bread here. If you want to exist on pure sugar you’re welcome to it. You’re the best judge of what’ll keep you at the top of your game right now. Personally, though, I’d take something more solid as long as it’s being offered. Besides, it’ll make them happier knowing everyone in here’s being taken care of.”
Farrel spoke, his voice sharper again.
“If you’re that worried about it then just ask for something like pizza, where we’d all be eating the same thing,” Neal advised. “You can let everyone else eat some first to make sure it hasn’t been messed with.”
The argument was apparently convincing enough.
“He wants you to send in two pizzas.” Neal informed them. “But don’t let your people get too close. He doesn’t want anyone armed coming near the building. Call when it’s ready, and he’ll send one of the hostages out to get it.”
Catching Diana’s eye, Peter signaled her to start things rolling with getting the food ready to send in. She was worried, that much was plainly visible, but she simply nodded, heading out of the van. The mild triumph of getting Farrel to back down enough to work with them on a point, even one as insignificant as food, was all but negated by the prospect of losing contact.
“Wait, don’t-” Acken began, but Neal cut her off.
“I have to get off now. Get the food ready as quickly as you can. And remember, no one armed comes near the door.”
And with that the line went dead. Agent Acken blew out a long breath.
“That could have gone better,” she said.
“Could’ve gone worse, too,” Jones countered mildly.
“It could’ve,” she agreed. “I just wish there was some way we could see what’s going on in there. As it is, it’s hard to assess the risks or timing of an all-out assault, and without speaking with him directly it’s difficult to determine just how imminent a threat he is.”
“I have an idea that may help with that,” Peter put in. “How quickly can we get a button camera over here?”
No one armed. Whether Neal had intended the emphasis on that point to be a hint or not, it was a possibility. A risky one, but worth it. He hoped.
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The atmosphere of tension in the bakery increased exponentially as they waited for Mehdall to return with the food.
Farrel had discussed with Neal the safest way to go about the pickup. Neal had hoped he might be able to go and get the food himself-the opportunity to communicate unmonitored with the FBI, even if he wasn’t able to talk to Peter directly, could be golden.
But Farrel had been unwilling to risk losing him if the police wouldn’t let him come back. He was worried that the offer could be simply a ploy, intended to get a hostage out of his reach, with no intention of sending the food in at all. For that same reason he had been reluctant to send either of the women (he being of the pragmatic, if somewhat bigoted, opinion that their welfare was the most likely to evoke sympathy and concern from those outside, therefore giving him the greatest leverage). Mehdall, he had ultimately determined, was the least sympathetic and therefore most dispensable of his hostages should anything go wrong. Lucky man.
It made Farrel twitchy, though, even more so than he had been already. As if allowing even one of his hostages beyond his direct supervision might somehow loosen his control over the entire situation. And who knew, maybe it would.
In any case, he was currently attempting to assuage his anxiety regarding what might happen outside by compensating with an even tighter grip on what was going on inside. Everyone was sitting tightly packed together against one wall, Neal included. He’d tried to talk Farrel into letting him stand watch and keep an eye on what was going on outside-Farrel was still too afraid of snipers to risk going near the windows anymore himself-but for the moment Farrel had decided that he wanted everyone within his field of vision, where he could easily cover them all with his gun at the same time.
Neal was, however, tasked with unlocking the door to let Mehdall back in when he returned. And, of course, confirming that he came alone, and not, say, accompanied by a SWAT team. Being given that role at least was a positive. Who knew what opportunity might present itself when the time came….
When the knock did come, it startled all of them into jumping. A man’s outline could just be made out on the other side of the door, but the shade covering it made it impossible to tell who it was. Protection against snipers, yes-but also vulnerability in the unknown.
Farrel hesitated, fingering the gun’s trigger nervously. Neal waited for him to give the go-ahead before getting up to answer. On finally receiving the nod, he pushed himself off the floor, pulling out of his jacket pocket they key he had claimed from Michael earlier.
Inserting the key into the lock, he paused before turning it to pull back the shade just enough to peek outside and see… Peter. He wasn’t wearing either suit jacket or bulletproof vest, and his holster was missing as well. He seemed to be entirely unarmed, in fact. Mixed relief and anxiety-for how Farrel might react to this development, whether the surprise would push him into a snap reaction-warred inside him, but in the end relief won out. He and Peter might have very different ways of accomplishing their various ends, but when it counted he knew he could trust Peter to back his play, even when he didn’t understand. And even more telling-he trusted Peter enough to do the same when the situation was reversed.
For a split second, he considered just opening the door, and trying to talk Farrel into believing that he hadn’t gotten a good look at Peter’s face and had thought it was Mehdall coming back, since he was alone. Peter’s clothes and general build were just close enough that it might work. But in the end he couldn’t take the risk of Farrel panicking and shooting Peter the moment he walked in the door. He’d have to give him a chance to prepare himself and hope for the best.
“It’s not Mehdall,” he told Farrel. Before Farrel had a chance to explode, he added quickly, “Just one guy, though, doesn’t look like he’s armed. And he does have the food.”
“I told them-”
“I know,” Neal cut in quickly. “I know. Probably someone higher up stepped in and told them they couldn’t send a civilian back into a situation like this. But it is only one guy, and even if he does have some weapon hidden he can’t get to it with his hands full. Two pizzas and some bottles of water, it looks like. There’s no way he can move fast enough to get the drop on you when he’s carrying all that. You can cover him with your gun until he’s searched and you can confirm he’s not a threat. I don’t see any harm in it.”
“I don’t know.” Farrel scowled. “He’s still a cop. You never know what they could be planning with this.”
“Yeah, but surely we can handle just one of them, right? Besides, you know they’re not going to risk sending in a team with guns blazing if one of their own’s in here. It could be an advantage.”
The anger in Farrel’s eyes shifted into something more like speculative interest. “True…” he said. Then, more decisively, ordered, “Okay, let him in. But close the door again behind him right away, and lock it.”
Neal did so before Farrel had a chance to change his mind. With his back turned no one else could see his expression. He gave Peter a brief smile of welcome, before stepping back to let him in.
“No fast moves,” Farrel ordered sharply. “Stand right there until I can make sure you’re not armed.”
“I’m not armed,” Peter assured him. “I just came to talk.”
“Yeah?” Farrel scoffed. “Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it. You can talk, but you’re not going back out that door until I say you can. Turn around, slowly.”
Peter did as he was told, demonstrating that he had no hidden holster or gun tucked into the back of his waistband, no place to have concealed one.
“Satisfied?” Peter asked.
Farrel didn’t answer directly, still scowling and shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Put the food down there,” he told Peter. “Then put your hands behind your head and take a step back.” When Peter had again complied, Farrel gestured Neal toward the boxes. “Check it.”
Neal flipped open the lid on each box in turn.
“Just pizza,” he informed Farrel, turning them so that he could have a look inside for himself. “Nothing dangerous here. Looks like he’s clean.”
“Okay.” Farrel nodded at Peter. “Over there with the others. Then you can say whatever you came to say and I’ll decide what to do with you.”
Peter hadn’t gotten two steps before Farrel stiffened, his grip on the gun tightening again.
“Wait!” When Peter froze, Farrel told Neal, “Ankle holster. Check him for an ankle holster.”
Smart man. Neal winced inwardly. He could only hope Peter had remembered to remove his backup piece. His partner was keeping up an excellent poker face, but Neal detected a hint of worry in his eyes.
Kneeling, he tried to casually use his body to hide Peter’s legs as he checked, hoping that if there was a gun there he could either simply tell Farrel there was nothing or pocket it himself to slip back to Peter later. Farrel, however, shifted a step to the side to keep an eye on things.
There was no gun. The ankle holster was still there. Unfortunately, Farrel overlooked the first detail, and panicked at the second.
“I knew it!” he shouted. “They sent you in here to shoot me in the back. I said it-I said the cops couldn’t be trusted-”
“It’s empty!” Peter insisted, holding perfectly still to avoid doing anything that might be taken as threatening. “Take it easy-I’m not armed!”
Neal rose, holding out a placating hand and hastily added his own assurances. “It’s okay-there’s no gun. The holster’s empty. Just slow down….”
Then things happened quickly, too quickly. Michael shifted, maybe nervous, maybe preparing to jump in if he saw a chance. Whatever the case, the motion caught Farrel’s eye, and he swung the gun around to cover him.
Alarmed, Peter instinctively held out a hand in the same calming gesture Neal had used. Only the effect was far from reassuring. Farrel turned his gun on Peter again.
“Hey! I told you-”
The phone rang. Farrel flinched, his hand tightening on the trigger. The gunshot sounded more like an explosion in the confined space. For long seconds everything seemed perfectly still, as if all the tension and fear and anger in the room had been released in that one, brief moment of violence, leaving everything peaceful. No one moved or spoke.
Neal wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up sitting half-sprawled on the floor, as if his legs had simply dropped out from under him. Had he ducked? Farrel hadn’t been aiming at him, he’d been aiming toward Peter. Peter- A glance told him that Peter was unharmed. He looked worried, even afraid, but he hadn’t been hit. Farrel had flinched, and missed. Farrel himself was looking something close to horrified. He hadn’t meant to shoot at all.
“I- I didn’t mean- It was an accident.” Farrel stammered, echoing Neal’s thoughts. “I’m sorry.”
Neal couldn’t understand his sudden change of attitude. The gunshot had been a shock, a wakeup call to all of them, but…. Strangely, Neal didn’t feel startled into high alert, as the adrenaline rush would normally have done. His reactions felt sluggish, detached, as if the whole situation had taken on a dreamlike, surreal quality.
“I know, I know you didn’t mean to. And I’ll tell the other agents that. It’ll be okay. You still haven’t done anything that can’t be fixed. We can handle this.”
Peter’s voice was reassuring, almost gentle, as if he was trying to coax a frightened animal into cooperating, but to Neal’s practiced ear he sounded scared. Really scared. Neal couldn’t understand it. He was the one who got scared when people pulled guns, not Peter.
“I’ve never-never actually seen- That’s-” Farrel stammered, finally concluding, “It’s bleeding a lot.”
Following Farrel’s gaze, Neal looked to his own right thigh, which was, indeed, bleeding rather a lot. Oh. That did explain a few things.
“Yeah,” Peter agreed, talking with a deliberation that spoke of controlled panic rather than true calm. “And since I know you didn’t mean to kill him, we need to get it stopped. I’m trained in first aid, so Michael,” he nodded toward the manager, “is going to toss me some of those cloth napkins. I’m not going to do anything to you, I’m just going to help Nick, okay?”
Neal noted his almost imperceptible hesitation on the “N,” and was glad Peter had remembered to use the alias. A slipup like that might’ve been enough to set Farrel off again. As it was, he barely even hesitated before nodding in agreement. Nice to know his captor still considered his life so valuable.
“Are you alright?” Farrel asked him.
Which, all things considered, was a pretty ridiculous question, but given the unexpected show of concern Neal was willing to let that pass. He managed a weak smile.
“I’m fine. Doesn’t even hurt.”
Although, come to think of it, he was starting to feel it now-not so much sharp pain as like the beginnings of a muscle cramp. He was also starting to feel distinctly lightheaded, and vaguely nauseated.
He wanted to lie back, shut his eyes, but the thought of laying flat on the floor made him feel far too vulnerable. He already felt helpless enough, with Peter and Farrel looming over him like a pair of dogs getting ready to fight over a bone.
No, that analogy wasn’t quite right. Peter could actually be really good at the whole non-confrontational thing when he wanted to be, and Farrel…. was still looking too scared and worried to be territorial. They were more like… like…
He really needed to do something before he fell over. His arms were starting to shake, as the lightheadedness intensified-he wasn’t going to be able to prop himself up much longer.
Peter immediately picked up on his attempt to push himself backward toward the nearest wall and moved in to help, for which he was immensely grateful. He likely wouldn’t have made it the scant three feet or so on his own.
The movement seemed to awaken that distant muscle ache in his leg into full-blown pain, as if a red-hot vice was locked around his leg and squeezing down. It definitely pulled him back into a state of full alertness-and made him wish that merciful grace period of shock-induced daze and numbness would return. Maybe if he was lucky blood loss would bring it back.
But for the time being, at least, he was very, very conscious. Shutting his eyes, he alternated between panting and swallowing hard to keep the nausea at bay.
When he regained a measure of control and opened his eyes again, it was to look directly into Peter’s gaze. He was kneeling down beside him, one hand still on Neal’s shoulder to steady him. Seeing Neal recovered enough for awareness, he tightened his grip in a brief squeeze.
“The napkins?” Peter looked over at Michael.
It was more order than request, and Michael didn’t hesitate, gathering up the folded cloth napkins from the wedding display on the table across from him. Rather than keeping his distance and tossing them, he stepped closer to hand them to Peter, before quickly retreating again to keep from aggravating Farrel. Farrel, however, seemed for once too distracted to care much about his failure to strictly follow The Plan.
Folding a few of the napkins into thick pads, Peter set them on the floor next to him. Then he grasped Neal’s right leg at the knee.
“I’m going to need to raise your leg up for a second, to check whether the bullet went all the way through,” he informed Neal.
“Just… make it quick,” Neal asked.
“Fast as I can.”
Not allowing him a chance to tense up, Peter lifted the leg slightly, checking for any other tears in the fabric, then lowered it again. As promised, the movement was quick, limiting jarring to a minimum. The pain didn’t dissipate quite so quickly. Neal hissed, gritting his teeth and hitting a fisted hand against the floor as he worked through it.
“No exit wound. At least that means you’re only bleeding from one place, which may make it easier to stop. Holding up okay?” Peter asked quietly.
Neal managed a nod in response.
Apparently deciding that letting him think about it any longer wasn’t going to help-he was still losing blood, and giving him more time to recover himself wasn’t going to help that-Peter placed the folded napkins against the wound and, without further warning or preparation, pressed down, leaning his weight into it.
Neal cried out, gripping his leg above the wound, as if holding it hard enough could block the pain signals from getting through. Resisting the urge to push Peter away, to just make it stop, he pressed back hard against the wall, alternately holding his breath and breathing in quick, shallow gasps. He wasn’t sure which helped more-probably it would’ve been best to do neither, but he couldn’t seem to find enough air for deep breaths.
After a few minutes-or was it only seconds?-the pressure loosened briefly as Peter lifted his hand to add another couple of napkins to the now-bloody wad on his leg, but a moment later he pressed down again, more firmly than ever.
He must have phased out briefly at some point, because when he opened his eyes again Peter had removed his tie and was knotting it over the makeshift bandage to keep it in place. Neal had no memory of Peter getting the tie around his leg. Which was all for the best, actually.
“Is he alright?” Farrel asked Peter. He was pale, probably almost as pale as Neal himself was, and looked distinctly shaken.
“No,” Peter said bluntly. “He’s not alright. He’s been shot, he’s in pain, and he needs proper medical attention.”
“But-but he’ll be okay, right? I mean, he’ll recover. He’s not…bleeding to death, or something? You got it stopped?”
“It’s slowed,” Peter corrected. “For now. Time will tell whether it’s stopped. And even if it has, a little movement could start it up again. Depending on where the bullet’s lodged, something could shift and open up an artery. If that happens, he could bleed to death within minutes.”
Which… was kind of a little more than Neal needed to know right now. The knot that had formed in his stomach tightened a little bit further. Even if it wasn’t anything he hadn’t known, hearing it said in such a straightforward way…. But he had a pretty good idea of just why Peter was putting it all to Farrel so directly.
“How... how will you know if he’s bleeding too much again?” Farrel asked. “If it’s getting dangerous, I mean.”
Peter briefly locked eyes with Neal, who gave a very slight nod. Yes, he understood, and he’d back up Peter’s plan to the best of his ability.
“Like I said, it could be fast. But there are signs to watch for,” Peter said. “Shaking, sweating, rapid breathing and heartbeat, dizziness, nausea, loss of consciousness….”
Actually, that might not take all that much acting, Neal thought. Because the signs of deathly-dangerous blood loss could also pretty much apply to your plain old run-of-the-mill blood loss and shock that’s only to be expected if you’re clumsy or stupid or just plain unlucky enough to get in the way of a bullet.
The nausea that had been ebbing and flowing suddenly roiled again, and he only managed an inarticulate croak of misery as warning before twisting to the side-he just barely summoned the presence of mind to do so away from Peter-and emptying his stomach. Not that there was much to empty, aside from bile. It’d been a long time since breakfast.
Peter caught him before he could slide sideways, helping him straighten. Once he was sure Neal wasn’t going to fall over, he dropped one of the napkins over the mess, his mouth twisting in mixed sympathy and disgust.
He was worn out enough by the purging that the tremors running through his body needed no feigning. Instead of taking advantage of his newfound ability to draw in deep, even breaths, he deliberately began to shorten them, making them shallower, gradually increasing the speed. He was careful not to rush things too much, knowing well that overselling could be just as dangerous as failing to be persuasive enough.
“He’s-That’s not good.”
For the first time, he welcomed the increased alarm in Farrel’s tone. This time, it marked potential success.
A little too much success, possibly, because the near-hyperventilation was starting to make him truly dizzy. He shut his eyes in an attempt to escape the spinning sensation.
“Do something! You have to help him!”
“I can’t!” Peter met Farrel’s steadily growing alarm with the perfect balance of frustration and helplessness. Neal had to hand it to him-it was really quite convincingly done. “I told you, he needs real medical help, a hospital. Even if I was a doctor, there wouldn’t be much I could do here without all the right equipment.”
“You can’t just let him die! I never wanted…”
That, he decided, was the perfect moment to let his head loll back and to the side, forcing his tightly-strung muscles to go limp, and finally letting his breath ease back into something closer to normal-still shallow, but no longer on the verge of hyperventilation.
And maybe that was just a touch too convincing, because Peter actually cried out, surging forward.
“Neal!”
Neal could feel the trembling in Peter’s fingers as he felt at his neck for a pulse. He was careful not to react to the touch. Fortunately, Farrel was either too distracted to notice Peter’s slip, or simply thought that Peter himself had been too distracted to get the name of an almost-complete stranger correct.
“Is he…?” Farrel’s voice sounded half-strangled, actually going high-pitched with fear.
“He’s alive. For now.”
Okay, make that ‘had definitely been a touch too convincing.’ Because, much as he might appreciate the man’s abilities, his partner was not a good enough actor to feign that tremor in his voice. Peter was really worried.
But, tempted as he might be to make some sign to reassure him, Neal knew he couldn’t risk it. Not now.
“He needs to be in a hospital,” Peter reiterated. “Look, what I said still holds true. At this point you still haven’t done anything that can’t be fixed. If you surrender peacefully now, let us get him taken care of, it’ll look very good for you. You can still come out of this well. But if he dies, that changes. And the way the agents and cops out there look at you changes too, because they’ll know that you’re willing to kill.”
It was dangerous, pressing him like that, giving him an ultimatum. Probably no experienced negotiator would recommend such a tactic. But it seemed Peter had read him correctly. After a few seconds’ hesitation, Farrel responded, sounding subdued.
“If I give you my gun now… they won’t shoot at me or anything? They’ll just take me in quietly, and then get him to a doctor?”
“Absolutely.”
There was no wavering or hesitation in Peter’s voice now. He’d won. They’d won.
True to his promise, the agents’ entrance was as low-key as possible. No shouted orders or threats, no breaking down doors, no room full of leveled guns, just calm instructions. Once he’d made up his mind to it, Farrel was as compliant a subject as any law enforcement officer could wish for.
Neal wasn’t aware that the rest of the team had been among the agents until he heard Diana’s voice.
“Ambulance is on the way, Boss. They should be here in a few minutes. How’s he doing?”
Mildly irritated at being talked over, Neal mumbled, “M’fine.”
“Yeah?” Peter asked. “Then why aren’t your eyes open?”
Right. He’d forgotten about that, actually. Somehow it seemed like an insurmountable amount of effort to put forth, but he pried them open anyway, just to prove Peter wrong.
“Happy?” he asked.
“Very,” Peter replied with a thin smile.
Neal didn’t realize that he’d drifted off again, until he felt Peter’s hand on his shoulder.
“Hey, you still with us?”
He blinked, bringing his rather vacant stare into focus on his outstretched legs.
“Was… a really nice suit,” he sighed, plucking listlessly at the pant leg. Somehow the statement seemed to sum up his feelings about the day nicely.
Peter huffed, relaxing slightly. “Yeah, well, now you know why FBI agents get such cheap ones.”
“No excuse,” Neal muttered, then, with a groan, added, “Could really use some pain meds about now.”
“I know, buddy. I’m working on it.”
Despite his attempts to stay alert, he could feel his eyes sliding shut again. Neal could hear Peter talking into a radio, demanding that they hurry up and get the EMTs in there. If anyone could get them there fast, Peter could. He knew he should probably stay awake for them, but he was getting so tired, and even the pain suddenly seemed less important….
As the sounds around him faded out of focus, he could feel Peter’s hand come to rest on his head, ruffling the hair slightly, and he knew it was okay to rest now. Just for a while.
-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-
The wait at the hospital was a nerve-wracking one, after hours that had already been far too filled with tension. Even knowing Neal’s dramatic decline had been (mostly) an act, Peter had been more than a little afraid for him. The fact that Neal had celebrated the arrival of backup by virtually passing out in his arms hadn’t helped things-especially when he hadn’t even woken when the EMTs had arrived, checked his condition, and loaded him into the ambulance.
In the end, however, he’d been relieved to hear that the injury was-relatively speaking-minor. Yeah, it was going to be bothering Neal for a while, but the bullet was low-caliber, the damage, though definitely more than a scratch, was limited, and the doctors were confident that he would make a full recovery. They wanted to keep him overnight for monitoring (in part because he had lost a fair amount of blood), but informed him that, barring complications, they expected to be able to release him in the morning.
It was only in the wake of that release from worry that he remembered that he hadn’t called yet to tell El what had happened. Things had moved so fast… Maybe it was for the best that she hadn’t had to worry until he could give her reassurance and good news all around, but he still couldn’t help feeling a certain sense of guilty trepidation as he dialed her number.
But El, bless her, had skipped right over any panic or recriminations, only wanting to know whether everyone was alright. He’d assured her that Neal would recover, no one else was harmed, the hostage-taker was in custody, and all was on its way to being as well with the world as things got. Once she’d been reassured yet again that he, Peter, was also doing alright-even though he’d already told her he hadn’t been hurt-she was satisfied for the time being. She hadn’t even batted an eye at the suggestion that Caffrey should spend the first few days of his recovery at their place. She’d simply told him to ask whether Neal thought he’d be feeling up to eating Fettuccine Alfredo, or if he’d like something a little plainer for dinner tomorrow.
He never did get the chance to ask, though. Between painkillers, blood loss, and exhaustion, Neal looked likely to be dead to the world for the rest of the night. After ensuring that the doctors would notify him if anything changed, he’d headed back to work to wrap things up for the evening before going home to unwind and enjoy the company of his lovely wife.
And as it turned out, said lovely wife ended up getting landed with the duty of picking Caffrey up from the hospital the next morning. Peter had fully intended to pick him up himself. He’d gotten up early to head to work-yes, it was Saturday, but hostage situations and CIs getting shot generated an astonishing amount of paperwork, and he hadn’t wanted to start the next week already falling behind.
Unfortunately, the paperwork ended up consuming even more time than he’d expected, and by the time he came up for breath the morning was nearly over and lunchtime was fast approaching. He’d called the house to let El know he was leaving work but might be late for lunch, and apologize for losing track of the time. He’d expected that his next call would have to be to the hospital, to let a likely-impatient Neal know that he was on his way. Instead, however, he’d been greeted with the cheerful news that she’d already been to the hospital, found him ready to be discharged, and brought him back with her, and that if he started for home now the food would be hot when he arrived.
Some days, he was really glad he’d been lucky enough to marry such a woman. Other days… he just didn’t know what he’d do without her.
He was a little surprised when Satchmo wasn’t at the door to greet him. He put it down to the food currently being prepared in the kitchen taking precedence over loyalty… until he caught sight of the dog coming down the stairs, dragging a pillow. And not just any pillow-Peter’s pillow. The one from his bed. Which Satchmo never laid on without permission, much less stole things from.
Not only that, but Satch, apparently, was a dog on a mission. Bypassing Peter with barely a glance, he headed straight for the living room. To the couch. Which Neal was stretched out on. Dropping the pillow-which was noticeably wet with dog slobber by that point-in Neal’s lap, he received the expected praise and pats for his hard work.
“I see you’re settling in.”
Peter thought he’d actually done a pretty good job of keeping his tone neutral-until he realized he’d automatically placed his hands on his hips in what Neal referred to as his “FBI Agent” stance. Attempting to take a more relaxed attitude only ended with his arms crossed, a very slight improvement.
“Morning, Peter!” Neal raised a hand-the one that wasn’t currently rubbing Satchmo’s ears-in greeting.
He was looking… surprisingly good, actually. Pale, yes, and there were subtle lines to his face that spoke of pain not quite controlled by the meds he was on. But he was alert and, from the looks of his oh-so-guileless expression, in high enough spirits to start searching for trouble.
Which made Peter feel somewhat less guilty about asking very, very mildly, “What’re you doing?”
“Teaching Satchmo to fetch,” Neal replied, utterly un-phased, as if it should have been obvious.
Satchmo, at least, had the grace to look vaguely guilty at that point, ducking his head and watching Peter out of the corner of his eyes.
“He knows how to fetch,” Peter pointed out.
“Well yeah, but I don’t think Elizabeth would like me throwing tennis balls in the house.”
Peter had to wonder whether he’d figured out that ‘Elizabeth wouldn’t like it’ before or after having tried it.
“So you decided…” he said slowly, inviting an explanation of how, exactly, that conclusion had led to…this.
“So I decided to try getting him to retrieve useful things. He’s really smart, you know. I bet you could teach him to get your slippers or the newspaper really easily. He brought me this.” Neal held up a magazine, which looked somewhat the worse for wear between the wrinkles, dents, and occasional tears.
“I can see how useful that would be,” Peter agreed drily.
Looking more closely at the magazine in his hand, Neal shrugged. “We had to work on the part where he actually gives it over once he’s brought it. He did just fine with the pillow, though.”
“My pillow.”
“Oh. Is it?” Neal regarded it with an expression of innocent surprise. “I got him to understand what ‘pillow’ means, but we haven’t quite graduated to ‘from the guest bedroom, not the master’ yet.”
Shaking his head, Peter muttered, “Even corrupting my dog now…” Knowing that the same would have little effect if it was leveled on his CI, he favored Satchmo with a stern look. “You’d better stop listening to him when he tells you to take things that don’t belong to you, before it gets you in real trouble.”
Satch whined, thumping his tail once uncertainly.
“Aw, don’t be so hard on him, Peter. He was just trying to be nice. Besides, we were only borrowing it.” Grinning, Neal offered the pillow back to Peter, who eyed the damp pillowcase with distaste.
“Might as well keep it for now. It’ll have to be washed before I use it again anyway.”
“True.” Neal tilted his head. “Well, if you’re willing to lend it to me, then-help me prop my leg up a bit?”
Neal pushed himself up into a half-seated position, freezing for a moment with a hiss once he had achieved it, before wincing and cautiously relaxing. Waiting for Neal’s nod to signal his readiness, Peter helped him arrange the pillow to better cushion and support his leg.
Neal had sucked in a deep breath as his leg was shifted. Now he released it in a slow, shaky sigh.
“Better?” Peter asked.
Neal nodded. “Getting there.”
Still crouched down next to the couch, closer to eye level, Peter met his gaze seriously. “You did good yesterday, you know.”
Neal actually looked startled. “Hey, you were the one who talked him down. All I did was conveniently get shot.”
“By a bullet that probably would’ve hit me otherwise.”
“True,” Neal allowed after a moment’s consideration.
“Besides,” Peter pointed out, “the only reason I was able to talk him into surrendering was because you managed to get on his good side and get him into the right frame of mind for it. You hooked him, I just reeled him in.”
Neal made a face. “Fishing analogies, Peter? Really?”
“Yes, really,” Peter responded calmly, refusing to be drawn out by the attempt at evasion.
“Okay then.” Surrendering, Neal finally met his seriousness with equal gravity. “Thanks. And… thanks for being there, coming in to help like that. It makes a difference, knowing someone’s got your back.”
Peter nodded. “Anytime.”
Satch, apparently deciding that all this seriousness had gone a bit too far, finally found the temptation of Peter being down at his own level too much, poking a cold nose into his ear before beginning to enthusiastically lick his face and neck. It certainly did a thorough enough job of breaking the moment, and for all he had felt those things needed to be said, and was glad to have had the opportunity, Peter couldn’t help a certain sense of relief at the diversion.
“Okay, okay, enough, you’re forgiven!” Peter laughed, holding the dog off at arm’s length and scratching his ears until he settled, content.
“Wish I could get you to forgive my lapses in discernment that easily,” Neal mock-sulked.
“Try it and you’ll find yourself back behind bars.” Peter warned. “Harassing a federal agent is definitely a violation of your parole.”
Neal screwed up his face. “That is so not what I meant, and you know-”
He broke off as the kitchen door opened and El stepped into the room.
“Ah, I thought I heard your voice! Hey, hun.”
Peter stood, stepping over to meet her. She rose slightly on her toes to give him a quick kiss.
“Lunch is just about ready, so no sense in going to get changed now,” she informed him. “I could use your help wrapping things up and carrying everything out, though.”
“Sounds good.” He smiled, inhaling appreciatively. “Smells great, too. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was getting.”
A timer sounded shrilly from the kitchen.
“And there’s my signal. I’d better go check on that, though it probably needs another minute or two-come help me in a couple minutes?” she asked Peter. Receiving his nod of agreement, she turned to Neal, “I thought we’d eat out here, so you don’t have to move.”
“Thanks, El. I appreciate it.”
Neal fairly beamed with said appreciation. Elizabeth smiled back, all concern and inclination to dote upon their-temporary¬-resident invalid. Peter rolled his eyes at the blatant favor-currying, and it’s just as obvious success, but neither of them seemed to notice. Ah well. Caffrey would be well soon enough. In the meantime, he supposed he could spare him a little of Elizabeth’s attention. He did kind of deserve a bit of mothering, after all.
As El left to respond to the timer’s insistent beeping, he started to follow her into the kitchen, figuring he could get a head start getting out plates and silverware while she checked on how things were coming along. But before he had taken more than a step, he paused, turning back.
“Neal?”
Neal raised his eyebrows in inquiry.
“If you want to train an animal to do your dirty work, get your own dog.”
He blinked. “I can’t get a dog. I’m-”
“What?” Peter countered. “On the run? Planning on going anywhere in the next few years?”
“Hey, you’re the one who keeps pointing out how tenuous my probation is.”
“So don’t do anything to land yourself back there.” For once, it wasn’t a challenge, just a genuine request from someone who cared.
“You know it’s not always that simple.”
“But this time?”
Neal hesitated a moment before conceding. “Maybe. I guess we’ll see.”
“Guess so.”
Peter accepted the temporizing with only mild disappointment. Yeah, it was probably too much to hope for any out-and-out promises from him. And maybe he didn’t even want them, just yet. Not until he was sure that Neal would-could-keep them.
For now, it was enough. For the future… well. They’d face that when they got to it.
The End.
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And there you are! I very much hope that it's the sort of thing you were looking for. :3
As much as I struggled with this one, I only wish that I'd been able to have it beta'd. But, despite a couple of very kind offers for the help, by the time I'd finished this it was too close to deadline for any reasonable person to ask someone to go over it. XD So - any issues or problems are my own fault entirely!