WC Fic: Illustrations (part 3 of 8)
Title: Illustrations (part 3 of 8)
Author: Ivorysilk
Rating: R
Summary: In short, Neal is hurt and Peter suffers, while Elizabeth picks up the pieces. Please see part one for notes and disclaimers.
Part one.
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Neal wasn’t released the next day. They’d upped his meds, after the first 24 hours of monitoring, and he struggled to stay awake longer than a few minutes. True to his word, Peter had stayed with him-but by the next morning, he’d had to go back to work, and so he brushed the hair off Neal’s forehead, squeezed his hand, and left Neal in the competent care of the medical staff.
Elizabeth checked in on him in the afternoon, and Peter dropped by in the evening. Neal spent every minute awake negotiating with them to take him home. He made promises, and he tried not to beg-begging was always a bad idea, showing weakness, and usually unsuccessful-but he came perilously close at one point without even meaning to, making Elizabeth cry. It didn’t matter, though. Peter had the final say, and it didn’t work.
“You're not in prison, Neal,” said Moz, when he’d brought himself to drop by, and when Neal had tried to explain (without providing details, because Mozzie didn’t need details, no one needed details). “This is just a regular hospital. You're fine here.”
And if not even Mozzie, who hated hospitals and administration and believed in conspiracies understood, Neal knew he was truly fucked. To make everything worse, the medical staff were frustrated with him, describing him as difficult, even the ones who had tried to be nice at first. He’d started dreaming that Peter came to pick him up, and drove him to his house, but when they arrived, Dr. Crawley came out instead of Elizabeth; Peter turned into Powell and they dragged him inside the house, where the inside looked just like the Gateway.
Neal had considered just walking out, was strongly tempted to just sign himself out against medical advice and Peter’s wishes (because he could forge Peter’s signature in his sleep if he’d wanted)--but he was so close to the end, he couldn’t, wouldn’t risk messing it up now if he hadn't already. He could handle this, he told himself. He could.
He had to.
So Neal tried, he really tried to stay awake, but he fell asleep despite himself. He usually managed to wake up-hospitals were not quiet--but it wasn`t enough. The drugs kept pulling him under, and he`d forgotten how many times he`d woken himself and the other patients up with his screaming.
The drugs he was on had been altered, he thought, and these new ones did nothing to control the nightmares. Or something. He didn’t know, he couldn’t keep it straight, and everyone was frustrated with him. Including himself. Something terrible was going to happen if he didn’t fix it, start behaving like everyone wanted-Neal knew it, and he knew, just like he had when he was a kid waiting for the inevitable beating, that he didn’t know how to stop it.
By the time Peter actually stopped by, Neal was exhausted, half-convinced he was going to be sent back to prison, and half-hoping that he was dead wrong and Peter would let him go home. He could see Peter talking to the doctors just outside his door before he stepped into the room. Peter didn’t look happy.
“Hey, Neal.”
“Hi, Peter,” he responded, wary. Whatever happened, he was not going to do anything unmanly.
“The doctors say you’re not sleeping, and you’re refusing a sedative. Ya gotta rest, buddy, if you want to get out of here.” Peter’s voice was careful, neutral.
“I know. I will.” Neal’s voice was listless and his gaze flat. Disappointment was rushing through him, and he tried not to let anything show. Despite himself, unreasonably, he’d been hoping maybe Peter would have agreed he could leave, had come to spring him. Neal was out of tricks. He’d tried apologizing, tried offering any reparation, any confession he could-but nothing worked. Peter wouldn't sign Neal's release papers, not until Crawley said he could go.
Because despite the fog and the confusion, Neal knew that Crawley had to be behind this. He hadn't seen Crawley yet, didn't know what he wanted this time, but he knew it was just a matter of time. Every time someone came by, every time he heard a noise close by, he jolted awake, but it had been to no avail.
“What’s wrong, Neal?” Peter looked concerned, as if he cared. As if ..
Suddenly angry, Neal snapped. “Nothing, everything’s fine. We done?”
“Not by a long shot. I’m staying until you sleep for a while. You’re exhausted, Neal.” Peter didn’t mention the nightmares. Maybe, Neal thought hopefully, he didn’t know.
“Look, Peter, just let me get out of here, go to June’s. I won’t be a bother, I won’t do anything you wouldn’t approve of, and I’ll be back at work next week. I promise. Please, Peter.” He knew he was pleading, and he wasn’t even doing it right. He didn’t care.
Peter’s response was categorical. “No. Don’t even think about it. You still have two weeks left on your contract, and until then, you’re still mine. And you won’t be back at work for at least another month--don’t worry, it’ll give us time to re-negotiate your contract.” Peter’s voice gentled. “You’ve got a long road ahead of you, Neal, but you’ll get there-provided you behave.”
“Re-negotiate?” whispered Neal. What was Peter talking about? He had a thousand questions, but it was so hard to get the words out. He hated that just talking-the thing he was good at, the thing that he did so effortlessly-took up all his energy. And it was so difficult to focus.
“Yeah. I was supposed to talk to you about that, if you want, we can … doesn’t matter. It’s not important right now. We can talk about it later.”
“What do you mean it’s not important? It’s …” Were they extending his sentence? Why would they do that? Neal couldn’t remember what he’d done to …
“Neal. It’s not important-we’ll work something out. But you have to get out of this hospital first. Come on, work with me here. Why can’t you sleep? What’s going on?” Peter cajoled.
“I don’t like hospitals. I told you.” Neal’s voice was sullen and distracted as he struggled to think. What had they just been talking about? It had been important ...
“No one does, kiddo. You just gotta cowboy up.” Peter was trying to sound encouraging. For Peter, anyway.
“I know. But I really hate them.” He didn’t know how to make Peter understand, and if he told him about … well, he wasn’t inclined to launch into a detailed explanation, and definitely not here in an open ward, where anyone or everyone could hear. He wasn’t sure Peter would believe him anyway. He trusted Peter, absolutely and implicitly (for the most part), but he didn’t know, still, how far Peter would trust him.
Hell, Neal wasn’t sure even he would have believed it, if someone had told him the story, four years ago. It was--if he hadn’t lived it, he’d never have understood. Besides, it wasn’t the kind of thing he was comfortable having Peter know. It wasn’t the kind of thing he was comfortable having anyone know.
“Look, Caffrey, I can’t help you if you’re not straight with me. Tell me why. What makes you special?” Peter had clearly given up the cajoling route. He’d never had much patience.
Then again, neither did Neal. “Nothing. Never mind. I’m not special. You’ve told me. I get it.”
“Neal … fine. Get some rest.” Peter sounded almost as exhausted as Neal felt.
But Neal couldn’t. He was beyond tired: his body was pulling at him, but his fear was something else and the conversation had stirred up old memories. Peter refused to talk with him anymore, and lying there, staring at the ceiling, shifting to try to find some way to lay that didn’t hurt … Neal’s mind churned.
Despite all that, somewhere in the middle, he fell asleep.
Unbeknownst to him, watching him sleep, Peter settled into a chair and smiled.
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It took about 45 minutes for Neal to wake screaming. Peter was at his side in seconds, gathering him into his arms carefully, frantically pressing the call button. “Neal! Neal, I got you. I got you. Nurse!”
“Mr. Caffrey again?” The nurse sighed, unsympathetic and exasperated. “Settle down, Mr. Caffrey. You’re disturbing the others.”
Neal was disoriented and gasping, apologizing without a shadow of his usual charm. “I’m sorry, I know, I’m sorry …”
“Shhh, Neal. Quiet. It’s all right. You haven’t done anything wrong.” Peter glared at the nurse, who remained unfazed, checking the monitors before drawing the curtain closed again and leaving.
“I woke … “ Neal’s voice was high and panicky.
“Shhhh. It’s ok. It’s not your fault. Shhh.” Neal was blinking, his hair rumpled, his face pale. He looked weak and vulnerable and impossibly young. But he quieted as Peter stroked his hair, settled him down.
“Peter?” The voice was thready and whisper-soft.
“Yeah Neal.”
“You stayed.” Neal sighed and his eyes drew closed, as if against his will.
“I said I would, didn’t I?” Neal’s hand flopped pathetically on the bed, grasping at air, and Peter caught it firmly it in his own.
“I’m tired, Peter. I’m so tired.”
“It’s ok, Neal. I’m here. You’re safe. I won’t leave you, I promise. Go to sleep.”
“You promise?” Neal’s hand tightened on his. He squeezed back, almost imperceptibly.
“Yeah, Neal, you have my word. Sleep.”
And this time, Neal did.
Neal slept for hours. The nurses dropped by and smiled their approval, glad someone had finally made their recalcitrant patient behave, and having the grace to look regretful when they woke Neal to check his vitals as they made their rounds, although Neal always dropped right back to sleep fairly quickly after. Peter’s arm cramped, and his neck and shoulder went stiff, but he didn’t care. He tried to read a little, but it was difficult in that position, and he tried to sleep a little, which was equally difficult.
Peter called in sick the next morning, still holding Neal’s hand while he slept on. He needed the sleep. El dropped by to relieve him the next morning--literally, because every time he tried to let go of Neal’s hand, Neal stirred and began to look distressed, and Peter had to go to the bathroom quite desperately. Peter had no idea what was going on-but he knew something was, and he would find out. Now was not the time, not with Neal so weak, but soon-the timing had to be right. Once Neal had his defences back up, Peter wasn’t sure he’d be able to discover anything at all.
Neal woke in the late morning, blinking against the light. “Peter?” he asked, hoarsely. He seemed confused and still tired.
“Well, Princess Aurora awakes! And just in time for lunch. You missed breakfast, Your Highness.” Peter beamed at him, as if nothing had happened in the night. As if Peter hadn’t watched Neal waking half the ward up with his pathetic screaming.
“You’re here.” Neal’s tone was bemused. Maybe … maybe he’d imagined it? Maybe …
“Where else would I be?” Peter plastered a reassuring smile on his face.
“But …” Neal seemed dazed and barely coherent.
Peter’s brows drew together. He squeezed Neal’s hand in his own. “Stop worrying. Everything’s fine.”
“I can leave?” His voice was joking, but Neal’s eyes betrayed his hope.
“Sorry, Dino, no. You’ll have to enjoy the fabulous green robe wardrobe for a bit longer. But either I or El are going to stay with you as much as possible while you’re here, until you can leave. All right?”
“You can’t do that. You’ve got to work … the case … “ Neal sounded tired and defeated. Peter had said he’d stay before--but that was before he’d known about the nightmares.
“Don’t worry about that. You did a great job, all that’s left is the paperwork. You know how I feel about paperwork.” Peter grinned, still trying to lighten the mood.
“Yeah.” Neal shifted slightly, and pain flashed across his features.
“Hey, Caffrey,” Peter asked, “how’re you feeling? You hurting?”
Neal shook his head, stiffly. He was lying.
“Come on Neal. Tell me the truth.”
“It’s not bad. ‘Sides, I have to cowboy up, remember?” Neal’s eyes closed, seemingly involuntarily.
“Not this time, Neal. You rest easy. I’ll wake you up for lunch, all right?” Peter tried to make his voice soothing.
“Not hungry,” Neal muttered.
“You feel nauseous?” Peter laid a hand on Neal’s forehead. Neal leaned, just slightly, into the touch and his lips twitched up in a smile, but Peter didn’t smile. Neal was warm. Too warm.
“Just a little. ‘S probably the drugs. It’ll pass.” Neal’s voice sounded dopey, his words slurring.
“Neal, you’re running a fever. I’m going to call the nurse.” Peter tried to keep calm.
“Don’t. You worry too much. Elizabeth told me. Worry all the time … ” Neal shifted slightly, sighing, his voice fading. Peter ignored him.
Peter tried to keep calm, he did. But then the nurse bustled in, and bustled around, and called for a doctor, and then there was a flurry of activity and orders and Neal protesting weakly while medical terms flew around until an orderly began dragging Peter out.
Half an hour later, sitting on a hard chair in the waiting room, he was told that Caffrey had been transferred to ICU and was being stabilized. They were still cleaning him up, and it would be a while. “You should go home,” the young resident said, gently but firmly. Even though the guy looked about twelve, Peter recognized it for the order it was.
“Here’s my number,” he said. “I’m listed as his next of kin. Please, please call me if there’s any change.” He tried not to sound like he was begging.
“Sure, Mr. Burke. Get some rest. We’ll call you.” The resident’s eyes were kind. Peter didn’t want to guess what that meant.
Defeated, Peter went home.
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“Honey--honey, is that you?” Elizabeth’s voice called to him from the living room, sweet and clear and tired. She loved Neal as much as he did-she’d been run ragged as well, managing everything and checking on them both.
“Yeah, El.” Peter blinked against the bright light of the room before crossing to sit beside her on the sofa, slumping into its cushiony softness. He was so tired. He felt like he hadn’t slept in days.
“How’s Neal?” Elizabeth shifted over, letting him stretch out a bit on the couch.
“He’s in ICU. They wouldn’t let me see him.” Peter said the words flatly, trying not to think about them. Trying not to think about what they meant.
“Oh.” Elizabeth said the word softly. She wasn’t sure she understood what that meant. Wasn’t sure she could wrap her mind around it.
“Yeah. He spiked a fever … I’m not sure. They’re not saying. They said they’d call.”
After a minute, she asked, “Do you want something to eat?”
“Not really.”
“I made enchiladas. Have a bit. The game’s on-you can watch as we eat.” El’s voice held a note of forced cheer-she was trying, and he loved her for it. Peter loved enchiladas.
“All right,” he conceded. He’d never been able to say no to El.
Elizabeth made him up a plate, and Peter picked at his food for the next half hour, eventually putting it on the floor. Elizabeth began to protest-any food on the floor was fair game as far as Satchmo was concerned, and Peter had barely touched the food. But before she could say anything, Peter spoke, and his voice was as defeated as she’d ever heard him.
“He’s at the end of his contract, El. He’s at the end, and … he didn’t have to go on this mission. He could have refused. What is it with that boy and the end of his sentence? It’s like he’s purposely messing it up.” Peter was working himself up towards anger.
Elizabeth moved closer, put her arm around Peter, stroked his back.
“I don’t know, sweetheart. I don’t. He’ll be okay, Peter.” Empty promises, and they both knew it, but it didn’t matter. She kept stroking, and she felt Peter calming, felt a little of that terrible tension slowly leaving his body.
“He better be.” Peter choked back something that sounded suspiciously like a sob he was trying to make into a laugh, and then … and then something broke. Something broke, and he started weeping, deep, heart-wrenching sobs. “I think they’re losing him, El. I think we’re losing him.”
“No, Peter. No. He’s strong, you said it yourself. He’s strong. He’ll be fine. Come here.” She shifted on the couch, pulled Peter up and against her so his head was against her breast. She held him there, kissed his forehead, his hair. “Come here, baby. It’s going to be fine. I promise. It’ll be fine. You haven’t been sleeping, have you? You’ve been so worried you can’t see straight, but you’ll see.”
“I’ve gotta go back.” Peter said the words desperately, but he was at the end of his rope. So Elizabeth did what she had to do, what she’d always done. She picked up the pieces.
In the end, she’d always been the stronger one.
“No. They haven’t called yet, and when they do, I’ll take a day, and I’ll go. You can go in the morning, after you get some rest. He’ll need you then.” She stroked Peter’s hair, tightened her arms around him.
“He hates it there, El. He won’t tell me why, but he keeps asking …” Peter’s voice was fading.
“I know. I know he does. But he has to stay. You know that. He just hates doing anything he’s supposed to do.” Elizabeth grinned slightly, and Peter’s lips twitched just a little at that. She waited a moment, thinking that maybe Peter had gone to sleep-better if he went upstairs, but--Peter shifted restlessly, and so she started speaking again. “He’s going to be fine, and we’re going to bring him home. We’ll keep him here until he’s back on his feet and driving you mad.” Elizabeth kept her voice low, and soothing. Peter was exhausted.
Peter chuckled, the sound broken and strangled. “That he does! He’s so … “ Peter’s voice trailed off, and then he said, “He’s the best partner I’ve ever had, El. I thought I was going to lose him when his contract was up, put off thinking about it, but now … now I’m going to lose him anyway. And I don’t want to. Not like …”
“Shhh. Shhh.” Elizabeth didn’t know what to say. If they lost Neal … would Peter survive it? Probably, she thought, she hoped, but would he be the same?
“I know … I know you think he’s tough, El, and he is. He’s a survivor but … he’s-there’s something wrong. There’s something there, El. I just don’t know what it is yet.” Because Neal wasn’t actually as tough as he appeared, as tough as Peter’d once expected him to be. No, Neal was as fragile and brittle as they got, and that’s what Peter couldn’t resist. That’s what drew him in.
But instead she said, “And you never could resist a mystery, now could you?” Elizabeth smiled, and shook her head, rubbed her cheek against her husband’s soft brown hair.
“You know me too well,” and El could hear the smile in Peter’s voice. “Neal’s the best cipher there is. Always has been. He needs us, El. If-“ If he makes it through the night , Peter didn’t say, but they both heard it.
Elizabeth sighed, trying to contain her own worry for Peter’s sake. But she couldn’t imagine life without Neal, anymore. Couldn’t imagine him not a part of their lives. “He’s going to be okay, Peter. You need to believe it.”
“They still haven’t called.”
“They will. Go to sleep, Peter. I’m here. I promise.” I’m here, thought El at him fiercely. If the worst happens … if the worst happens, I’m here. I’ll always be here.
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They called at just shy of four in the morning. Apparently, they’d had to rush Neal into emergency surgery once the X-rays came back and confirmed what they’d thought-essentially, they’d missed a piece of shrapnel, which had lodged in Neal’s spleen, causing the severe pain and the fever from the resultant infection. They thought they had it under control now, they reassured, and Mr. Caffrey had been heavily sedated, but everything was under control. There was no need for worry.
Elizabeth took the call, and despite the reassurances, couldn’t sleep afterwards. Peter was still sleeping, and she didn’t want to disturb him, so she got up and began going over fabric samples for an upcoming next event. She was angry at the hospital-how could they miss something like that that?-she was upset for Neal-how was emergency surgery and a raging infection not worrisome-and she was worried about her husband, who cared so much for Neal and who had invested so much into his rehabilitation. Peter, who had been so anxious that he was going to lose Neal to the end of the contract that he hadn’t ever even contemplated losing him in other ways.
By seven, she was on her way to the hospital, having left a short note for Peter to let him know that she’d called him in sick again and where she was going.
Neal looked terrible. He had been hooked up to a respirator and about a dozen other monitors, and his closed eyes were swollen and bruised, while catheter needles had been inserted into the veins along his neck. He was still-she didn’t think she’d ever seen Neal so absolutely still before.
But he was still alive. She ran a hand through his hair; kissed his cheek. His skin was warm, and his hair under her hand was soft. But he smelled like hospital, and not like the Neal Caffrey she knew, who always smelled like sandalwood and citrus-he liked Tom Ford, Elizabeth knew (Peter was a font of such information, making gift giving so much easier), and so she’d given him a bottle of the pricey stuff last Christmas.
She sat by his bed for an hour, until she had to leave for work.
She squeezed Neal’s hand before she left. He looked so small in the bed-thin, pale, and helpless. She hated to leave him here. It wasn’t right, in so many ways, that he was here at all.
Two weeks to the end of his contract. Two weeks. It would be so ironic-and so Caffrey-if he died before he saw his freedom. For all he usually appeared blessed by the gods--charming and handsome and careless, smart and witty and well-dressed, living the high life at June’s place--Elizabeth knew that like everything else in the young con man’s life, that appearance was little better than illusion and gloss.
“Get better, Neal,” she whispered in his ear. “You’ll kill my husband if you don’t. And with him … you’ll kill me too.”
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Part four.
Author: Ivorysilk
Rating: R
Summary: In short, Neal is hurt and Peter suffers, while Elizabeth picks up the pieces. Please see part one for notes and disclaimers.
Part one.
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Neal wasn’t released the next day. They’d upped his meds, after the first 24 hours of monitoring, and he struggled to stay awake longer than a few minutes. True to his word, Peter had stayed with him-but by the next morning, he’d had to go back to work, and so he brushed the hair off Neal’s forehead, squeezed his hand, and left Neal in the competent care of the medical staff.
Elizabeth checked in on him in the afternoon, and Peter dropped by in the evening. Neal spent every minute awake negotiating with them to take him home. He made promises, and he tried not to beg-begging was always a bad idea, showing weakness, and usually unsuccessful-but he came perilously close at one point without even meaning to, making Elizabeth cry. It didn’t matter, though. Peter had the final say, and it didn’t work.
“You're not in prison, Neal,” said Moz, when he’d brought himself to drop by, and when Neal had tried to explain (without providing details, because Mozzie didn’t need details, no one needed details). “This is just a regular hospital. You're fine here.”
And if not even Mozzie, who hated hospitals and administration and believed in conspiracies understood, Neal knew he was truly fucked. To make everything worse, the medical staff were frustrated with him, describing him as difficult, even the ones who had tried to be nice at first. He’d started dreaming that Peter came to pick him up, and drove him to his house, but when they arrived, Dr. Crawley came out instead of Elizabeth; Peter turned into Powell and they dragged him inside the house, where the inside looked just like the Gateway.
Neal had considered just walking out, was strongly tempted to just sign himself out against medical advice and Peter’s wishes (because he could forge Peter’s signature in his sleep if he’d wanted)--but he was so close to the end, he couldn’t, wouldn’t risk messing it up now if he hadn't already. He could handle this, he told himself. He could.
He had to.
So Neal tried, he really tried to stay awake, but he fell asleep despite himself. He usually managed to wake up-hospitals were not quiet--but it wasn`t enough. The drugs kept pulling him under, and he`d forgotten how many times he`d woken himself and the other patients up with his screaming.
The drugs he was on had been altered, he thought, and these new ones did nothing to control the nightmares. Or something. He didn’t know, he couldn’t keep it straight, and everyone was frustrated with him. Including himself. Something terrible was going to happen if he didn’t fix it, start behaving like everyone wanted-Neal knew it, and he knew, just like he had when he was a kid waiting for the inevitable beating, that he didn’t know how to stop it.
By the time Peter actually stopped by, Neal was exhausted, half-convinced he was going to be sent back to prison, and half-hoping that he was dead wrong and Peter would let him go home. He could see Peter talking to the doctors just outside his door before he stepped into the room. Peter didn’t look happy.
“Hey, Neal.”
“Hi, Peter,” he responded, wary. Whatever happened, he was not going to do anything unmanly.
“The doctors say you’re not sleeping, and you’re refusing a sedative. Ya gotta rest, buddy, if you want to get out of here.” Peter’s voice was careful, neutral.
“I know. I will.” Neal’s voice was listless and his gaze flat. Disappointment was rushing through him, and he tried not to let anything show. Despite himself, unreasonably, he’d been hoping maybe Peter would have agreed he could leave, had come to spring him. Neal was out of tricks. He’d tried apologizing, tried offering any reparation, any confession he could-but nothing worked. Peter wouldn't sign Neal's release papers, not until Crawley said he could go.
Because despite the fog and the confusion, Neal knew that Crawley had to be behind this. He hadn't seen Crawley yet, didn't know what he wanted this time, but he knew it was just a matter of time. Every time someone came by, every time he heard a noise close by, he jolted awake, but it had been to no avail.
“What’s wrong, Neal?” Peter looked concerned, as if he cared. As if ..
Suddenly angry, Neal snapped. “Nothing, everything’s fine. We done?”
“Not by a long shot. I’m staying until you sleep for a while. You’re exhausted, Neal.” Peter didn’t mention the nightmares. Maybe, Neal thought hopefully, he didn’t know.
“Look, Peter, just let me get out of here, go to June’s. I won’t be a bother, I won’t do anything you wouldn’t approve of, and I’ll be back at work next week. I promise. Please, Peter.” He knew he was pleading, and he wasn’t even doing it right. He didn’t care.
Peter’s response was categorical. “No. Don’t even think about it. You still have two weeks left on your contract, and until then, you’re still mine. And you won’t be back at work for at least another month--don’t worry, it’ll give us time to re-negotiate your contract.” Peter’s voice gentled. “You’ve got a long road ahead of you, Neal, but you’ll get there-provided you behave.”
“Re-negotiate?” whispered Neal. What was Peter talking about? He had a thousand questions, but it was so hard to get the words out. He hated that just talking-the thing he was good at, the thing that he did so effortlessly-took up all his energy. And it was so difficult to focus.
“Yeah. I was supposed to talk to you about that, if you want, we can … doesn’t matter. It’s not important right now. We can talk about it later.”
“What do you mean it’s not important? It’s …” Were they extending his sentence? Why would they do that? Neal couldn’t remember what he’d done to …
“Neal. It’s not important-we’ll work something out. But you have to get out of this hospital first. Come on, work with me here. Why can’t you sleep? What’s going on?” Peter cajoled.
“I don’t like hospitals. I told you.” Neal’s voice was sullen and distracted as he struggled to think. What had they just been talking about? It had been important ...
“No one does, kiddo. You just gotta cowboy up.” Peter was trying to sound encouraging. For Peter, anyway.
“I know. But I really hate them.” He didn’t know how to make Peter understand, and if he told him about … well, he wasn’t inclined to launch into a detailed explanation, and definitely not here in an open ward, where anyone or everyone could hear. He wasn’t sure Peter would believe him anyway. He trusted Peter, absolutely and implicitly (for the most part), but he didn’t know, still, how far Peter would trust him.
Hell, Neal wasn’t sure even he would have believed it, if someone had told him the story, four years ago. It was--if he hadn’t lived it, he’d never have understood. Besides, it wasn’t the kind of thing he was comfortable having Peter know. It wasn’t the kind of thing he was comfortable having anyone know.
“Look, Caffrey, I can’t help you if you’re not straight with me. Tell me why. What makes you special?” Peter had clearly given up the cajoling route. He’d never had much patience.
Then again, neither did Neal. “Nothing. Never mind. I’m not special. You’ve told me. I get it.”
“Neal … fine. Get some rest.” Peter sounded almost as exhausted as Neal felt.
But Neal couldn’t. He was beyond tired: his body was pulling at him, but his fear was something else and the conversation had stirred up old memories. Peter refused to talk with him anymore, and lying there, staring at the ceiling, shifting to try to find some way to lay that didn’t hurt … Neal’s mind churned.
Despite all that, somewhere in the middle, he fell asleep.
Unbeknownst to him, watching him sleep, Peter settled into a chair and smiled.
*******************
It took about 45 minutes for Neal to wake screaming. Peter was at his side in seconds, gathering him into his arms carefully, frantically pressing the call button. “Neal! Neal, I got you. I got you. Nurse!”
“Mr. Caffrey again?” The nurse sighed, unsympathetic and exasperated. “Settle down, Mr. Caffrey. You’re disturbing the others.”
Neal was disoriented and gasping, apologizing without a shadow of his usual charm. “I’m sorry, I know, I’m sorry …”
“Shhh, Neal. Quiet. It’s all right. You haven’t done anything wrong.” Peter glared at the nurse, who remained unfazed, checking the monitors before drawing the curtain closed again and leaving.
“I woke … “ Neal’s voice was high and panicky.
“Shhhh. It’s ok. It’s not your fault. Shhh.” Neal was blinking, his hair rumpled, his face pale. He looked weak and vulnerable and impossibly young. But he quieted as Peter stroked his hair, settled him down.
“Peter?” The voice was thready and whisper-soft.
“Yeah Neal.”
“You stayed.” Neal sighed and his eyes drew closed, as if against his will.
“I said I would, didn’t I?” Neal’s hand flopped pathetically on the bed, grasping at air, and Peter caught it firmly it in his own.
“I’m tired, Peter. I’m so tired.”
“It’s ok, Neal. I’m here. You’re safe. I won’t leave you, I promise. Go to sleep.”
“You promise?” Neal’s hand tightened on his. He squeezed back, almost imperceptibly.
“Yeah, Neal, you have my word. Sleep.”
And this time, Neal did.
Neal slept for hours. The nurses dropped by and smiled their approval, glad someone had finally made their recalcitrant patient behave, and having the grace to look regretful when they woke Neal to check his vitals as they made their rounds, although Neal always dropped right back to sleep fairly quickly after. Peter’s arm cramped, and his neck and shoulder went stiff, but he didn’t care. He tried to read a little, but it was difficult in that position, and he tried to sleep a little, which was equally difficult.
Peter called in sick the next morning, still holding Neal’s hand while he slept on. He needed the sleep. El dropped by to relieve him the next morning--literally, because every time he tried to let go of Neal’s hand, Neal stirred and began to look distressed, and Peter had to go to the bathroom quite desperately. Peter had no idea what was going on-but he knew something was, and he would find out. Now was not the time, not with Neal so weak, but soon-the timing had to be right. Once Neal had his defences back up, Peter wasn’t sure he’d be able to discover anything at all.
Neal woke in the late morning, blinking against the light. “Peter?” he asked, hoarsely. He seemed confused and still tired.
“Well, Princess Aurora awakes! And just in time for lunch. You missed breakfast, Your Highness.” Peter beamed at him, as if nothing had happened in the night. As if Peter hadn’t watched Neal waking half the ward up with his pathetic screaming.
“You’re here.” Neal’s tone was bemused. Maybe … maybe he’d imagined it? Maybe …
“Where else would I be?” Peter plastered a reassuring smile on his face.
“But …” Neal seemed dazed and barely coherent.
Peter’s brows drew together. He squeezed Neal’s hand in his own. “Stop worrying. Everything’s fine.”
“I can leave?” His voice was joking, but Neal’s eyes betrayed his hope.
“Sorry, Dino, no. You’ll have to enjoy the fabulous green robe wardrobe for a bit longer. But either I or El are going to stay with you as much as possible while you’re here, until you can leave. All right?”
“You can’t do that. You’ve got to work … the case … “ Neal sounded tired and defeated. Peter had said he’d stay before--but that was before he’d known about the nightmares.
“Don’t worry about that. You did a great job, all that’s left is the paperwork. You know how I feel about paperwork.” Peter grinned, still trying to lighten the mood.
“Yeah.” Neal shifted slightly, and pain flashed across his features.
“Hey, Caffrey,” Peter asked, “how’re you feeling? You hurting?”
Neal shook his head, stiffly. He was lying.
“Come on Neal. Tell me the truth.”
“It’s not bad. ‘Sides, I have to cowboy up, remember?” Neal’s eyes closed, seemingly involuntarily.
“Not this time, Neal. You rest easy. I’ll wake you up for lunch, all right?” Peter tried to make his voice soothing.
“Not hungry,” Neal muttered.
“You feel nauseous?” Peter laid a hand on Neal’s forehead. Neal leaned, just slightly, into the touch and his lips twitched up in a smile, but Peter didn’t smile. Neal was warm. Too warm.
“Just a little. ‘S probably the drugs. It’ll pass.” Neal’s voice sounded dopey, his words slurring.
“Neal, you’re running a fever. I’m going to call the nurse.” Peter tried to keep calm.
“Don’t. You worry too much. Elizabeth told me. Worry all the time … ” Neal shifted slightly, sighing, his voice fading. Peter ignored him.
Peter tried to keep calm, he did. But then the nurse bustled in, and bustled around, and called for a doctor, and then there was a flurry of activity and orders and Neal protesting weakly while medical terms flew around until an orderly began dragging Peter out.
Half an hour later, sitting on a hard chair in the waiting room, he was told that Caffrey had been transferred to ICU and was being stabilized. They were still cleaning him up, and it would be a while. “You should go home,” the young resident said, gently but firmly. Even though the guy looked about twelve, Peter recognized it for the order it was.
“Here’s my number,” he said. “I’m listed as his next of kin. Please, please call me if there’s any change.” He tried not to sound like he was begging.
“Sure, Mr. Burke. Get some rest. We’ll call you.” The resident’s eyes were kind. Peter didn’t want to guess what that meant.
Defeated, Peter went home.
*******************
“Honey--honey, is that you?” Elizabeth’s voice called to him from the living room, sweet and clear and tired. She loved Neal as much as he did-she’d been run ragged as well, managing everything and checking on them both.
“Yeah, El.” Peter blinked against the bright light of the room before crossing to sit beside her on the sofa, slumping into its cushiony softness. He was so tired. He felt like he hadn’t slept in days.
“How’s Neal?” Elizabeth shifted over, letting him stretch out a bit on the couch.
“He’s in ICU. They wouldn’t let me see him.” Peter said the words flatly, trying not to think about them. Trying not to think about what they meant.
“Oh.” Elizabeth said the word softly. She wasn’t sure she understood what that meant. Wasn’t sure she could wrap her mind around it.
“Yeah. He spiked a fever … I’m not sure. They’re not saying. They said they’d call.”
After a minute, she asked, “Do you want something to eat?”
“Not really.”
“I made enchiladas. Have a bit. The game’s on-you can watch as we eat.” El’s voice held a note of forced cheer-she was trying, and he loved her for it. Peter loved enchiladas.
“All right,” he conceded. He’d never been able to say no to El.
Elizabeth made him up a plate, and Peter picked at his food for the next half hour, eventually putting it on the floor. Elizabeth began to protest-any food on the floor was fair game as far as Satchmo was concerned, and Peter had barely touched the food. But before she could say anything, Peter spoke, and his voice was as defeated as she’d ever heard him.
“He’s at the end of his contract, El. He’s at the end, and … he didn’t have to go on this mission. He could have refused. What is it with that boy and the end of his sentence? It’s like he’s purposely messing it up.” Peter was working himself up towards anger.
Elizabeth moved closer, put her arm around Peter, stroked his back.
“I don’t know, sweetheart. I don’t. He’ll be okay, Peter.” Empty promises, and they both knew it, but it didn’t matter. She kept stroking, and she felt Peter calming, felt a little of that terrible tension slowly leaving his body.
“He better be.” Peter choked back something that sounded suspiciously like a sob he was trying to make into a laugh, and then … and then something broke. Something broke, and he started weeping, deep, heart-wrenching sobs. “I think they’re losing him, El. I think we’re losing him.”
“No, Peter. No. He’s strong, you said it yourself. He’s strong. He’ll be fine. Come here.” She shifted on the couch, pulled Peter up and against her so his head was against her breast. She held him there, kissed his forehead, his hair. “Come here, baby. It’s going to be fine. I promise. It’ll be fine. You haven’t been sleeping, have you? You’ve been so worried you can’t see straight, but you’ll see.”
“I’ve gotta go back.” Peter said the words desperately, but he was at the end of his rope. So Elizabeth did what she had to do, what she’d always done. She picked up the pieces.
In the end, she’d always been the stronger one.
“No. They haven’t called yet, and when they do, I’ll take a day, and I’ll go. You can go in the morning, after you get some rest. He’ll need you then.” She stroked Peter’s hair, tightened her arms around him.
“He hates it there, El. He won’t tell me why, but he keeps asking …” Peter’s voice was fading.
“I know. I know he does. But he has to stay. You know that. He just hates doing anything he’s supposed to do.” Elizabeth grinned slightly, and Peter’s lips twitched just a little at that. She waited a moment, thinking that maybe Peter had gone to sleep-better if he went upstairs, but--Peter shifted restlessly, and so she started speaking again. “He’s going to be fine, and we’re going to bring him home. We’ll keep him here until he’s back on his feet and driving you mad.” Elizabeth kept her voice low, and soothing. Peter was exhausted.
Peter chuckled, the sound broken and strangled. “That he does! He’s so … “ Peter’s voice trailed off, and then he said, “He’s the best partner I’ve ever had, El. I thought I was going to lose him when his contract was up, put off thinking about it, but now … now I’m going to lose him anyway. And I don’t want to. Not like …”
“Shhh. Shhh.” Elizabeth didn’t know what to say. If they lost Neal … would Peter survive it? Probably, she thought, she hoped, but would he be the same?
“I know … I know you think he’s tough, El, and he is. He’s a survivor but … he’s-there’s something wrong. There’s something there, El. I just don’t know what it is yet.” Because Neal wasn’t actually as tough as he appeared, as tough as Peter’d once expected him to be. No, Neal was as fragile and brittle as they got, and that’s what Peter couldn’t resist. That’s what drew him in.
But instead she said, “And you never could resist a mystery, now could you?” Elizabeth smiled, and shook her head, rubbed her cheek against her husband’s soft brown hair.
“You know me too well,” and El could hear the smile in Peter’s voice. “Neal’s the best cipher there is. Always has been. He needs us, El. If-“ If he makes it through the night , Peter didn’t say, but they both heard it.
Elizabeth sighed, trying to contain her own worry for Peter’s sake. But she couldn’t imagine life without Neal, anymore. Couldn’t imagine him not a part of their lives. “He’s going to be okay, Peter. You need to believe it.”
“They still haven’t called.”
“They will. Go to sleep, Peter. I’m here. I promise.” I’m here, thought El at him fiercely. If the worst happens … if the worst happens, I’m here. I’ll always be here.
************************
They called at just shy of four in the morning. Apparently, they’d had to rush Neal into emergency surgery once the X-rays came back and confirmed what they’d thought-essentially, they’d missed a piece of shrapnel, which had lodged in Neal’s spleen, causing the severe pain and the fever from the resultant infection. They thought they had it under control now, they reassured, and Mr. Caffrey had been heavily sedated, but everything was under control. There was no need for worry.
Elizabeth took the call, and despite the reassurances, couldn’t sleep afterwards. Peter was still sleeping, and she didn’t want to disturb him, so she got up and began going over fabric samples for an upcoming next event. She was angry at the hospital-how could they miss something like that that?-she was upset for Neal-how was emergency surgery and a raging infection not worrisome-and she was worried about her husband, who cared so much for Neal and who had invested so much into his rehabilitation. Peter, who had been so anxious that he was going to lose Neal to the end of the contract that he hadn’t ever even contemplated losing him in other ways.
By seven, she was on her way to the hospital, having left a short note for Peter to let him know that she’d called him in sick again and where she was going.
Neal looked terrible. He had been hooked up to a respirator and about a dozen other monitors, and his closed eyes were swollen and bruised, while catheter needles had been inserted into the veins along his neck. He was still-she didn’t think she’d ever seen Neal so absolutely still before.
But he was still alive. She ran a hand through his hair; kissed his cheek. His skin was warm, and his hair under her hand was soft. But he smelled like hospital, and not like the Neal Caffrey she knew, who always smelled like sandalwood and citrus-he liked Tom Ford, Elizabeth knew (Peter was a font of such information, making gift giving so much easier), and so she’d given him a bottle of the pricey stuff last Christmas.
She sat by his bed for an hour, until she had to leave for work.
She squeezed Neal’s hand before she left. He looked so small in the bed-thin, pale, and helpless. She hated to leave him here. It wasn’t right, in so many ways, that he was here at all.
Two weeks to the end of his contract. Two weeks. It would be so ironic-and so Caffrey-if he died before he saw his freedom. For all he usually appeared blessed by the gods--charming and handsome and careless, smart and witty and well-dressed, living the high life at June’s place--Elizabeth knew that like everything else in the young con man’s life, that appearance was little better than illusion and gloss.
“Get better, Neal,” she whispered in his ear. “You’ll kill my husband if you don’t. And with him … you’ll kill me too.”
***********************************
Part four.