WC Fic: Illustrations (part 6 of 8)
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Title: Illustrations (part 6 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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“He’s so thin.” Elizabeth’s eyes were dark with concern as she slathered lotion over her legs, getting ready for bed.
“He’ll gain his weight back. He just has to eat.” Peter’s voice was steady and confident, belying his own worry. Neal had felt so--insubstantial--in his arms. As if he’d blow away. And when he’d come home to a home that was dead silent, Neal missing from his room and nowhere to be found, when he’d searched the house and after fifteen minutes of frantic activity and a call to the Marshalls, thanking God that Neal’s anklet still had a couple days of time left on it, when he’d found Neal slumped on the recliner on the patio, so still and his skin chilled--it had taken a moment before he realized that Neal was alive and just asleep, and that he could breathe again. He swallowed the image down before speaking. “I’ll call the on call doctor in the morning. Get him something for the nausea.”
“Yes, honey, that would be a good idea,” said Elizabeth, her tone warm and gentle, her touch on his arm, against his side comforting. “What are you going to tell Reece?”
“I don’t know. Neal’s -- well, look at him. I don’t feel right about pressuring him right now, not like he is. I just--let him stay here, get back on his feet, and then he can think about what to do. I know what Reece wants--what the Bureau wants--but Neal didn’t even have a chance to finish high school. Working at the Bureau for shit pay because he doesn’t have the education for an agent’s salary? Especially with Neal’s talents, and skills, and with him taking the risks he does--it’s not fair. I don’t -- I don’t think I could sell him on it. I don’t think I want to.”
“Then don’t,” said El, putting her arms around him, resting her chin on his shoulder. He breathed her in, letting her scent and her warmth comfort him. “Sweetie, we’ve talked about this. I’ll support you--and Neal, but it’s Neal’s choice. So just give it to him. He’s smart enough to figure out what he wants to do.”
“He once asked me, when I was pretending to be that rich accountant--if I hadn’t missed that life. Didn’t wish that was the road I’d followed. I didn’t--I don’t--but it’s the life Neal could have had, maybe should have had, if his life had been different, if he’d made different choices. If he’d had the choices I had. He’s young still, El. It’s the life he still could have, if he wanted it.”
“That’s the life you want for him. It might not be what he wants, Peter.”
“I know, but the Bureau--” Peter began, worry lines still creasing his forehead.
“Peter.” El took his face between her hands and kissed him, hard and fast, and for a moment, he lost himself in her. When he blinked his eyes open, she said, “You’re not going to figure it out tonight, and not without first discussing it with Neal. Let’s get some sleep; tomorrow will come soon enough.”
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Peter slept lightly, waking every few hours, worrying that Neal was still having nightmares--but it appeared he slept through, for which Peter was grateful. Still, in the morning, after Neal picked at the dry toast and ate barely half, made a face at the juice and flatly refused any eggs, Peter broke it to him that he was going to have to call the doctor. Neal, predictably, balked.
“No. I’m fine.” He grinned, wide enough to blind an elephant.
“Neal, you haven’t eaten anything since you’ve been home, and I know it’s not my cooking.” Peter tried to grin, but he knew it was weak.
“So I’ll eat.” There was a trace of obstinacy creeping in, and a wild look in Neal’s eyes. “I’ll have lunch, just--”
Peter cut him off. “Neal--Look, Neal, remember all those times I told you to cowboy up? Well, this isn’t one of those times. This isn’t something you can fix by ignoring it, or pretending it will go away. We need to fix this, before it gets worse.” He tried to sound coaxing, knowing he was messing it up. He was just no good at this.
“No, we don’t need to do anything, and I’m fine. I’ve already compromised on the damn I.V., and that’s more than enough. Seriously, Peter, stop worrying.” Neal had clearly dug in his heels, sounding like he was on the verge of a full-blown pout--but Peter wasn’t fooled, and he wasn’t backing down.
“The I.V. is just antibiotics, Neal. You’re probably dehydrated, and I think you’re still running a fever.”
“You’re over-reacting--” Neal was panicking--he was trying to hide it, but his defenses were down, and Neal had never been that good at conning Peter anyway.
“Neal. I’m not. You said you trusted me. So trust me now. I’ll be right here, I promise. It won’t be like before. I’ll even stay with you for the exam, if you want.” Peter put his hand over Neal’s and squeezed it, trying to reassure.
Neal took a breath; let it out. “You promise?”
“You have my word, Neal. I just want you to get something for the nausea, make sure that kidney issue is getting resolved, and that the antibiotics are treating the infection properly. The resident didn’t know what he was doing--but we still need to be careful. C’mon, just get checked out.”
“Peter, you won’t--you won’t make me go back to the hospital, will you? Because I won’t go. I won’t. I’ll--” his voice began to rise, and Peter cut him off.
“Neal, Neal relax. I’m not going to force you to do anything. We’ve got a system here, and if it’s not working, we’ll figure something out.”
Neal looked at Peter searchingly. He took a breath. “No hospital,” he repeated. Okay, Peter?”
“Whatever you want, Neal.” Peter squeezed Neal’s cold hands in his own. “Trust me. Just relax.”
The doctor from the service Peter called--a small, balding man wearing a yarmulke, dressed in a dark coat and jeans, and looking vaguely irritated with everything in general, arrived just before lunch. He agreed to examine Neal upstairs, and didn’t require that Neal do much more than take off his shirt. He was quick and efficient and professional, and did not speak unless necessary, even when Peter made awkward jokes.
Neal, for his part, was pretty good for the exam. He lay still and complied with everything asked. Peter stayed in the room, and much to Neal’s embarrassment, grasped Neal’s hand before the doctor began. Neal blushed, but he didn’t let go.
Neal began to get more fidgety towards the end of the exam, and not even the doctor’s quelling look stilled him. He was starting to reach the end of his endurance, and Peter willed the doctor to hurry as he finished by examining the wound, which still looked raw and ugly to Peter’s eyes. “This may hurt a little. Ready?”
And Neal flinched and made a high, breathless sound of distress, his hand clenching Peter’s hand-before going limp. By the time the doctor was finished, Neal was pale and his forehead was beaded with sweat.
“That’s it,” said the doctor. “Mr. Burke, a word?”
“Can I have a minute with him first?”
“Sure,” said the doctor, his face betraying no expression. “I’ll be waiting outside.”
Alone in the room, Peter turned to a white-faced Neal. “Neal, Neal you did great.” Peter wiped Neal’s forehead, stroked a hand down his cheek. “I want you to sleep for a little while, can you do that?”
“But … but Elizabeth made lunch …” Neal’s voice was barely a whisper. He was clearly at the end of his strength.
“Shhhh. We’ll have it later. Don’t worry. Just sleep, ok?” Peter was no good at this, he knew he was no good at this, and telling Neal to cowboy up was clearly not--
“Ok.” Neal tried, tried to smile, Peter watched him try. “Ok … “
“Good. Close your eyes now.” He dropped a hand onto the dark waves. “Good …”
Peter waited a moment, until Neal seemed to relax, and his breathing evened out. He wasn’t sleeping, Peter knew-but he was at least emulating sleep, and that was the best Peter could hope for at the moment. He slipped quietly out of the room.
“He needs to get more rest,” said the doctor briskly, packing up his bag as Peter approached him by the front door. “He looks exhausted. Hasn’t he been sleeping?”
“He … he’s been having some nightmares.” Peter didn’t think he’d had one last night, but with Neal, who knew? Peter had been down the hall, and while he hadn’t heard Neal scream, for all he knew, Neal had pulled his trick of not sleeping at all.
“I could prescribe a sleeping aid,” suggested the doctor.
Peter almost snorted. “He won’t take it.”
“Well, at this rate, he’s not going to make much improvement otherwise. He’s dehydrated and underweight. He hasn’t shaken the infection--could even be something he picked up at the hospital; I’ll need you to send me a urine sample, too. You’ve signed up for daily nursing care?” The doctor was scribbling something on a pad of paper as he spoke.
“Alternate days. They showed us how to manage the I.V.,” added Peter, feeling large and stupid and out of his depth. The doctor looked up at him sharply, and for a moment, Peter felt like the doctor could see right through him--his doubts and his fears and his conflict over Neal’s contract.
Then the doctor turned back to his notes. “I’ll adjust the antibiotics to something a bit stronger, and he should improve. The nausea there’s not much to do about--the stronger antibiotics will be harder on his stomach--but I’ll throw something in for that too, and fluids. You’ll need to get daily nursing if you’re going to keep him at home, for at least the next few days, and make sure they track blood and urine samples. Tell the nurses to let me know if he doesn’t improve in a few days.” The doctor smiled at him abruptly. “Your young man will be fine, don’t you fret. Are you related?”
“Not exactly.” How to explain that Neal was the convict he helped put behind bars, who was now working with him, who he hoped would continue to work with him, and who he was now taking out a second mortgage on his home so he could have home care? It was too absurd.
“Well, nonetheless,” said the small doctor in his no-nonsense way, when no further answer seemed forthcoming. “Have a nice day, Mr. Burke.”
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Part seven.
Title: Illustrations (part 6 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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“He’s so thin.” Elizabeth’s eyes were dark with concern as she slathered lotion over her legs, getting ready for bed.
“He’ll gain his weight back. He just has to eat.” Peter’s voice was steady and confident, belying his own worry. Neal had felt so--insubstantial--in his arms. As if he’d blow away. And when he’d come home to a home that was dead silent, Neal missing from his room and nowhere to be found, when he’d searched the house and after fifteen minutes of frantic activity and a call to the Marshalls, thanking God that Neal’s anklet still had a couple days of time left on it, when he’d found Neal slumped on the recliner on the patio, so still and his skin chilled--it had taken a moment before he realized that Neal was alive and just asleep, and that he could breathe again. He swallowed the image down before speaking. “I’ll call the on call doctor in the morning. Get him something for the nausea.”
“Yes, honey, that would be a good idea,” said Elizabeth, her tone warm and gentle, her touch on his arm, against his side comforting. “What are you going to tell Reece?”
“I don’t know. Neal’s -- well, look at him. I don’t feel right about pressuring him right now, not like he is. I just--let him stay here, get back on his feet, and then he can think about what to do. I know what Reece wants--what the Bureau wants--but Neal didn’t even have a chance to finish high school. Working at the Bureau for shit pay because he doesn’t have the education for an agent’s salary? Especially with Neal’s talents, and skills, and with him taking the risks he does--it’s not fair. I don’t -- I don’t think I could sell him on it. I don’t think I want to.”
“Then don’t,” said El, putting her arms around him, resting her chin on his shoulder. He breathed her in, letting her scent and her warmth comfort him. “Sweetie, we’ve talked about this. I’ll support you--and Neal, but it’s Neal’s choice. So just give it to him. He’s smart enough to figure out what he wants to do.”
“He once asked me, when I was pretending to be that rich accountant--if I hadn’t missed that life. Didn’t wish that was the road I’d followed. I didn’t--I don’t--but it’s the life Neal could have had, maybe should have had, if his life had been different, if he’d made different choices. If he’d had the choices I had. He’s young still, El. It’s the life he still could have, if he wanted it.”
“That’s the life you want for him. It might not be what he wants, Peter.”
“I know, but the Bureau--” Peter began, worry lines still creasing his forehead.
“Peter.” El took his face between her hands and kissed him, hard and fast, and for a moment, he lost himself in her. When he blinked his eyes open, she said, “You’re not going to figure it out tonight, and not without first discussing it with Neal. Let’s get some sleep; tomorrow will come soon enough.”
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Peter slept lightly, waking every few hours, worrying that Neal was still having nightmares--but it appeared he slept through, for which Peter was grateful. Still, in the morning, after Neal picked at the dry toast and ate barely half, made a face at the juice and flatly refused any eggs, Peter broke it to him that he was going to have to call the doctor. Neal, predictably, balked.
“No. I’m fine.” He grinned, wide enough to blind an elephant.
“Neal, you haven’t eaten anything since you’ve been home, and I know it’s not my cooking.” Peter tried to grin, but he knew it was weak.
“So I’ll eat.” There was a trace of obstinacy creeping in, and a wild look in Neal’s eyes. “I’ll have lunch, just--”
Peter cut him off. “Neal--Look, Neal, remember all those times I told you to cowboy up? Well, this isn’t one of those times. This isn’t something you can fix by ignoring it, or pretending it will go away. We need to fix this, before it gets worse.” He tried to sound coaxing, knowing he was messing it up. He was just no good at this.
“No, we don’t need to do anything, and I’m fine. I’ve already compromised on the damn I.V., and that’s more than enough. Seriously, Peter, stop worrying.” Neal had clearly dug in his heels, sounding like he was on the verge of a full-blown pout--but Peter wasn’t fooled, and he wasn’t backing down.
“The I.V. is just antibiotics, Neal. You’re probably dehydrated, and I think you’re still running a fever.”
“You’re over-reacting--” Neal was panicking--he was trying to hide it, but his defenses were down, and Neal had never been that good at conning Peter anyway.
“Neal. I’m not. You said you trusted me. So trust me now. I’ll be right here, I promise. It won’t be like before. I’ll even stay with you for the exam, if you want.” Peter put his hand over Neal’s and squeezed it, trying to reassure.
Neal took a breath; let it out. “You promise?”
“You have my word, Neal. I just want you to get something for the nausea, make sure that kidney issue is getting resolved, and that the antibiotics are treating the infection properly. The resident didn’t know what he was doing--but we still need to be careful. C’mon, just get checked out.”
“Peter, you won’t--you won’t make me go back to the hospital, will you? Because I won’t go. I won’t. I’ll--” his voice began to rise, and Peter cut him off.
“Neal, Neal relax. I’m not going to force you to do anything. We’ve got a system here, and if it’s not working, we’ll figure something out.”
Neal looked at Peter searchingly. He took a breath. “No hospital,” he repeated. Okay, Peter?”
“Whatever you want, Neal.” Peter squeezed Neal’s cold hands in his own. “Trust me. Just relax.”
The doctor from the service Peter called--a small, balding man wearing a yarmulke, dressed in a dark coat and jeans, and looking vaguely irritated with everything in general, arrived just before lunch. He agreed to examine Neal upstairs, and didn’t require that Neal do much more than take off his shirt. He was quick and efficient and professional, and did not speak unless necessary, even when Peter made awkward jokes.
Neal, for his part, was pretty good for the exam. He lay still and complied with everything asked. Peter stayed in the room, and much to Neal’s embarrassment, grasped Neal’s hand before the doctor began. Neal blushed, but he didn’t let go.
Neal began to get more fidgety towards the end of the exam, and not even the doctor’s quelling look stilled him. He was starting to reach the end of his endurance, and Peter willed the doctor to hurry as he finished by examining the wound, which still looked raw and ugly to Peter’s eyes. “This may hurt a little. Ready?”
And Neal flinched and made a high, breathless sound of distress, his hand clenching Peter’s hand-before going limp. By the time the doctor was finished, Neal was pale and his forehead was beaded with sweat.
“That’s it,” said the doctor. “Mr. Burke, a word?”
“Can I have a minute with him first?”
“Sure,” said the doctor, his face betraying no expression. “I’ll be waiting outside.”
Alone in the room, Peter turned to a white-faced Neal. “Neal, Neal you did great.” Peter wiped Neal’s forehead, stroked a hand down his cheek. “I want you to sleep for a little while, can you do that?”
“But … but Elizabeth made lunch …” Neal’s voice was barely a whisper. He was clearly at the end of his strength.
“Shhhh. We’ll have it later. Don’t worry. Just sleep, ok?” Peter was no good at this, he knew he was no good at this, and telling Neal to cowboy up was clearly not--
“Ok.” Neal tried, tried to smile, Peter watched him try. “Ok … “
“Good. Close your eyes now.” He dropped a hand onto the dark waves. “Good …”
Peter waited a moment, until Neal seemed to relax, and his breathing evened out. He wasn’t sleeping, Peter knew-but he was at least emulating sleep, and that was the best Peter could hope for at the moment. He slipped quietly out of the room.
“He needs to get more rest,” said the doctor briskly, packing up his bag as Peter approached him by the front door. “He looks exhausted. Hasn’t he been sleeping?”
“He … he’s been having some nightmares.” Peter didn’t think he’d had one last night, but with Neal, who knew? Peter had been down the hall, and while he hadn’t heard Neal scream, for all he knew, Neal had pulled his trick of not sleeping at all.
“I could prescribe a sleeping aid,” suggested the doctor.
Peter almost snorted. “He won’t take it.”
“Well, at this rate, he’s not going to make much improvement otherwise. He’s dehydrated and underweight. He hasn’t shaken the infection--could even be something he picked up at the hospital; I’ll need you to send me a urine sample, too. You’ve signed up for daily nursing care?” The doctor was scribbling something on a pad of paper as he spoke.
“Alternate days. They showed us how to manage the I.V.,” added Peter, feeling large and stupid and out of his depth. The doctor looked up at him sharply, and for a moment, Peter felt like the doctor could see right through him--his doubts and his fears and his conflict over Neal’s contract.
Then the doctor turned back to his notes. “I’ll adjust the antibiotics to something a bit stronger, and he should improve. The nausea there’s not much to do about--the stronger antibiotics will be harder on his stomach--but I’ll throw something in for that too, and fluids. You’ll need to get daily nursing if you’re going to keep him at home, for at least the next few days, and make sure they track blood and urine samples. Tell the nurses to let me know if he doesn’t improve in a few days.” The doctor smiled at him abruptly. “Your young man will be fine, don’t you fret. Are you related?”
“Not exactly.” How to explain that Neal was the convict he helped put behind bars, who was now working with him, who he hoped would continue to work with him, and who he was now taking out a second mortgage on his home so he could have home care? It was too absurd.
“Well, nonetheless,” said the small doctor in his no-nonsense way, when no further answer seemed forthcoming. “Have a nice day, Mr. Burke.”
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Part seven.