Pangs
Title: Pangs
Author: kaylynnkie
Disclaimer: Not mine
Pairing: none; PEN friendship
Summary: Neal feels pain in his hand
Word Count: ~1,040
Warnings/Rating: PGish
Notes: Written for phantisma's prompt over at comment_fic; " White Collar, Neal, sensitive fingers"
It was snowing in New York. In the middle of April. Peter sighed and tried to focus on his work, but he kept finding himself distracted. Neal was at his desk within Peter's line of vision, which was something he had careful organized when he had planned to get Neal out of prison in the first place. It was better to take preventative caution sometimes. All morning, he had procrastinated, which wasn't like Neal. First, it had been coffee, then the bathroom. There was a snack, then lunch. More coffee and the bathroom again. He was supposed to be working on duplicating a passport that was far too good. The tech guys in the basement needed some help with this one, especially the holographics. Peter knew this was the type of work that Neal loved, and he hadn't started yet.
It was a quarter of and he wasn't sure of what he should do. To be truthful, he was more worried than angry. He peered down, sipping at his fourth cup of coffee, trying not to be noticed and watched Neal rub at his hands. The left looked red from irritation, and Neal kept setting down his pencil to tuck his hands in tightly against his sides. Peter also noticed that he had tugged back his desk so his back was against the generator. It blew loudly but threw out little warm air.
“Are you ready to go home?”
Neal's eyes were wide with surprise. “What time is it?”
“It's five, Neal,” Peter said, furrowing his brow. “It's time to go.”
“Oh.” He looked down at the blank papers in front of him and then at the fake passport. “I'll take it home.”
“You don't have to do that.”
Neal was already sweeping everything into his bag and then seemed bothered by something. “Can I take this home?”
“Neal?” Peter asked patiently.
“Yeah?”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
He glared, affronted by the other man's tone. “I think I'll walk home, then. Good night, Peter.”
*
It was one-thirty in the morning when Elizabeth kicked him in the shin. The phone had scared them both awake since it was the land line and not his vibrating cell.
“Dammit, El!”
He rubbed his leg, while she answered the phone. “Hello. What? Is he okay? Yeah, we'll be there as soon as we can. Burke. B-U-R-K-E. I'm his wife, Elizabeth.”
Not entirely sure what was happening, Peter started pulling on sweats and threw some at his wife's side of the bed. She took them and pulled them on, still taking on the phone.
“We're leaving now. Tell him to calm down. I can hear him all the way over here.”
She hung up the phone. “Neal's in the hospital.”
*
Actually, Neal was in the E.R. waiting for the nurse to come back, his hand cradled against his chest. Elizabeth hugged him tightly and smacked his shoulder.
“You aren't supposed to be in the hospital at two in the morning!”
“I came in at eleven,” he protested weakly.
“Oh, honey.” She sat down next to him. “You know you have to book at least three hours ahead.”
“But I wasn't hurt then.”
“Peter would have planned that far ahead.”
Neal tried to glare at him, but it looked painful. He nuzzled against her. “El, my hand hurts.”
“I know. I'm sorry.”
“Where's Peter?”
“He's right over -” she broke off suddenly. “I'm not sure. He probably went to the bathroom.”
The misery on his face was pathetic. “He's mad at me.”
“He's cranky. Not mad.”
He sniffled a little, and she could feel the warm wetness of his tears through her shirt. “I'm sorry I woke you up.”
“It's okay.”
“Peter!”
The move jostled Neal, who made a sound of pain and squirmed away.
“The doctor needed some help finding his way,” he explained, glaring at the young man next to him. “He's been here for two hours.”
“The traffic of the -”
“In pain. Pain is cause for immediate action. When a hospital fails to adequately provide for patients complaining of extreme pain, then they are legally negligent.”
Neal scrubbed at his face, trying to hide his tears and looked up at Peter with hopefulness.
The doctor smiled. “I'm Dr. Nugen. May I see your hand?”
He had wheeled over a tray on a cart and knelt down to guide Neal's hand onto it. “Mr. Caffrey, please stop shaking.”
“I can't,” he mumbled.
He gasped sharply when the doctor rubbed the top of his hand. “I want you to give me a number 1 to 10, 10 being the worst, every time I touch a place that hurts.”
Neal's pain was worst the closest to the wrist and his fingers were mostly numb. The doctor looked concerned and called over for an orderly to get a wheelchair.
“We're going to send him to a radiologist and then we'll go from there.”
*
They found out later that Neal had torn a ligament several days ago, and that the tear had exposed a nerve, which had been agitated ever since. He had ignored the pain until it became unbearable. The numbness was indicative of nerve death.
“Will he ever feel with his fingers again?” El whispered.
Neal was asleep, and the Burkes were sitting next to the hospital bed. Peter rubbed his chin, looking upset.
“I don't know,” Dr. Nugen said. “I'm not an expert on these things. I've consulted with our specialist, but she isn't sure either. Our surgeon did the emergency repairs to alleviate the most extreme pain, but tomorrow he's going in with a team to cover the nerve and keep it from rubbing against the bone. Some of the damage might be irreversible.”
Peter let out a shaky breath and thought of the blank sheets of paper on Neal's desk this morning. He remembered the very first bonds that had crossed his desk before he even heard the name Caffrey.
Author: kaylynnkie
Disclaimer: Not mine
Pairing: none; PEN friendship
Summary: Neal feels pain in his hand
Word Count: ~1,040
Warnings/Rating: PGish
Notes: Written for phantisma's prompt over at comment_fic; " White Collar, Neal, sensitive fingers"
It was snowing in New York. In the middle of April. Peter sighed and tried to focus on his work, but he kept finding himself distracted. Neal was at his desk within Peter's line of vision, which was something he had careful organized when he had planned to get Neal out of prison in the first place. It was better to take preventative caution sometimes. All morning, he had procrastinated, which wasn't like Neal. First, it had been coffee, then the bathroom. There was a snack, then lunch. More coffee and the bathroom again. He was supposed to be working on duplicating a passport that was far too good. The tech guys in the basement needed some help with this one, especially the holographics. Peter knew this was the type of work that Neal loved, and he hadn't started yet.
It was a quarter of and he wasn't sure of what he should do. To be truthful, he was more worried than angry. He peered down, sipping at his fourth cup of coffee, trying not to be noticed and watched Neal rub at his hands. The left looked red from irritation, and Neal kept setting down his pencil to tuck his hands in tightly against his sides. Peter also noticed that he had tugged back his desk so his back was against the generator. It blew loudly but threw out little warm air.
“Are you ready to go home?”
Neal's eyes were wide with surprise. “What time is it?”
“It's five, Neal,” Peter said, furrowing his brow. “It's time to go.”
“Oh.” He looked down at the blank papers in front of him and then at the fake passport. “I'll take it home.”
“You don't have to do that.”
Neal was already sweeping everything into his bag and then seemed bothered by something. “Can I take this home?”
“Neal?” Peter asked patiently.
“Yeah?”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
He glared, affronted by the other man's tone. “I think I'll walk home, then. Good night, Peter.”
*
It was one-thirty in the morning when Elizabeth kicked him in the shin. The phone had scared them both awake since it was the land line and not his vibrating cell.
“Dammit, El!”
He rubbed his leg, while she answered the phone. “Hello. What? Is he okay? Yeah, we'll be there as soon as we can. Burke. B-U-R-K-E. I'm his wife, Elizabeth.”
Not entirely sure what was happening, Peter started pulling on sweats and threw some at his wife's side of the bed. She took them and pulled them on, still taking on the phone.
“We're leaving now. Tell him to calm down. I can hear him all the way over here.”
She hung up the phone. “Neal's in the hospital.”
*
Actually, Neal was in the E.R. waiting for the nurse to come back, his hand cradled against his chest. Elizabeth hugged him tightly and smacked his shoulder.
“You aren't supposed to be in the hospital at two in the morning!”
“I came in at eleven,” he protested weakly.
“Oh, honey.” She sat down next to him. “You know you have to book at least three hours ahead.”
“But I wasn't hurt then.”
“Peter would have planned that far ahead.”
Neal tried to glare at him, but it looked painful. He nuzzled against her. “El, my hand hurts.”
“I know. I'm sorry.”
“Where's Peter?”
“He's right over -” she broke off suddenly. “I'm not sure. He probably went to the bathroom.”
The misery on his face was pathetic. “He's mad at me.”
“He's cranky. Not mad.”
He sniffled a little, and she could feel the warm wetness of his tears through her shirt. “I'm sorry I woke you up.”
“It's okay.”
“Peter!”
The move jostled Neal, who made a sound of pain and squirmed away.
“The doctor needed some help finding his way,” he explained, glaring at the young man next to him. “He's been here for two hours.”
“The traffic of the -”
“In pain. Pain is cause for immediate action. When a hospital fails to adequately provide for patients complaining of extreme pain, then they are legally negligent.”
Neal scrubbed at his face, trying to hide his tears and looked up at Peter with hopefulness.
The doctor smiled. “I'm Dr. Nugen. May I see your hand?”
He had wheeled over a tray on a cart and knelt down to guide Neal's hand onto it. “Mr. Caffrey, please stop shaking.”
“I can't,” he mumbled.
He gasped sharply when the doctor rubbed the top of his hand. “I want you to give me a number 1 to 10, 10 being the worst, every time I touch a place that hurts.”
Neal's pain was worst the closest to the wrist and his fingers were mostly numb. The doctor looked concerned and called over for an orderly to get a wheelchair.
“We're going to send him to a radiologist and then we'll go from there.”
*
They found out later that Neal had torn a ligament several days ago, and that the tear had exposed a nerve, which had been agitated ever since. He had ignored the pain until it became unbearable. The numbness was indicative of nerve death.
“Will he ever feel with his fingers again?” El whispered.
Neal was asleep, and the Burkes were sitting next to the hospital bed. Peter rubbed his chin, looking upset.
“I don't know,” Dr. Nugen said. “I'm not an expert on these things. I've consulted with our specialist, but she isn't sure either. Our surgeon did the emergency repairs to alleviate the most extreme pain, but tomorrow he's going in with a team to cover the nerve and keep it from rubbing against the bone. Some of the damage might be irreversible.”
Peter let out a shaky breath and thought of the blank sheets of paper on Neal's desk this morning. He remembered the very first bonds that had crossed his desk before he even heard the name Caffrey.