White Collar Fic: Reliance (2/3)
Continued from part one.
***
It took exactly twenty-three minutes for the Q101-R bus to pull into the Queensbridge stop. Which meant Peter had been resisting the urge to pace for exactly twenty-three minutes. Reminding himself that the wait could have been much longer, and had been on several of his trips to the island in the past, was small solace.
Peter helped an elderly woman with a cane over to a seat, then stood holding onto the overhead bar, cataloging the rest of the bus's occupants more out of habit than interest. A harried mother trying to console an infant. Several C.O.s. Young. Old. Black. White. It was always an assortment-employees, ex-inmates come to reclaim their property, and visitors of every description.
And, of course, one anxious and disgruntled Fed.
Mozzie's phone call had worked better than a double-shot of espresso. There was nothing like hearing the words “infirmary” and “Neal” spoken in the same sentence to get you up and out of bed in a hot second.
It had been quite the day-after-Thanksgiving wake-up: a solid drop-kick back into reality. Not that he, or El, he been feeling particularly thankful, yesterday. They'd politely declined out-of-state invitations from family, opting for a quiet evening at home. El had still cooked, and they'd pretended like the only reason they were staying home was because Peter was so busy with work. Which he was. “Work” named Neal Caffrey, which came replete with a heavy sense of worry that was becoming far too much a part of “normal” life.
El had at least put some heart into preparing the meal. The end result was that turkey sandwiches and Tupperware containers of cranberry salad were going to be haunting Peter's lunches for weeks. It was good, it was, but he just couldn't bring himself to really enjoy it.
Altogether, it had been a spectacular failure in the holiday cheer department; but the theme of the holiday, itself, had seemed to taunt them in their current state of melancholy. Sure, Peter was glad Satchmo had gotten a clean bill of health on his last trip to the vet. He was glad the spilled wine had come out of the carpet, thanks to the amazing new carpet cleaner El had discovered. He was grateful for a roof over his head, a job, and a wife he loved, and who loved him back. But, oddly enough, the realization that the end of November was now in sight-with Neal still in Rikers-had kind of put a damper on the whole celebratory mood thing. And maybe, just maybe, Peter had been promising himself Neal would be “home for Thanksgiving.” It had sounded like a plausible deadline, before it had so dismally failed to be met.
As regarded his own universe, Mozzie had simply chosen to sulk Thanksgiving out of existence this year by refusing to acknowledge it, and Peter was beginning to think he had been on to something, there.
It was nearly a fifteen minute drive across the bridge and into the compound, and this morning it felt like twice as long. Once he arrived at North Infirmary Command, however, it was only to be told that Neal Caffrey had already been sent back to his cell. The noise at NIC had been plenteous, and further answers to his questions nonexistent, despite the fact that he had all his paperwork in order as Neal's emergency medical contact. In the end, Peter had figured that if Neal been sent back to his cell he couldn't be too bad off. Apparently, a nasty “stomach bug” was going around. Hence the chaos.
Fortunately, visitor reception wasn't quite so busy. Passing security was predictably tedious and grating, with all its pat-downs, metal detectors and clearance checks, but Peter managed to endure it without losing his temper overtly, and with a minimum of glaring. Disdain through familiarity seemed to have rendered mere frustration a commonplace nuisance around here, in any case.
Regardless, Peter had had just about had all he could take by the time Neal was brought in. The sight of Neal all but leaning on the C.O.s for support nearly had him shooting up from his seat-to yell at someone, or help Neal, he wasn't sure.
But he held it together, gripping the table as Neal slumped onto the seat across from him, and a C.O. unlocked the cuffs.
“God, Neal, you look like-”
“-I know.” Neal interrupted in a croak, massaging his wrists. “You don't have to say it.”
“Mozzie called. He said something about food poisoning, and you being sent to the infirmary, and being unable to get in to see you.”
“Probably because I was puking my guts out at the time,” Neal supplied in a small voice. “I really didn't want an audience just then.”
“At NIC they said there was a stomach bug going around.”
Neal laughed derisively. “Yeah. One of those spontaneous, inexplicable things. Just because half of Rikers winds up in the infirmary overnight, and it all happens to coincide with last night's Thanksgiving 'feast,' that doesn't mean we should go around blaming the mystery meat, or anything. These 'stomach bugs' just happen like that. No rhyme or reason to it.” Arms resting on the table in front of him, Neal let his head drop, burying his face against them. “Told you the food sucked,” came the muffled groan.
“You should've stayed in the infirmary. You look...” Pale. Shaken. Ready to puke some more. “Not so hot. You should've stayed put for a bit.”
Neal lifted his head a fraction to give Peter an incredulous look. “Right. Because lying there listening to all the other guys puke their guts out is really helpful in quelling the nausea.” He face-planted again. “'Sides, I think all the private 'seg' rooms at NIC were taken. Just wanted my cozy cell back. ”
And he'd probably just gotten settled into his “cozy cell” before being informed he had a visitor, Peter realized.
“Sorry for dragging you out here.”
“S'okay. Always good to see you, Peter. You got news for me?” With his face still nestled against his arms, Peter couldn't see Neal's expression, but the hope in his voice was unmistakable.
Great. That definitely eased his guilt. “No...” Peter confessed. “I just needed to make sure you were okay.”
“M'fine,” Neal assured. “Don't tell Elizabeth about this, 'k?”
“Too late for that, buddy. She'll be waiting to hear from me.”
Neal made an unhappy, muffled noise.
“Neal, I'm going to look into all this.” He'd heard all the horror stories about boxes of food, intended for prisons, which were clearly labeled “unfit for human consumption.” He'd never had possible confirmation of one of those horror stories staring him in the face, making him want to go punch a wall. “Whoever authorized this food...”
“Is going to be hearing from my lawyer.” Neal lifted his head enough to show off a faint smirk, resting his chin on his arms. “You can count on it.”
Peter knew Neal was right. And, if Mozzie weren't enough, there had to be plenty of family members out there who'd be outraged on behalf of their own incarcerated loved ones when they found out. Some food supplier was about to get more than a little grief over their bargain shipment.
“You running a fever?” Peter asked quietly, noticing the bright spots of pink standing out on Neal's cheeks.
“No,” Neal answered automatically, before frowning and amending, “Maybe.”
Peter sighed heavily. “I don't suppose they coax you back to health with chicken noodle soup around here.”
“Peter...” Neal whined plaintively. “You're going to make me sick again.” He swallowed hard. “Last thing I wanna see is food. Not even chicken noodle soup. Not even steak. And I really like steak...”
He looked so betrayed as he said it-so forlorn, and bone-deep tired-it made Peter's chest constrict with sympathy and helplessness. If Neal had been looking on the underfed side a week ago, now he looked positively starved.
“You haven't been eating those M&Ms, have you?”
Neal stared wanly at him. “You're going to start scolding me again, aren't you?”
“No,” Peter answered gently. As if he could scold Neal right now, while he was looking so thoroughly dejected. “No, I'm not. But after you get out of here, as soon as you feel up to it, I'm taking you out for best steak you've ever tasted-and you're going to eat every last bite.”
“I've tasted some pretty good steak,” Neal warned with a soft smile.
“You name the place, and I'm there with the credit card.”
Neal got a far-off look in his eye for a moment before replying. “Sounds good.”
It was a promise his bank balance would undoubtedly live to regret, but it was one Peter could live with as long as he got the chance to make good his “threat.”
“Peter,” Neal began with sleepy wonder, “did you just invite me on a date?”
“Don't make me smack you upside the head.”
“You wouldn't, ” Neal countered, bringing to force the perfect amount of contrived hurt.
“Don't tempt me.”
Neal shivered slightly-not, Peter presumed, actually at the threat-and inquired languidly: “Suppose you have to go to work, now.” He took a closer look at Peter and added, “Why are you in a t-shirt? Shouldn't you be dressed for the office?”
Peter shrugged. “Left in a rush.”
“Peter,” Neal paused to give him a “now don't you lie to me” expression, “are you in your pajamas?”
“No, I'm not in my pajamas.” Peter produced a mild scowl. At least Neal was feeling well enough to make juvenile wise-cracks, which was something. “Do you want me to leave, or are you just having fun jump-starting your day by mocking me?”
“I never mock you.”
“Uh huh.”
“Your taste in clothes, maybe; your concept of a pick-up line, definitely. But never you.”
Maybe it was the fact that Peter hadn't had his first cup of coffee, or the fact that dark lines under Neal's eyes added a solemnity to his expression, but Peter could've sworn he wasn't quite teasing. To suggest that respect underlay the statement would probably have been taking things too far. Yeah-definitely.
“I don't have to leave quite yet. Diana and Jones will be there in case anything comes up.” Peter observed Neal's reaction. “Unless I'm interrupting your morning routine.”
Neal shrugged. “The spa's only open on Mondays.”
Peter gave a soft huff of amusement, not because it was particularly amusing, but because Neal was making the effort to joke. It wasn't about saving face with Neal, or pretending none of this hurt. He'd already told Peter how much it hurt: if not in so many words, then by the lapses in the polished, smiling Caffrey routine.
No, the jokes weren't about pretending it was all okay. They were about Neal sucking it up the only way he knew how-which sometimes involved whining over the splinter in his finger despite the mortal wound bleeding him dry. But if that was what Neal needed, it was what he needed.
Not that he would appreciate it if Peter actually acknowledged that he understood any of that. At least not openly.
“Of course, it's a pretty barbaric setup,” Neal rambled on, continuing a pointlessly elaborate description of the nonexistent Rikers spa. “No manicurist, no jacuzzi, not even a-”
“-Neal?”
“Hmm.”
“Cowboy up.”
“You're mean, Peter.”
It was a token response, just as the joke had been a token attempt at levity. Just as they both knew that right now “cowboy up” meant something entirely different than it had back in that seedy hotel, spoken what felt like a lifetime's worth of experiences ago.
“You better believe it,” Peter replied complacently.
An outsider would've called Peter callous. El would've probably called it “tough love.” Peter thought of it more along the lines of choosing mutually acceptable phrasing for what would've otherwise devolved into a round of feeble platitudes that would've made them both squirm.
“Peter, if you can't clear me... I'm not going to be kept at Rikers, am I?”
It was one of those rare times when a crack appeared in the Caffrey mask. For a moment he was more than melancholy; he was afraid. But even with his bravado failing, he tried to cover everything with an expression of mere melancholy, as if it would only be boring to stay at Rikers-not panic-inducing.
And it was as clear a sign as any to Peter of just how off his game Neal must be, because he had to know the answer to that question. Or at least he would if he'd thought it through logically. But maybe this was more about hearing it stated-by him-in no uncertain terms.
“This is temporary, Neal, whatever happens. If you were found guilty you'd be sent back to a supermax facility again.” He offered a weak smile of encouragement. “Might even get your old cell back.”
“But what about Becker?”
“What about him?” Peter answered darkly.
“He wants me here in Rikers-it's all a part of the pioneering process for gaining harsher sentencing for white-collar criminals, right? He's obviously got some pull.”
“So does Hughes.”
“But-”
“-Becker is working on passing legislation to that effect. That's not the same as actually passing it. Besides, that's not the point.”
“If you say so.” Neal didn't actually roll his eyes, probably because he was still too busy resting his chin on his forearm, and looking washed-out, nauseated, and depressed.
Peter gave his rebellion a quelling look nonetheless. “I do say so.”
“And the point is?” Neal goaded, skepticism not quelled in the least.
“You don't belong in Rikers.” Peter surprised himself with the depth of feeling that sprang to life in the words as he spoke them.
Neal looked surprised, too, and a little less miserable. “Because they don't have a real spa here.” A smile spread across his face, tired but natural, full of teasing and relief and gratitude. “I knew you weren't that heartless, Peter.”
“No,” Peter agreed, “not quite.”
“Peter...” Neal began again, with a strangely frozen expression on his face-before abruptly sitting up and turning away from Peter with a moan, arms wrapped around his stomach. He promptly doubled over and began to dry-heave.
Peter was there, at Neal's side, before any of the C.O.s could react. When the nearest C.O.-the same man who'd given Peter the good “report card” on Neal several days earlier-came forward into the room, Peter held up a staying hand. Obviously, it was a request, not an order, however authoritatively made; but the man obeyed, nonetheless, standing a few feet off, waiting.
Hesitantly, Peter placed a hand on Neal's back, between the shoulder blades. He could feel the ripples as Neal's muscles spasmed with each round of nausea. “Hey, you okay?” Peter could've hit himself as soon as he'd said the words.
Neal gave a small whimper: as clear a “No” as any bellowed reply would have been.
“Yeah, sorry. That was stupid.”
Neal made a noise that might have started out as a soft chuff of laugher, but which ended, instead, in a second whimper of consummate misery. He curled further in on himself as another dry-heave wracked him.
Feeling useless, Peter began to rub his fingers in a circular motion on Neal's back-which made him feel stupid a second time in the space of a ten seconds. But it was better than doing nothing. It was what El would've done, but El wasn't here. Which left him.
“Just think about... Mr. Haversham hammering out that lawsuit, huh?” Peter encouraged in lowered voice. “A few people are about to wish they'd never been born.”
“S'how I feel...about now,” Neal declared with feeling, between sobs for breath.
“You're really going to just sit there feeling sorry for yourself?” Peter asked-despite feeling quite sorry on Neal's behalf, himself.
“Yes,” was Neal's resounding reply.
“Okay.” Peter kept up the circular motion, smoothing wrinkles from the orange material of the jumpsuit beneath his fingers. Neal was right. It was garish. Hideous. A nightmare of neon color, clashing painfully with Neal's pale complexion-paler now, even more than usual.
“O-kay?” Neal panted, words muffled with his head bent forward like it was. “That's...all you're going to say?”
Peter shrugged. “Telling you to cowboy up would just be redundant right now, don't you think?”
Neal lurched again, gagging-briefly, compared to the other bouts he'd been suffering-and swallowed thickly. “Definitely.”
Peter kept rubbing his back. The rounds of nausea lessened in severity, until, finally, they stopped altogether.
“You need to go back to the infirmary, kid?” the C.O. asked, still unmoved from his post as observer.
Peter opened his mouth to agree with the soundness of the suggestion.
But Neal shook his head, an enervated, languid movement. “Back to my cell.”
“You sure?” Peter pressed.
Neal nodded.
Considering the chaos Peter had witnessed first-hand at NIC, he could understand Neal's decision. He still didn't like the idea of Neal going back to his cell where oversight would be more limited. “You'll drink plenty of water?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Dehydration's no laughing matter.”
“Do you hear me laughing?” Neal grumbled, keeping his head tucked towards his chest even now that the dry-heaves had stopped. He didn't pull away from Peter's touch, either. A small shiver passed through him. He joked with thin humor: “I changed my mind. Can I just go home now?”
If only it were that easy.
Peter almost ruffled his hair, then considered their audience, and Neal's clearly battered sense of dignity, and stopped midway, giving the back of his neck a brief squeeze before pulling away.
“Water. Lots of it,” he ordered, sternness undermined, as was its wont these days, by his own palpable concern.
Neal pulled himself upright, arms still wrapped around stomach, face gray with exhaustion. “'Kay.”
Peter nodded. “And rest.”
“I'll see if I can find the time.”
“Smart Alec.”
Neal almost managed to assemble a grin. Points for effort.
The C.O. came forward to secure Neal, then-and Peter felt one pulse of unchecked anger away from laying into the man with his fists. The fact that the C.O. was only doing his job, and doing so in a spirit of unspoken sympathy, only went so far in soothing the urge to physically stop him from cuffing Neal's hands behind his back, when not five minutes ago Neal had been doubled over, helplessly sick.
Limply compliant, Neal looked ready to be knocked over by a halfhearted breeze. Which made the handcuffs seem just that much more ridiculous and uncalled for.
Generally, Peter understood the necessity of protocol, even when he didn't like it or particularly appreciate the way it often got in the way. Generally, he could still keep level-headed enough to remind himself why such protocols had to be put in place, especially in a place like Rikers. Generally, maybe all that was true-but not now. Peter was feeling anything but level-headed.
“Get some coffee, Peter,” Neal suggested, as he got to his feet with the help of the C.O.'s hand under his elbow. “You look like you could use it.”
“I'll do that,” Peter replied numbly, and wished for something stronger than espresso.
***
When answers came, they came from a direction Peter never would have anticipated.
A “lucky break” on the Wark case became the first domino to fall, creating a chain reaction of events. Peter had listened to Diana's report: a second-hand relay, news that Wark was in hot water. With the DNR. That had at least caught Peter's attention. Apparently, a neighbor had reported an escaped monkey of all things, running around the premises of Wark's house. As it turned out, that specific type of monkey was a critically endangered species-special permit required to own one. A permit Wark did not have. What had started out as confiscation of the one monkey, however, had turned into a full-fledged investigation when another neighbor had added that she had been hearing “roaring” noises late at night, noises that sounded like they were coming from Wark's walled-in backyard.
Before he could ask, Diana had told Peter she was in the process of getting him the full seizure report.
The really amusing part was learning that Wark had been on vacation with his wife in Florida while all this was going down, and had been forced to jump on the soonest flight home to attempt some damage control in the situation.
But it wasn't until Diana had gotten him that seizure report-complete with pictures of Wark's exotic and illicit little backyard “zoo,” set up cozily in a showy and furnished pavilion-style outbuilding-that Peter had realized the import of what the DNR had just accomplished for him. Half the “furnishings” in said cozy pavilion turned out to be as illegal as the animals. While the DNR had only been interested in preserving the evidence of Wark's zoo, Peter had found plenty of interest in the background of their helpful snapshots.
That's when things had finally started falling into place. The unique and eye-catching stolen vase in the background of the photograph was only of minor value, relatively speaking-but still stolen. Enough for Peter to get a search warrant. There had been no reason, then, to hope they'd discover anything more about Wark than what they'd previously suspected as regarded jewel smuggling-except Peter's nagging gut instinct that there was more to this whole situation. Possibly something to do with Neal's case. But he'd tamped it down, because clearly spending every waking hour (and great number of hours being wakeful, where he should have been asleep) mulling over the theft from the Met had made him prone to see a connection everywhere he looked. His mental connection of this case with Neal was probably nothing more than the fact that it was the last one Neal had been working on before... well, before everything went wrong and he landed back in prison.
Wark had arrived home fuming-resistant, to say the least, and still trying to spin the situation in his favor. Or at least limit the damage. Then, when he saw the game was well and truly up-that the search warrant was going through, due to probable cause to suspect further stolen art, and he was going to be forced to open his personal vault-he'd become a completely different person. He'd spilled the whole story in the name of “cooperation,” and the hope of a better sentence. And blindsided Peter when the vague gut feeling that there was something here connected to Neal’s problems proved more accurate than he could’ve imagined.
From there, things had just gotten more entertaining, with Wark and Becker seeing who could sell the other out the quickest.
Neal had been right, at least partly, about Becker after all. Becker had payed someone off to frame Neal. One Raymond Wark. Wark, who'd found out about Neal's true identity thanks to his righthand man's thorough research into each of his employer's prospective clients, and allowed Neal to keep up the con while he considered options for getting the FBI off the scent.
Becker had his own “sources.” He'd been tracking Neal's progress with the FBI for some time, and clearly hadn't liked what he'd seen-though, as far as Peter was able to figure out, he didn't actually have anything against Neal personally. No, it was more the principle of the matter with him.
There were still a lot of details to untangle, with Wark and Becker's accounts varying on several points-their stories predictably tailored by each to their own best advantage. Peter still didn't understand exactly how Becker and Wark had met and made their opportunistic pact to frame Neal. The bottom line was that Becker had had the motive, and the painting, and Wark had had the skill to pull off the theft and frame-up (admittedly, with cooperation from the “victim” of his “theft,” who had access to details of the Met's security, thanks to their efforts to reassure him of his painting's safety). It seemed Wark was hoping that getting Neal out of the way would be enough to seriously hamper the FBI investigation, if not throw it into chaos entirely. It certainly had done that-for a while, at least.
Telling Neal had been the best part, of course. There was still the wait: evidence to process and present, paperwork to finalize, and other assorted and monotonous bureaucratic speed-bumps standing between Neal and freedom. But there was no longer any question about Wark or Becker's guilt; it was only a matter of distributing the guilt and penalties between them. And getting the official go-ahead for Neal's release now that the charges against him were, obviously, being dropped.
Mozzie wanted to see both Wark and Becker thrown into Rikers. While Peter fully agreed with the poetic justice of the idea, for the moment he was still mostly preoccupied with getting Neal out of Rikers.
Then, just when things were looking not-quite-rosy (but soon to be rosier), Peter had gotten his second panicked call from Mozzie. It had come across much much like the previous: i. e. a whole lot of Mozzie ranting against the prison system, and their inability to communicate with the family and emergency contacts of inmates (“If they had their way, we'd only get medical updates when it came down to making the funeral arrangements.”), and a whole lot of Peter trying to get something useful out of him. And, again, it all came down to the same two key words as last time, “Neal” and “infirmary.”
Oh, yeah, and something about a toothbrush.
Peter didn't question how Mozzie was getting these updates. He just headed back to Rikers, traversing the system for what seemed like the hundredth time, and with what felt like an insoluble knot of worry settled rocklike in the pit of his stomach.
NIC hardly seemed changed since Peter's last visit, either, making him wonder if the chaos was what passed for normal around there.
From there, he pretty much bullied his way in to see Neal, brandishing every right he possessed (and several he wasn't entirely certain of) as Neal's listed next-of-kin possessing power of attorney with the all the paperwork that gave him the right to know about Neal's condition based on both that, and the fact that he was still, technically, Neal's handler. He didn't add the “technically” part. Citing regulation numbers on inmate medical care rights (wincing on the inside, because he hadn't actually had the chance to look and see for himself if Mozzie knew what he was talking about), and adding in a few crucial phrases about contacting his attorney, had also helped.
And, no, being put on a list to be contacted with news about the inmate's condition as soon as it was available would not do. He was already supposed to be on such a list, for all the good it had done.
Peter might have raised his voice a bit, and turned a few heads, at that point. But he hadn't actually knocked any heads together, even if he'd implied he'd really, really like to.
He was taken to a row of “dorm” style rooms; presumably the special units wing of NIC.
A C.O. came into the room with him, waiting silently near the door.
There wasn't much of a scene to take in. Concrete walls. Two beds. The one on his left was occupied by a man with a scraggy, mostly gray beard. He was in four-point restraints, an I.V. in one arm, the tube leading to a bag of clear fluids attached to the nearby pole.
And there was Neal, similarly restrained. Instead of a full prison jumpsuit, he wore a white t-shirt and a pair of (still ubiquitously orange) prison-issue pants. His left bicep was swathed in gauze.
Peter approached, with only a moment to catalog Neal's status as dead-to-the-world, before the other occupant of the room let out a sudden string of profanities, interspersed with clear demands directed at the C.O. (and possibly God, judging by the volume) to be given “something for the pain.”
The C.O. told him tersely to “Can it, Gregson.”
Neal woke with a small start, adding his own, “OhshuttupGregson,” to the mix, in a gravelly voice.
“Neal?”
Neal opened his eyes, then, with a few owlish blinks. “Peter? How'd you get in here?”
“I have my ways.”
Neal's “mmpht” was only vaguely impressed. His eyes were already drifting back to half-mast.
“What happened?” Peter nodded towards his arm.
“Shanked,” Neal replied simply, then with a small eye-roll added: “I know, I'm in ad-seg. That doesn't happen in ad-seg...”
Only, obviously, it had. Peter could think about making heads roll, later. Or helping Mozzie make heads roll, as the case may be.
“How?” he asked, leaning in to make their conversation as relatively private as possible.
“S'guy...in the cell.”
Peter was beginning to feel like he was interrogating a sleepy toddler. At least Gregson had shut up for the time being, making it almost possible for Peter to think straight. “What guy, in what cell?”
“The ugly...bald guy-in his cell. Smelled bad,” Neal expounded helpfully. “Was being led past his cell, and I guess he thought I was someone he knew. Because I don't know why he'd want to kill me. Never seen him before.”
“So he grabbed you through the bars and stabbed you?”
“Mhmm.” Neal tilted his head once, in a nod, before letting his head fall back to the pillow. “With a toothbrush.”
Peter knew the creativity of inmates seeking weapons truly knew no bounds. Sharpened toothbrush handles could kill if wielded with enough anger and intent. Neal, however, sounded distinctly disgruntled at the whole concept, as if the weapon of choice was the last insult added to his injury that he could take.
Gregson let loose with several more obscenities.
Neal groaned in irritation, indicating the man with a tilt of his head. “He's coming down off...something. Been going on for hours. Like they're gonna break all the rules in the book and give him narcotics if he just whines long enough and loudly enough...” He snorted. “Think I'm the one who should get the heavy pain-killers, for being forced to share a room with him.” Neal tried to shift into a more comfortable position, with little maneuverability to do so thanks to the restraints. He stilled abruptly with a soft cry of pain.
“Neal?” Peter knew he really wasn't good at the whole concerned hovering thing.
“Remind me not to do that again,” Neal managed, between clenched teeth.
“What? Move?”
“Yeah. That.” Neal's nostrils flared as he pulled in sharp, deliberate breaths. “Who would've thought a toothbrush could hurt so bad?”
Peter figured any “tough on plaque” quips could wait for another time, preferably when Neal wasn't lying there with a frown of pained concentration etched between his eyes. “What about something for the pain?” he asked, keeping his voice particularly low to ward against triggering another round from Gregson along just the same lines.
“What, you mean some more Motrin?”
Peter hoped Neal was joking. But, if he was, he was doing an inscrutable job of deadpanning it. “I was thinking something a little stronger.”
“Yeah,” Neal said, with a soft sigh, eyes faintly glazed and distant, “me too.”
“Neal, did you ask?”
Neal gave Peter a look-the kind Peter had been getting far too many of since Neal had been sent to Rikers. Far too many of those looks Peter had realized a second later were fully deserved.
“I asked. The last time the nurse was here to be asked.”
“And?”
“She told me 'well now, we'll just wait and see about that,''” Neal quoted with heavily overdone cheerfulness. “As if she's actually in on any of the 'waiting and seeing,'” he remarked sourly. “Don't get me wrong, that Ibuprofen's terrific stuff...”
Yeah. Terrific, for a sprained ankle.
“You should've gotten someone's attention.”
“In case you haven't noticed, around here it isn't always a case of the squeaky wheel getting the oil.” Neal gave his roommate-who'd finally settled for muttering oaths under his breath-a resentful glance. “You'll forgive me for not joining the chorus.”
Peter could recognize a valid point when it stared him in the face. “How long-since the Ibuprofen?”
Neal shook his head. “Not sure. Hours.” He looked at Peter sheepishly. “I don't suppose you could get me some more?” His sheer hesitancy to ask, combined as it was with the strained tension of pain reflected in his eyes, and the feverish sweat dampening the hair on his forehead, was enough to convince Peter that Neal was, if not desperate, then at least in serious need.
That was when the true helplessness of Neal's situation really struck home. He'd been lying here, tied down, in pain, without any great hope that a call for help would even be answered, for God knew how long. The realization created a sudden pinnacle of anger in Peter. All the stress, and frustration, and worry of the last few weeks coalesced into a sudden torrent of thick rage. Rage that Peter was sick and tired of repressing.
“Peter?”
“I'll get you something,” Peter hurried to assure him. Then he noticed the way Neal was restlessly trying to shift his weight, gingerly turning as much to the left as the restraints permitted-and then Peter noticed the specks of blood on the side of his t-shirt. “You get stabbed more than once?” he demanded with sudden urgency.
Neal was puzzled a moment. Then he tilted his head forward to stare down at the specks of blood. “Oh-that. Sort of. He tried to stab me in the side, first. Only grazed me. Then he got me in the arm. It's superficial, though. They both are, really... At least that's what they tell me.”
With a grunt of injudicious mistrust (because, lately, Peter actually found himself agreeing with some of Mozzie's opinions of the justice system), Peter reached out to take a look at the damage for himself. Neal only made noises of faint, automatic protest as Peter lifted his shirt to examine the bandaging. The square of gauze, taped over his right side and partway across the ribcage, was spotted in several places with fresh blood.
“Sir-I'm going to have to ask you to please take a step back,” the C.O. spoke, starting to move away from the door, towards Peter.
Peter stopped in his examination to turn on the C.O. with wrath that the man's polite insertion didn't merit. “Get me someone in here, now.”
“Sir, there's strict regulation for the supervision of prisoners in restraints, and I can assure you the staff are following-”
“-He's bleeding, and he's in pain, and if you don't get someone in here who has the authority to change both those things, then I will.”
When the C.O. reached for the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt, Peter thought for a moment he was about to be hauled out of there by force. Then the C.O. offered him a clipped, “A moment, Sir,” and muttered a request for someone named “Nurse Weston” to come to “unit two, room sixteen.”
Nurse Weston entered the room to catcalls from Gergson. The C.O. told Gregson, more forcefully still, to settle down, threatening to write him up for harassing the staff. Gregson kept his head turned on the pillow to track events with a belligerent eye. But he was quiet again.
Weston looked faintly flustered, though she hid it fairly well beneath an attitude of determination. Clearly, she was familiar enough with the job to know what to expect, without being quite familiar enough with it (and its vulgarities, ala Gregson) to take it all in stride.
But she didn't start out with a barrage of questions about Peter, and why he was here, or why she'd been paged. She turned straight to her patient, tucking clipboard under arm to check the restraints, asking Neal questions about the circulation in his hands and feet.
“Are the restraints really necessary?”
She looked up at Peter. “I'm afraid so.”
“He's not violent.”
“I know.” She jotted something down on the clipboard. “It's not about him, right now; it's about everyone's safety in the unit. There's been a lot of tension in the yard this last week. Looks like today's the day those tensions decided to break.” She gave Peter a hard look. “We're packed-even after sending several of the worst stab victims to the ER. All of which means no one has a private room this morning.” She consulted her clipboard further. “We're doing the best we can with the protective custody and segregation cases.”
“I appreciate it,” Neal interjected wryly-like the kid embarrassed by an overprotective parent making a fuss in public. He ran his tongue over his lower lip. “But...ah, I just have to ask...can I go pee sometime soon? I really gotta go.”
The eavesdropping Gregson snickered derisively, as if the need to use the bathroom was a weakness reserved for newbies.
Weston ignored Gregson, frowning at Neal. “Wasn't Nurse Davis in twenty minutes ago? It says here she was scheduled to check on you...”
“Think Nurse Davis forgot.”
Her frown deepened. “Then you haven't had more pain meds, either?”
“No, he hasn't,” Peter answered, not disguising his impatience. He nodded to indicate Neal's red-spotted t-shirt. “And he's bleeding again.”
Weston gave Peter another hard look. “Visitors aren't generally allowed into the actual care units, Mister...”
“Special Agent Burke,” Peter supplied. “FBI. I'm...responsible for him.” It was the easiest self-designation he could think of on the spot. “He's getting out today, and I'm here to see he gets out still in one piece.” Something he'd been failing at, dismally, it seemed.
Perceptively, Weston didn't delve into questions on why Neal was being babysat so scrupulously by a federal agent of his very own-or why said federal agent was so dead set on personally supervising his care like some particularly fretful and peevish mother hen, instead of merely inquiring discretely on his condition and whether it'd affect the day's plans like any aloof professional would.
Neal latched onto the news hungrily. “Today? I'm being released today?”
“I'm going to get things finalized by the parole board if I have to go around knocking on doors myself,” Peter vowed. The parole board's reinstatement of Neal's release terms was the last piece that needed to fall into place. It was driving Peter crazy, not least because Neal didn't deserve to wait a minute longer in Rikers when he hadn't done anything to break his parole in the first place. But far be it for the machinery of government to grind more quickly simply because a case was cut-and-dried, and the just course obvious.
“Let's take a look at that side, and see about getting you something for the pain. And then we'll let you up to stretch your legs and use the bathroom.”
At which point Gregson demanded: “Hey, what about me? Gonna give pretty-boy over there all your attention?”
“Oh, you're next in line for attention, alright, Mister Gregson,” Weston informed him tersely, managing to make the promise sound mildly ominous.
Gregson muttered some more about the “pretty-boy,” until Peter had half a mind to walk over and ram his fist down the man's throat. He'd had about all he could take of watching Neal endure the degradation of the situation, and Gregson was practically auditioning to be the straw that broke the camel's back.
Peter got a good look at the neat line of stitching holding together the gash on Neal's side as Weston examined the wound, murmuring, “Nothing torn...” She straightened. “I'm going to go get the supplies to re-bandage that. You're also due for your next round of antibiotics. I'll bring some Motrin-”
“-Not going to cut it.”
“Agent Burke, kindly refrain making demands, here, or you'll be asked to leave. Your being here is highly irregular, and a courtesy, as it is.”
But Peter had “refrained” long enough. He'd been polite. He'd toed the line. He'd made Neal promise to toe the line, too, and Neal had been behaving like a model inmate according to every report. It hadn't escaped Peter's notice that the restraints had remained exactly where they were supposed to be, when the itch to get out of them had to nagging constantly at the back of Neal's mind.
And all that docile good behavior-for what? Restraints, injuries, and a lack of proper pain management.
“He needs something stronger,” Peter said, forcefully, letting his indignation bleed into his tone like acid. “You only have to look at him to see he's in pain. Serious pain, not Advil pain.”
“Peter...” Neal spoke softly, a flush creeping into his cheeks. He'd clearly had about all the humiliation he could take, and having the conversation carried on over his head, as if he were a child incapable of fighting his own battles, was only adding to his mortification.
Weston looked from Peter to Neal and back again, sighing in impotent sympathy. “I can't authorize anything stronger, not without a doctor's order. But I'll talk to Doctor Nichols about it, and see if he'll prescribe something a little stronger. The wounds are superficial...”
Neal made an “I told you so” face at Peter.
“Yeah, well, the pain's not,” Peter growled. He understood that anyone dealing in corrections had to perfect their BS meter. Sob stories came with the territory, and developing a thick skin was the key to maintaining a modicum of objectivity. God knew Peter understood the conning, conniving criminal mindset. He knew how to read Neal-more or less. And it was complicated going. Far too complicated for Peter to read Nurse Weston in on the vital and telling signs of a Neal Caffrey pushed to the limits. She was going to have to take his word for it.
“I will talk to Doctor Nichols,” Weston emphasized with long-suffering endurance, glancing at Neal, addressing him directly: “Though he may want to re-evaluate your condition before making any decisions.” She made a last jerky addendum on the clipboard (possibly some warning about the patient being attached at the hip to an overbearing FBI handler who was prone to appear at inconvenient moments and make demands). “I'll be back shortly.”
Unfortunately, Doctor Nichols did want to re-evaluate Neal before signing the order. Peter survived being thrown out during the ten minutes it took Weston to apply fresh gauze to Neal's side injury. But when Nichols entered the room, he knew by the man's outraged look that the game was up.
Nichols swelled with annoyance, like he was getting ready to swear heartily at Peter-but was too breathless to find the right words-and Peter held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I'm not here to cause any trouble.”
“Yes. Well.” Nichols bit each word off, in a clipped, all-business rush. “There's plenty of trouble in here, already, without a...”
“Federal agent?” Peter suggested.
Completely unimpressed, Nichols gave him a frosty look. “I don't care who you are. All hell is breaking loose today, and I don't need a federal agent bullying my staff into giving him any special treatment we can't afford to offer.”
Peter didn't contradict that. A, he had been “bullying;” and B, neither Weston nor the observing C.O. deserved to be punished for their leniency.
But Peter did have a few things to say before he left too meekly. “This man has just been proven innocent.” Which was more than a white lie, since Neal would never be “proven innocent,” per se, no matter what crimes he was acquitted of. “He's being released today, and his condition will be reviewed and assessed by another doctor, directly.”
With a flash of his eyes, Nichols went from “frosty” to “sub-zero.” “Wonderful. I'm delighted by your conscientiousness. ”
“I'm sure you'd also appreciate knowing that this man has a lawyer who specializes in cases involving prisons.” Peter smiled tightly. “Knows all the ins and outs of prosecution over undo force, inhumane conditions, denial of basic medical rights...”
“Thank you, Agent-”
“-Burke.”
“Burke.” Nichols' expression was brittle. “I can see you know your work. Now if you'll kindly remove yourself from my domain...”
Gregson was snickering in the background again, as if it was all the best show he'd ever seen.
Peter nodded, recognizing the fact that his continued presence could only cause Neal's outlook for fair treatment more damage than good. He only hoped Nichols wasn't the type to punish a patient under his care because of a pushy “family member” giving him grief. Of course, such retribution wasn't supposed to happen-any more than prisoners in protective custody were supposed to get shanked. Peter was pretty sure this whole setup-prolonged periods spent in four-point restraints-wasn't entirely aboveboard.
If Mozzie didn't specialize in prisoners' rights he was about to after he heard about this.
“I'll be back with that release order.” Peter's gaze flickered meaningfully in Neal's direction. “If I have to spend the day knocking on doors.” Or kicking them in. In the purely metaphorical sense, of course.
Nichols gave him dismissive “You do that” look, and turned away.
Peter left without further protestation. But before he could leave NIC (at a brisk walk, after enduring the further impediment of the mandatory post-visit search), he was met on his way out of reception by an out-of-breath Nurse Weston.
“Agent Burke?”
He turned, forcing his glower of righteous indignation into something approaching receptiveness.
“I thought you might like to know that Doctor Nichols has prescribed some Tylenol 3, with Codeine, to be administered stat. Mister Caffrey should be more comfortable now.” She smiled-a discretely professional smile. “I'll make sure he's periodically allowed to stretch his legs.”
Peter's expression softened. “Thank you.”
“You should also know that Nurse Davis was unable to make her rounds due to circumstances beyond her control.”
Peter raised an eyebrow.
Weston grimaced, expounding grudgingly: “There was a fight; an inmate tried to strangle her. She'll be alright, but was understandably shaken. Nonetheless, when she was given the rest of the day off, other nurses should have been assigned her entire shift. No amount of chaos serves as an excuse for the resulting neglect, and I can only offer my sincere apology, and assure you that Doctor Nichols did not intend-”
“-Oh, I think he did,” Peter interrupted. He took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. She was eating her own slice of humble pie, as well as her coworkers', without making excuses. “I’m sorry. I can see you're doing the best you can. I appreciate it.”
Her smile was tinged with relief. “Good luck, Agent Burke.”
***
Continue to part three.
Index:
Part 1
Part 3
***
It took exactly twenty-three minutes for the Q101-R bus to pull into the Queensbridge stop. Which meant Peter had been resisting the urge to pace for exactly twenty-three minutes. Reminding himself that the wait could have been much longer, and had been on several of his trips to the island in the past, was small solace.
Peter helped an elderly woman with a cane over to a seat, then stood holding onto the overhead bar, cataloging the rest of the bus's occupants more out of habit than interest. A harried mother trying to console an infant. Several C.O.s. Young. Old. Black. White. It was always an assortment-employees, ex-inmates come to reclaim their property, and visitors of every description.
And, of course, one anxious and disgruntled Fed.
Mozzie's phone call had worked better than a double-shot of espresso. There was nothing like hearing the words “infirmary” and “Neal” spoken in the same sentence to get you up and out of bed in a hot second.
It had been quite the day-after-Thanksgiving wake-up: a solid drop-kick back into reality. Not that he, or El, he been feeling particularly thankful, yesterday. They'd politely declined out-of-state invitations from family, opting for a quiet evening at home. El had still cooked, and they'd pretended like the only reason they were staying home was because Peter was so busy with work. Which he was. “Work” named Neal Caffrey, which came replete with a heavy sense of worry that was becoming far too much a part of “normal” life.
El had at least put some heart into preparing the meal. The end result was that turkey sandwiches and Tupperware containers of cranberry salad were going to be haunting Peter's lunches for weeks. It was good, it was, but he just couldn't bring himself to really enjoy it.
Altogether, it had been a spectacular failure in the holiday cheer department; but the theme of the holiday, itself, had seemed to taunt them in their current state of melancholy. Sure, Peter was glad Satchmo had gotten a clean bill of health on his last trip to the vet. He was glad the spilled wine had come out of the carpet, thanks to the amazing new carpet cleaner El had discovered. He was grateful for a roof over his head, a job, and a wife he loved, and who loved him back. But, oddly enough, the realization that the end of November was now in sight-with Neal still in Rikers-had kind of put a damper on the whole celebratory mood thing. And maybe, just maybe, Peter had been promising himself Neal would be “home for Thanksgiving.” It had sounded like a plausible deadline, before it had so dismally failed to be met.
As regarded his own universe, Mozzie had simply chosen to sulk Thanksgiving out of existence this year by refusing to acknowledge it, and Peter was beginning to think he had been on to something, there.
It was nearly a fifteen minute drive across the bridge and into the compound, and this morning it felt like twice as long. Once he arrived at North Infirmary Command, however, it was only to be told that Neal Caffrey had already been sent back to his cell. The noise at NIC had been plenteous, and further answers to his questions nonexistent, despite the fact that he had all his paperwork in order as Neal's emergency medical contact. In the end, Peter had figured that if Neal been sent back to his cell he couldn't be too bad off. Apparently, a nasty “stomach bug” was going around. Hence the chaos.
Fortunately, visitor reception wasn't quite so busy. Passing security was predictably tedious and grating, with all its pat-downs, metal detectors and clearance checks, but Peter managed to endure it without losing his temper overtly, and with a minimum of glaring. Disdain through familiarity seemed to have rendered mere frustration a commonplace nuisance around here, in any case.
Regardless, Peter had had just about had all he could take by the time Neal was brought in. The sight of Neal all but leaning on the C.O.s for support nearly had him shooting up from his seat-to yell at someone, or help Neal, he wasn't sure.
But he held it together, gripping the table as Neal slumped onto the seat across from him, and a C.O. unlocked the cuffs.
“God, Neal, you look like-”
“-I know.” Neal interrupted in a croak, massaging his wrists. “You don't have to say it.”
“Mozzie called. He said something about food poisoning, and you being sent to the infirmary, and being unable to get in to see you.”
“Probably because I was puking my guts out at the time,” Neal supplied in a small voice. “I really didn't want an audience just then.”
“At NIC they said there was a stomach bug going around.”
Neal laughed derisively. “Yeah. One of those spontaneous, inexplicable things. Just because half of Rikers winds up in the infirmary overnight, and it all happens to coincide with last night's Thanksgiving 'feast,' that doesn't mean we should go around blaming the mystery meat, or anything. These 'stomach bugs' just happen like that. No rhyme or reason to it.” Arms resting on the table in front of him, Neal let his head drop, burying his face against them. “Told you the food sucked,” came the muffled groan.
“You should've stayed in the infirmary. You look...” Pale. Shaken. Ready to puke some more. “Not so hot. You should've stayed put for a bit.”
Neal lifted his head a fraction to give Peter an incredulous look. “Right. Because lying there listening to all the other guys puke their guts out is really helpful in quelling the nausea.” He face-planted again. “'Sides, I think all the private 'seg' rooms at NIC were taken. Just wanted my cozy cell back. ”
And he'd probably just gotten settled into his “cozy cell” before being informed he had a visitor, Peter realized.
“Sorry for dragging you out here.”
“S'okay. Always good to see you, Peter. You got news for me?” With his face still nestled against his arms, Peter couldn't see Neal's expression, but the hope in his voice was unmistakable.
Great. That definitely eased his guilt. “No...” Peter confessed. “I just needed to make sure you were okay.”
“M'fine,” Neal assured. “Don't tell Elizabeth about this, 'k?”
“Too late for that, buddy. She'll be waiting to hear from me.”
Neal made an unhappy, muffled noise.
“Neal, I'm going to look into all this.” He'd heard all the horror stories about boxes of food, intended for prisons, which were clearly labeled “unfit for human consumption.” He'd never had possible confirmation of one of those horror stories staring him in the face, making him want to go punch a wall. “Whoever authorized this food...”
“Is going to be hearing from my lawyer.” Neal lifted his head enough to show off a faint smirk, resting his chin on his arms. “You can count on it.”
Peter knew Neal was right. And, if Mozzie weren't enough, there had to be plenty of family members out there who'd be outraged on behalf of their own incarcerated loved ones when they found out. Some food supplier was about to get more than a little grief over their bargain shipment.
“You running a fever?” Peter asked quietly, noticing the bright spots of pink standing out on Neal's cheeks.
“No,” Neal answered automatically, before frowning and amending, “Maybe.”
Peter sighed heavily. “I don't suppose they coax you back to health with chicken noodle soup around here.”
“Peter...” Neal whined plaintively. “You're going to make me sick again.” He swallowed hard. “Last thing I wanna see is food. Not even chicken noodle soup. Not even steak. And I really like steak...”
He looked so betrayed as he said it-so forlorn, and bone-deep tired-it made Peter's chest constrict with sympathy and helplessness. If Neal had been looking on the underfed side a week ago, now he looked positively starved.
“You haven't been eating those M&Ms, have you?”
Neal stared wanly at him. “You're going to start scolding me again, aren't you?”
“No,” Peter answered gently. As if he could scold Neal right now, while he was looking so thoroughly dejected. “No, I'm not. But after you get out of here, as soon as you feel up to it, I'm taking you out for best steak you've ever tasted-and you're going to eat every last bite.”
“I've tasted some pretty good steak,” Neal warned with a soft smile.
“You name the place, and I'm there with the credit card.”
Neal got a far-off look in his eye for a moment before replying. “Sounds good.”
It was a promise his bank balance would undoubtedly live to regret, but it was one Peter could live with as long as he got the chance to make good his “threat.”
“Peter,” Neal began with sleepy wonder, “did you just invite me on a date?”
“Don't make me smack you upside the head.”
“You wouldn't, ” Neal countered, bringing to force the perfect amount of contrived hurt.
“Don't tempt me.”
Neal shivered slightly-not, Peter presumed, actually at the threat-and inquired languidly: “Suppose you have to go to work, now.” He took a closer look at Peter and added, “Why are you in a t-shirt? Shouldn't you be dressed for the office?”
Peter shrugged. “Left in a rush.”
“Peter,” Neal paused to give him a “now don't you lie to me” expression, “are you in your pajamas?”
“No, I'm not in my pajamas.” Peter produced a mild scowl. At least Neal was feeling well enough to make juvenile wise-cracks, which was something. “Do you want me to leave, or are you just having fun jump-starting your day by mocking me?”
“I never mock you.”
“Uh huh.”
“Your taste in clothes, maybe; your concept of a pick-up line, definitely. But never you.”
Maybe it was the fact that Peter hadn't had his first cup of coffee, or the fact that dark lines under Neal's eyes added a solemnity to his expression, but Peter could've sworn he wasn't quite teasing. To suggest that respect underlay the statement would probably have been taking things too far. Yeah-definitely.
“I don't have to leave quite yet. Diana and Jones will be there in case anything comes up.” Peter observed Neal's reaction. “Unless I'm interrupting your morning routine.”
Neal shrugged. “The spa's only open on Mondays.”
Peter gave a soft huff of amusement, not because it was particularly amusing, but because Neal was making the effort to joke. It wasn't about saving face with Neal, or pretending none of this hurt. He'd already told Peter how much it hurt: if not in so many words, then by the lapses in the polished, smiling Caffrey routine.
No, the jokes weren't about pretending it was all okay. They were about Neal sucking it up the only way he knew how-which sometimes involved whining over the splinter in his finger despite the mortal wound bleeding him dry. But if that was what Neal needed, it was what he needed.
Not that he would appreciate it if Peter actually acknowledged that he understood any of that. At least not openly.
“Of course, it's a pretty barbaric setup,” Neal rambled on, continuing a pointlessly elaborate description of the nonexistent Rikers spa. “No manicurist, no jacuzzi, not even a-”
“-Neal?”
“Hmm.”
“Cowboy up.”
“You're mean, Peter.”
It was a token response, just as the joke had been a token attempt at levity. Just as they both knew that right now “cowboy up” meant something entirely different than it had back in that seedy hotel, spoken what felt like a lifetime's worth of experiences ago.
“You better believe it,” Peter replied complacently.
An outsider would've called Peter callous. El would've probably called it “tough love.” Peter thought of it more along the lines of choosing mutually acceptable phrasing for what would've otherwise devolved into a round of feeble platitudes that would've made them both squirm.
“Peter, if you can't clear me... I'm not going to be kept at Rikers, am I?”
It was one of those rare times when a crack appeared in the Caffrey mask. For a moment he was more than melancholy; he was afraid. But even with his bravado failing, he tried to cover everything with an expression of mere melancholy, as if it would only be boring to stay at Rikers-not panic-inducing.
And it was as clear a sign as any to Peter of just how off his game Neal must be, because he had to know the answer to that question. Or at least he would if he'd thought it through logically. But maybe this was more about hearing it stated-by him-in no uncertain terms.
“This is temporary, Neal, whatever happens. If you were found guilty you'd be sent back to a supermax facility again.” He offered a weak smile of encouragement. “Might even get your old cell back.”
“But what about Becker?”
“What about him?” Peter answered darkly.
“He wants me here in Rikers-it's all a part of the pioneering process for gaining harsher sentencing for white-collar criminals, right? He's obviously got some pull.”
“So does Hughes.”
“But-”
“-Becker is working on passing legislation to that effect. That's not the same as actually passing it. Besides, that's not the point.”
“If you say so.” Neal didn't actually roll his eyes, probably because he was still too busy resting his chin on his forearm, and looking washed-out, nauseated, and depressed.
Peter gave his rebellion a quelling look nonetheless. “I do say so.”
“And the point is?” Neal goaded, skepticism not quelled in the least.
“You don't belong in Rikers.” Peter surprised himself with the depth of feeling that sprang to life in the words as he spoke them.
Neal looked surprised, too, and a little less miserable. “Because they don't have a real spa here.” A smile spread across his face, tired but natural, full of teasing and relief and gratitude. “I knew you weren't that heartless, Peter.”
“No,” Peter agreed, “not quite.”
“Peter...” Neal began again, with a strangely frozen expression on his face-before abruptly sitting up and turning away from Peter with a moan, arms wrapped around his stomach. He promptly doubled over and began to dry-heave.
Peter was there, at Neal's side, before any of the C.O.s could react. When the nearest C.O.-the same man who'd given Peter the good “report card” on Neal several days earlier-came forward into the room, Peter held up a staying hand. Obviously, it was a request, not an order, however authoritatively made; but the man obeyed, nonetheless, standing a few feet off, waiting.
Hesitantly, Peter placed a hand on Neal's back, between the shoulder blades. He could feel the ripples as Neal's muscles spasmed with each round of nausea. “Hey, you okay?” Peter could've hit himself as soon as he'd said the words.
Neal gave a small whimper: as clear a “No” as any bellowed reply would have been.
“Yeah, sorry. That was stupid.”
Neal made a noise that might have started out as a soft chuff of laugher, but which ended, instead, in a second whimper of consummate misery. He curled further in on himself as another dry-heave wracked him.
Feeling useless, Peter began to rub his fingers in a circular motion on Neal's back-which made him feel stupid a second time in the space of a ten seconds. But it was better than doing nothing. It was what El would've done, but El wasn't here. Which left him.
“Just think about... Mr. Haversham hammering out that lawsuit, huh?” Peter encouraged in lowered voice. “A few people are about to wish they'd never been born.”
“S'how I feel...about now,” Neal declared with feeling, between sobs for breath.
“You're really going to just sit there feeling sorry for yourself?” Peter asked-despite feeling quite sorry on Neal's behalf, himself.
“Yes,” was Neal's resounding reply.
“Okay.” Peter kept up the circular motion, smoothing wrinkles from the orange material of the jumpsuit beneath his fingers. Neal was right. It was garish. Hideous. A nightmare of neon color, clashing painfully with Neal's pale complexion-paler now, even more than usual.
“O-kay?” Neal panted, words muffled with his head bent forward like it was. “That's...all you're going to say?”
Peter shrugged. “Telling you to cowboy up would just be redundant right now, don't you think?”
Neal lurched again, gagging-briefly, compared to the other bouts he'd been suffering-and swallowed thickly. “Definitely.”
Peter kept rubbing his back. The rounds of nausea lessened in severity, until, finally, they stopped altogether.
“You need to go back to the infirmary, kid?” the C.O. asked, still unmoved from his post as observer.
Peter opened his mouth to agree with the soundness of the suggestion.
But Neal shook his head, an enervated, languid movement. “Back to my cell.”
“You sure?” Peter pressed.
Neal nodded.
Considering the chaos Peter had witnessed first-hand at NIC, he could understand Neal's decision. He still didn't like the idea of Neal going back to his cell where oversight would be more limited. “You'll drink plenty of water?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Dehydration's no laughing matter.”
“Do you hear me laughing?” Neal grumbled, keeping his head tucked towards his chest even now that the dry-heaves had stopped. He didn't pull away from Peter's touch, either. A small shiver passed through him. He joked with thin humor: “I changed my mind. Can I just go home now?”
If only it were that easy.
Peter almost ruffled his hair, then considered their audience, and Neal's clearly battered sense of dignity, and stopped midway, giving the back of his neck a brief squeeze before pulling away.
“Water. Lots of it,” he ordered, sternness undermined, as was its wont these days, by his own palpable concern.
Neal pulled himself upright, arms still wrapped around stomach, face gray with exhaustion. “'Kay.”
Peter nodded. “And rest.”
“I'll see if I can find the time.”
“Smart Alec.”
Neal almost managed to assemble a grin. Points for effort.
The C.O. came forward to secure Neal, then-and Peter felt one pulse of unchecked anger away from laying into the man with his fists. The fact that the C.O. was only doing his job, and doing so in a spirit of unspoken sympathy, only went so far in soothing the urge to physically stop him from cuffing Neal's hands behind his back, when not five minutes ago Neal had been doubled over, helplessly sick.
Limply compliant, Neal looked ready to be knocked over by a halfhearted breeze. Which made the handcuffs seem just that much more ridiculous and uncalled for.
Generally, Peter understood the necessity of protocol, even when he didn't like it or particularly appreciate the way it often got in the way. Generally, he could still keep level-headed enough to remind himself why such protocols had to be put in place, especially in a place like Rikers. Generally, maybe all that was true-but not now. Peter was feeling anything but level-headed.
“Get some coffee, Peter,” Neal suggested, as he got to his feet with the help of the C.O.'s hand under his elbow. “You look like you could use it.”
“I'll do that,” Peter replied numbly, and wished for something stronger than espresso.
***
When answers came, they came from a direction Peter never would have anticipated.
A “lucky break” on the Wark case became the first domino to fall, creating a chain reaction of events. Peter had listened to Diana's report: a second-hand relay, news that Wark was in hot water. With the DNR. That had at least caught Peter's attention. Apparently, a neighbor had reported an escaped monkey of all things, running around the premises of Wark's house. As it turned out, that specific type of monkey was a critically endangered species-special permit required to own one. A permit Wark did not have. What had started out as confiscation of the one monkey, however, had turned into a full-fledged investigation when another neighbor had added that she had been hearing “roaring” noises late at night, noises that sounded like they were coming from Wark's walled-in backyard.
Before he could ask, Diana had told Peter she was in the process of getting him the full seizure report.
The really amusing part was learning that Wark had been on vacation with his wife in Florida while all this was going down, and had been forced to jump on the soonest flight home to attempt some damage control in the situation.
But it wasn't until Diana had gotten him that seizure report-complete with pictures of Wark's exotic and illicit little backyard “zoo,” set up cozily in a showy and furnished pavilion-style outbuilding-that Peter had realized the import of what the DNR had just accomplished for him. Half the “furnishings” in said cozy pavilion turned out to be as illegal as the animals. While the DNR had only been interested in preserving the evidence of Wark's zoo, Peter had found plenty of interest in the background of their helpful snapshots.
That's when things had finally started falling into place. The unique and eye-catching stolen vase in the background of the photograph was only of minor value, relatively speaking-but still stolen. Enough for Peter to get a search warrant. There had been no reason, then, to hope they'd discover anything more about Wark than what they'd previously suspected as regarded jewel smuggling-except Peter's nagging gut instinct that there was more to this whole situation. Possibly something to do with Neal's case. But he'd tamped it down, because clearly spending every waking hour (and great number of hours being wakeful, where he should have been asleep) mulling over the theft from the Met had made him prone to see a connection everywhere he looked. His mental connection of this case with Neal was probably nothing more than the fact that it was the last one Neal had been working on before... well, before everything went wrong and he landed back in prison.
Wark had arrived home fuming-resistant, to say the least, and still trying to spin the situation in his favor. Or at least limit the damage. Then, when he saw the game was well and truly up-that the search warrant was going through, due to probable cause to suspect further stolen art, and he was going to be forced to open his personal vault-he'd become a completely different person. He'd spilled the whole story in the name of “cooperation,” and the hope of a better sentence. And blindsided Peter when the vague gut feeling that there was something here connected to Neal’s problems proved more accurate than he could’ve imagined.
From there, things had just gotten more entertaining, with Wark and Becker seeing who could sell the other out the quickest.
Neal had been right, at least partly, about Becker after all. Becker had payed someone off to frame Neal. One Raymond Wark. Wark, who'd found out about Neal's true identity thanks to his righthand man's thorough research into each of his employer's prospective clients, and allowed Neal to keep up the con while he considered options for getting the FBI off the scent.
Becker had his own “sources.” He'd been tracking Neal's progress with the FBI for some time, and clearly hadn't liked what he'd seen-though, as far as Peter was able to figure out, he didn't actually have anything against Neal personally. No, it was more the principle of the matter with him.
There were still a lot of details to untangle, with Wark and Becker's accounts varying on several points-their stories predictably tailored by each to their own best advantage. Peter still didn't understand exactly how Becker and Wark had met and made their opportunistic pact to frame Neal. The bottom line was that Becker had had the motive, and the painting, and Wark had had the skill to pull off the theft and frame-up (admittedly, with cooperation from the “victim” of his “theft,” who had access to details of the Met's security, thanks to their efforts to reassure him of his painting's safety). It seemed Wark was hoping that getting Neal out of the way would be enough to seriously hamper the FBI investigation, if not throw it into chaos entirely. It certainly had done that-for a while, at least.
Telling Neal had been the best part, of course. There was still the wait: evidence to process and present, paperwork to finalize, and other assorted and monotonous bureaucratic speed-bumps standing between Neal and freedom. But there was no longer any question about Wark or Becker's guilt; it was only a matter of distributing the guilt and penalties between them. And getting the official go-ahead for Neal's release now that the charges against him were, obviously, being dropped.
Mozzie wanted to see both Wark and Becker thrown into Rikers. While Peter fully agreed with the poetic justice of the idea, for the moment he was still mostly preoccupied with getting Neal out of Rikers.
Then, just when things were looking not-quite-rosy (but soon to be rosier), Peter had gotten his second panicked call from Mozzie. It had come across much much like the previous: i. e. a whole lot of Mozzie ranting against the prison system, and their inability to communicate with the family and emergency contacts of inmates (“If they had their way, we'd only get medical updates when it came down to making the funeral arrangements.”), and a whole lot of Peter trying to get something useful out of him. And, again, it all came down to the same two key words as last time, “Neal” and “infirmary.”
Oh, yeah, and something about a toothbrush.
Peter didn't question how Mozzie was getting these updates. He just headed back to Rikers, traversing the system for what seemed like the hundredth time, and with what felt like an insoluble knot of worry settled rocklike in the pit of his stomach.
NIC hardly seemed changed since Peter's last visit, either, making him wonder if the chaos was what passed for normal around there.
From there, he pretty much bullied his way in to see Neal, brandishing every right he possessed (and several he wasn't entirely certain of) as Neal's listed next-of-kin possessing power of attorney with the all the paperwork that gave him the right to know about Neal's condition based on both that, and the fact that he was still, technically, Neal's handler. He didn't add the “technically” part. Citing regulation numbers on inmate medical care rights (wincing on the inside, because he hadn't actually had the chance to look and see for himself if Mozzie knew what he was talking about), and adding in a few crucial phrases about contacting his attorney, had also helped.
And, no, being put on a list to be contacted with news about the inmate's condition as soon as it was available would not do. He was already supposed to be on such a list, for all the good it had done.
Peter might have raised his voice a bit, and turned a few heads, at that point. But he hadn't actually knocked any heads together, even if he'd implied he'd really, really like to.
He was taken to a row of “dorm” style rooms; presumably the special units wing of NIC.
A C.O. came into the room with him, waiting silently near the door.
There wasn't much of a scene to take in. Concrete walls. Two beds. The one on his left was occupied by a man with a scraggy, mostly gray beard. He was in four-point restraints, an I.V. in one arm, the tube leading to a bag of clear fluids attached to the nearby pole.
And there was Neal, similarly restrained. Instead of a full prison jumpsuit, he wore a white t-shirt and a pair of (still ubiquitously orange) prison-issue pants. His left bicep was swathed in gauze.
Peter approached, with only a moment to catalog Neal's status as dead-to-the-world, before the other occupant of the room let out a sudden string of profanities, interspersed with clear demands directed at the C.O. (and possibly God, judging by the volume) to be given “something for the pain.”
The C.O. told him tersely to “Can it, Gregson.”
Neal woke with a small start, adding his own, “OhshuttupGregson,” to the mix, in a gravelly voice.
“Neal?”
Neal opened his eyes, then, with a few owlish blinks. “Peter? How'd you get in here?”
“I have my ways.”
Neal's “mmpht” was only vaguely impressed. His eyes were already drifting back to half-mast.
“What happened?” Peter nodded towards his arm.
“Shanked,” Neal replied simply, then with a small eye-roll added: “I know, I'm in ad-seg. That doesn't happen in ad-seg...”
Only, obviously, it had. Peter could think about making heads roll, later. Or helping Mozzie make heads roll, as the case may be.
“How?” he asked, leaning in to make their conversation as relatively private as possible.
“S'guy...in the cell.”
Peter was beginning to feel like he was interrogating a sleepy toddler. At least Gregson had shut up for the time being, making it almost possible for Peter to think straight. “What guy, in what cell?”
“The ugly...bald guy-in his cell. Smelled bad,” Neal expounded helpfully. “Was being led past his cell, and I guess he thought I was someone he knew. Because I don't know why he'd want to kill me. Never seen him before.”
“So he grabbed you through the bars and stabbed you?”
“Mhmm.” Neal tilted his head once, in a nod, before letting his head fall back to the pillow. “With a toothbrush.”
Peter knew the creativity of inmates seeking weapons truly knew no bounds. Sharpened toothbrush handles could kill if wielded with enough anger and intent. Neal, however, sounded distinctly disgruntled at the whole concept, as if the weapon of choice was the last insult added to his injury that he could take.
Gregson let loose with several more obscenities.
Neal groaned in irritation, indicating the man with a tilt of his head. “He's coming down off...something. Been going on for hours. Like they're gonna break all the rules in the book and give him narcotics if he just whines long enough and loudly enough...” He snorted. “Think I'm the one who should get the heavy pain-killers, for being forced to share a room with him.” Neal tried to shift into a more comfortable position, with little maneuverability to do so thanks to the restraints. He stilled abruptly with a soft cry of pain.
“Neal?” Peter knew he really wasn't good at the whole concerned hovering thing.
“Remind me not to do that again,” Neal managed, between clenched teeth.
“What? Move?”
“Yeah. That.” Neal's nostrils flared as he pulled in sharp, deliberate breaths. “Who would've thought a toothbrush could hurt so bad?”
Peter figured any “tough on plaque” quips could wait for another time, preferably when Neal wasn't lying there with a frown of pained concentration etched between his eyes. “What about something for the pain?” he asked, keeping his voice particularly low to ward against triggering another round from Gregson along just the same lines.
“What, you mean some more Motrin?”
Peter hoped Neal was joking. But, if he was, he was doing an inscrutable job of deadpanning it. “I was thinking something a little stronger.”
“Yeah,” Neal said, with a soft sigh, eyes faintly glazed and distant, “me too.”
“Neal, did you ask?”
Neal gave Peter a look-the kind Peter had been getting far too many of since Neal had been sent to Rikers. Far too many of those looks Peter had realized a second later were fully deserved.
“I asked. The last time the nurse was here to be asked.”
“And?”
“She told me 'well now, we'll just wait and see about that,''” Neal quoted with heavily overdone cheerfulness. “As if she's actually in on any of the 'waiting and seeing,'” he remarked sourly. “Don't get me wrong, that Ibuprofen's terrific stuff...”
Yeah. Terrific, for a sprained ankle.
“You should've gotten someone's attention.”
“In case you haven't noticed, around here it isn't always a case of the squeaky wheel getting the oil.” Neal gave his roommate-who'd finally settled for muttering oaths under his breath-a resentful glance. “You'll forgive me for not joining the chorus.”
Peter could recognize a valid point when it stared him in the face. “How long-since the Ibuprofen?”
Neal shook his head. “Not sure. Hours.” He looked at Peter sheepishly. “I don't suppose you could get me some more?” His sheer hesitancy to ask, combined as it was with the strained tension of pain reflected in his eyes, and the feverish sweat dampening the hair on his forehead, was enough to convince Peter that Neal was, if not desperate, then at least in serious need.
That was when the true helplessness of Neal's situation really struck home. He'd been lying here, tied down, in pain, without any great hope that a call for help would even be answered, for God knew how long. The realization created a sudden pinnacle of anger in Peter. All the stress, and frustration, and worry of the last few weeks coalesced into a sudden torrent of thick rage. Rage that Peter was sick and tired of repressing.
“Peter?”
“I'll get you something,” Peter hurried to assure him. Then he noticed the way Neal was restlessly trying to shift his weight, gingerly turning as much to the left as the restraints permitted-and then Peter noticed the specks of blood on the side of his t-shirt. “You get stabbed more than once?” he demanded with sudden urgency.
Neal was puzzled a moment. Then he tilted his head forward to stare down at the specks of blood. “Oh-that. Sort of. He tried to stab me in the side, first. Only grazed me. Then he got me in the arm. It's superficial, though. They both are, really... At least that's what they tell me.”
With a grunt of injudicious mistrust (because, lately, Peter actually found himself agreeing with some of Mozzie's opinions of the justice system), Peter reached out to take a look at the damage for himself. Neal only made noises of faint, automatic protest as Peter lifted his shirt to examine the bandaging. The square of gauze, taped over his right side and partway across the ribcage, was spotted in several places with fresh blood.
“Sir-I'm going to have to ask you to please take a step back,” the C.O. spoke, starting to move away from the door, towards Peter.
Peter stopped in his examination to turn on the C.O. with wrath that the man's polite insertion didn't merit. “Get me someone in here, now.”
“Sir, there's strict regulation for the supervision of prisoners in restraints, and I can assure you the staff are following-”
“-He's bleeding, and he's in pain, and if you don't get someone in here who has the authority to change both those things, then I will.”
When the C.O. reached for the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt, Peter thought for a moment he was about to be hauled out of there by force. Then the C.O. offered him a clipped, “A moment, Sir,” and muttered a request for someone named “Nurse Weston” to come to “unit two, room sixteen.”
Nurse Weston entered the room to catcalls from Gergson. The C.O. told Gregson, more forcefully still, to settle down, threatening to write him up for harassing the staff. Gregson kept his head turned on the pillow to track events with a belligerent eye. But he was quiet again.
Weston looked faintly flustered, though she hid it fairly well beneath an attitude of determination. Clearly, she was familiar enough with the job to know what to expect, without being quite familiar enough with it (and its vulgarities, ala Gregson) to take it all in stride.
But she didn't start out with a barrage of questions about Peter, and why he was here, or why she'd been paged. She turned straight to her patient, tucking clipboard under arm to check the restraints, asking Neal questions about the circulation in his hands and feet.
“Are the restraints really necessary?”
She looked up at Peter. “I'm afraid so.”
“He's not violent.”
“I know.” She jotted something down on the clipboard. “It's not about him, right now; it's about everyone's safety in the unit. There's been a lot of tension in the yard this last week. Looks like today's the day those tensions decided to break.” She gave Peter a hard look. “We're packed-even after sending several of the worst stab victims to the ER. All of which means no one has a private room this morning.” She consulted her clipboard further. “We're doing the best we can with the protective custody and segregation cases.”
“I appreciate it,” Neal interjected wryly-like the kid embarrassed by an overprotective parent making a fuss in public. He ran his tongue over his lower lip. “But...ah, I just have to ask...can I go pee sometime soon? I really gotta go.”
The eavesdropping Gregson snickered derisively, as if the need to use the bathroom was a weakness reserved for newbies.
Weston ignored Gregson, frowning at Neal. “Wasn't Nurse Davis in twenty minutes ago? It says here she was scheduled to check on you...”
“Think Nurse Davis forgot.”
Her frown deepened. “Then you haven't had more pain meds, either?”
“No, he hasn't,” Peter answered, not disguising his impatience. He nodded to indicate Neal's red-spotted t-shirt. “And he's bleeding again.”
Weston gave Peter another hard look. “Visitors aren't generally allowed into the actual care units, Mister...”
“Special Agent Burke,” Peter supplied. “FBI. I'm...responsible for him.” It was the easiest self-designation he could think of on the spot. “He's getting out today, and I'm here to see he gets out still in one piece.” Something he'd been failing at, dismally, it seemed.
Perceptively, Weston didn't delve into questions on why Neal was being babysat so scrupulously by a federal agent of his very own-or why said federal agent was so dead set on personally supervising his care like some particularly fretful and peevish mother hen, instead of merely inquiring discretely on his condition and whether it'd affect the day's plans like any aloof professional would.
Neal latched onto the news hungrily. “Today? I'm being released today?”
“I'm going to get things finalized by the parole board if I have to go around knocking on doors myself,” Peter vowed. The parole board's reinstatement of Neal's release terms was the last piece that needed to fall into place. It was driving Peter crazy, not least because Neal didn't deserve to wait a minute longer in Rikers when he hadn't done anything to break his parole in the first place. But far be it for the machinery of government to grind more quickly simply because a case was cut-and-dried, and the just course obvious.
“Let's take a look at that side, and see about getting you something for the pain. And then we'll let you up to stretch your legs and use the bathroom.”
At which point Gregson demanded: “Hey, what about me? Gonna give pretty-boy over there all your attention?”
“Oh, you're next in line for attention, alright, Mister Gregson,” Weston informed him tersely, managing to make the promise sound mildly ominous.
Gregson muttered some more about the “pretty-boy,” until Peter had half a mind to walk over and ram his fist down the man's throat. He'd had about all he could take of watching Neal endure the degradation of the situation, and Gregson was practically auditioning to be the straw that broke the camel's back.
Peter got a good look at the neat line of stitching holding together the gash on Neal's side as Weston examined the wound, murmuring, “Nothing torn...” She straightened. “I'm going to go get the supplies to re-bandage that. You're also due for your next round of antibiotics. I'll bring some Motrin-”
“-Not going to cut it.”
“Agent Burke, kindly refrain making demands, here, or you'll be asked to leave. Your being here is highly irregular, and a courtesy, as it is.”
But Peter had “refrained” long enough. He'd been polite. He'd toed the line. He'd made Neal promise to toe the line, too, and Neal had been behaving like a model inmate according to every report. It hadn't escaped Peter's notice that the restraints had remained exactly where they were supposed to be, when the itch to get out of them had to nagging constantly at the back of Neal's mind.
And all that docile good behavior-for what? Restraints, injuries, and a lack of proper pain management.
“He needs something stronger,” Peter said, forcefully, letting his indignation bleed into his tone like acid. “You only have to look at him to see he's in pain. Serious pain, not Advil pain.”
“Peter...” Neal spoke softly, a flush creeping into his cheeks. He'd clearly had about all the humiliation he could take, and having the conversation carried on over his head, as if he were a child incapable of fighting his own battles, was only adding to his mortification.
Weston looked from Peter to Neal and back again, sighing in impotent sympathy. “I can't authorize anything stronger, not without a doctor's order. But I'll talk to Doctor Nichols about it, and see if he'll prescribe something a little stronger. The wounds are superficial...”
Neal made an “I told you so” face at Peter.
“Yeah, well, the pain's not,” Peter growled. He understood that anyone dealing in corrections had to perfect their BS meter. Sob stories came with the territory, and developing a thick skin was the key to maintaining a modicum of objectivity. God knew Peter understood the conning, conniving criminal mindset. He knew how to read Neal-more or less. And it was complicated going. Far too complicated for Peter to read Nurse Weston in on the vital and telling signs of a Neal Caffrey pushed to the limits. She was going to have to take his word for it.
“I will talk to Doctor Nichols,” Weston emphasized with long-suffering endurance, glancing at Neal, addressing him directly: “Though he may want to re-evaluate your condition before making any decisions.” She made a last jerky addendum on the clipboard (possibly some warning about the patient being attached at the hip to an overbearing FBI handler who was prone to appear at inconvenient moments and make demands). “I'll be back shortly.”
Unfortunately, Doctor Nichols did want to re-evaluate Neal before signing the order. Peter survived being thrown out during the ten minutes it took Weston to apply fresh gauze to Neal's side injury. But when Nichols entered the room, he knew by the man's outraged look that the game was up.
Nichols swelled with annoyance, like he was getting ready to swear heartily at Peter-but was too breathless to find the right words-and Peter held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I'm not here to cause any trouble.”
“Yes. Well.” Nichols bit each word off, in a clipped, all-business rush. “There's plenty of trouble in here, already, without a...”
“Federal agent?” Peter suggested.
Completely unimpressed, Nichols gave him a frosty look. “I don't care who you are. All hell is breaking loose today, and I don't need a federal agent bullying my staff into giving him any special treatment we can't afford to offer.”
Peter didn't contradict that. A, he had been “bullying;” and B, neither Weston nor the observing C.O. deserved to be punished for their leniency.
But Peter did have a few things to say before he left too meekly. “This man has just been proven innocent.” Which was more than a white lie, since Neal would never be “proven innocent,” per se, no matter what crimes he was acquitted of. “He's being released today, and his condition will be reviewed and assessed by another doctor, directly.”
With a flash of his eyes, Nichols went from “frosty” to “sub-zero.” “Wonderful. I'm delighted by your conscientiousness. ”
“I'm sure you'd also appreciate knowing that this man has a lawyer who specializes in cases involving prisons.” Peter smiled tightly. “Knows all the ins and outs of prosecution over undo force, inhumane conditions, denial of basic medical rights...”
“Thank you, Agent-”
“-Burke.”
“Burke.” Nichols' expression was brittle. “I can see you know your work. Now if you'll kindly remove yourself from my domain...”
Gregson was snickering in the background again, as if it was all the best show he'd ever seen.
Peter nodded, recognizing the fact that his continued presence could only cause Neal's outlook for fair treatment more damage than good. He only hoped Nichols wasn't the type to punish a patient under his care because of a pushy “family member” giving him grief. Of course, such retribution wasn't supposed to happen-any more than prisoners in protective custody were supposed to get shanked. Peter was pretty sure this whole setup-prolonged periods spent in four-point restraints-wasn't entirely aboveboard.
If Mozzie didn't specialize in prisoners' rights he was about to after he heard about this.
“I'll be back with that release order.” Peter's gaze flickered meaningfully in Neal's direction. “If I have to spend the day knocking on doors.” Or kicking them in. In the purely metaphorical sense, of course.
Nichols gave him dismissive “You do that” look, and turned away.
Peter left without further protestation. But before he could leave NIC (at a brisk walk, after enduring the further impediment of the mandatory post-visit search), he was met on his way out of reception by an out-of-breath Nurse Weston.
“Agent Burke?”
He turned, forcing his glower of righteous indignation into something approaching receptiveness.
“I thought you might like to know that Doctor Nichols has prescribed some Tylenol 3, with Codeine, to be administered stat. Mister Caffrey should be more comfortable now.” She smiled-a discretely professional smile. “I'll make sure he's periodically allowed to stretch his legs.”
Peter's expression softened. “Thank you.”
“You should also know that Nurse Davis was unable to make her rounds due to circumstances beyond her control.”
Peter raised an eyebrow.
Weston grimaced, expounding grudgingly: “There was a fight; an inmate tried to strangle her. She'll be alright, but was understandably shaken. Nonetheless, when she was given the rest of the day off, other nurses should have been assigned her entire shift. No amount of chaos serves as an excuse for the resulting neglect, and I can only offer my sincere apology, and assure you that Doctor Nichols did not intend-”
“-Oh, I think he did,” Peter interrupted. He took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. She was eating her own slice of humble pie, as well as her coworkers', without making excuses. “I’m sorry. I can see you're doing the best you can. I appreciate it.”
Her smile was tinged with relief. “Good luck, Agent Burke.”
***
Continue to part three.
Index:
Part 1
Part 3