White Collar - "Flatline" (1/2)
Title: Flatline (1/2)
Author: TeeJay
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Peter, Elizabeth, June
Written for: rabidchild67 for the collarcorner ficswap
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Spoilers for season 3, up to and very much including 3x10 'Countdown', PG-13 rated off-screen sex scene of a canon pairing
Summary: Elizabeth's kidnapping and its aftermath have caused a rift between Neal and Peter that is hard to bridge. Then Neal gets shot during a random bank heist, and everything changes.
Author's Note: This story includes a drabble I wrote and posted earlier, called 'Unexpected and Terrifying'. I'll explain my reasoning for that choice below in my note to RC.
Thank you so much, elrhiarhodan, for the beta! Thanks also goes out to kanarek13 for helping out here and there with encouragement, plot twists and wardrobe advice. I can't believe how many sweet and generous online friends I've made in this fandom.
Also, in light of recent explanations on what is gen and what isn't in the context of collarcorner, this fic contains an off-screen sex scene of a canon pairing, which might be pushing the boundaries a little bit. It's not graphic, and it's very vague, but since I felt it an important element where it's placed, and since I know my recipient has no issue at all with it, I was hesitant to remove it. And now I'll duck and hope I can get away with it. /o\
Disclaimer: White Collar, its characters and its settings belong to Jeff Eastin and USA Network. And, guys? Your characters are not only welcome, they're wonderful. I'm just borrowing, I promise.
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Dear rabidchild67,
Let me tell you, my first reaction when I received the e-mail with my ficswap assignment was: Noooo! You're pairing me up with my beta reader! On the other hand, I'm always happy to be able to write something for you, my wonderfully imaginative partner in crime, so I opted for being happy about it and finding someone else to beta this for me.
I feel a bit guilty, because this story doesn't quite match the prompt(s) you provided. Well, it does hit the "angst", "angsty h/c" and "every type of whump" tropes. The thing is, I really wanted to write you a kidnapping story. And I even did. I had over 5,000 words down, but when the end of August approached, I realized that story was turning into something I started to struggle with and wasn't sure I could finish writing in time and still get beta'ed for the deadline. So I did a 180 and wrote, uhm... this. (Let's just ignore the fact that it turned into its own 13,000+ words epic.)
As mentioned above, it provides a framework for and continues my 'Unexpected and Terrifying' drabble that you loved so much. And since you said you did, and I know that you love Neal!Whump and all around angst, this presented the perfect opportunity to write my own pinch hit that I was fairly certain I could complete in time. I hope you can forgive me for not exactly sticking to your prompt parameters.
That said, prepare for a super angsty angst fest. This is McPunisher at her best. I guess it's kind of my own version of 'These Wasted Blues', and if you squint, you can almost squeeze 'So Fast, So Numb' in there.
As for the kidnapping story I mentioned, I did get to eventually finish it, but, well, let's just say what I wrote sucked balls didn't quite work. And then it died a slow (but well deserved) death by beta-reader. So it looks like I'm gonna have to rewrite large portions of it to whip it into something that I can show to the public. I'm not sure how committed I still am to that story, but should I be able to go back to it, you'll be the first to know when it turns into something posting-worthy.
Much love,
Me
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Peter still remembers when he received the call. It was just after lunch on Thursday, around 1:30 PM. He was pouring himself a cup of coffee in the White Collar office community break room.
It's an NYPD officer. The news is delivered with swift precision and few pleasantries. Neal is in the hospital. In critical condition.
Peter isn't sure how to feel. He and Neal aren't close anymore. Conversation is solely work-related, personal contact kept to a bare minimum. In recent weeks, the latter has been fairly nonexistent. Ever since Elizabeth's abduction, its aftermath, it's been testy and awkward and difficult between them. There have been discussions with Hughes and Bancroft, and it was agreed that it would be better for everyone if Neal were assigned to a new team for a while.
Even though Neal’s now working for Agent Saunders' team, he still has his desk in the office, is still an asset to the unit, but for Peter it's different now. It's not about punishing Neal for his involvement in El's kidnapping, and he hopes Neal knows that. His transfer wasn't an executive decision made without his consent. It was a mutual agreement, made to suit everyone as best as possible. Neal had welcomed the change as much as Peter. They both needed the breathing room.
The voice on the phone gives Peter facts, asks a few questions. Instinctively, robotically, Peter inquires about specifics. Bank robbery. Gunshot wound to the chest. Pure coincidence Neal was there. It's tragically ironic.
Deeper shock sets in after Peter hangs up the phone. If he hasn't been sure how to feel, he surely knows now. He sinks down in one of the orange chairs, placing his palms on the table in front of him. As much distance as there is between them now, the thought of losing Neal scares him to death.
"Boss?" he hears Diana's voice from somewhere next to him. He looks up at her, realizing his ashen face must be startling her.
"Neal's been shot. I’ve got to go," the words tumble from his lips.
"What? Wait. You want me to come with you?"
"No," he says, already on the way out. "Thanks, but no."
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The next two days are a nightmare-or pretty close to one. There is little sleep and a lot of waiting, distress, and bad hospital coffee. Surgery, intensive care, careful optimism. The bullet grazed the heart, and Neal's lucky to be alive, they keep saying.
Peter spends more time in the hospital than he should. He knows that, and so does his Elizabeth. She's there too, sometimes. A lot of time, actually. They're both scared for Neal, and it frightens her as much as it does him to see his former partner reduced to tubes and blood transfusions and IVs. Even with the consideration of what happened two months ago, and the collateral damage it left in its wake.
They're allowed to visit Neal in the ICU, but only for a half-hour at a time. Neal doesn't regain consciousness, which the doctors assure them is not unusual or unexpected. IVs and perfusors provide fluids and medications. The ventilator has been replaced with a nasal oxygen cannula. Tension runs high and patience low. Peter's acquired an impressive stubble and the first night he sleeps in his own bed after the incident, rest does not come easy, and neither does sleep.
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The next morning is a shock to the system. It's not like what you see on TV, Peter thinks, as he watches through the ICU's window.
A cluster of doctors, nurses, med students pack around the hospital bed, discussing something he can't hear in a kind of quiet, yet charged panic. A petite woman kneels on the bed, hovering over Neal's body, pressing her weight through the heels of her hand into Neal's chest in fast-paced compressions.
Peter watches in paralyzing desperation as Neal's head is shoved back, an intubation tube being inserted into his mouth. The hands of a nurse press air from an ambu bag into his lungs in rhythmic patterns. Blood from somewhere he can't see drips onto the tiled floor. Drugs are injected frenetically into IV lines. Hands clad in blue nitrile gloves come away bloody. Eyes search out the heart monitor and don't see what they hope to see. It's messy and ugly and real.
Peter's own hand comes up, his palm pressing into the glass, fingers apart. He wishes he could give some of his own life to save Neal's.
How had this happened again? All the seemingly endless desperation in waiting rooms and visitor areas. And then this-unexpected and terrifying.
After what feels like half an eternity but can't have been more than a few minutes, chest compressions stop, and a sinus rhythm flickers across the heart monitor. Doctors shift and discuss, and the tension seems to ease just a little.
Peter breathes a small sigh of relief. Hope is a long way to go, but it's tangible now.
He feels a hand on his arm, turns his head. It's one of the ICU nurses. Her voice is sympathetic. "Sir, I need to ask you to leave."
Peter just nods. His brain has gone numb. He understands the implication, but it takes too many seconds to process. "Is he..." he stumbles on the words, chokes for a brief moment, "He's going to make it, right?"
"It's hard to say at this point, I'm afraid."
Her tone isn't harsh, just realistic. She's probably worked here long enough to know the odds, has seen too many people lose their lives, too many people come out of flatlines with permanent brain damage.
Peter lowers his head. "Is there somewhere I can wait?"
"There's a changing room outside the sliding door."
"Can someone come and notify me when I can see him."
She gives a small nod. "Yes, we can do that, but it could be a long time. Mr. Caffrey might have to go back into surgery."
"I'll wait," Peter just says, because there's no way he can leave.
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In the tiny room that's too stuffy, with chairs that are too uncomfortable, he calls his wife. He can barely get the words out, can barely recount what he's witnessed. Tears are stinging behind his eyelids, but that's as far as he allows them.
He draws a weary hand over his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. The long breath he draws in hitches in his throat. "El, I don't- What if he-"
"Peter," her soft voice soothes in his ear. "Honey, listen to me. Neal's a fighter. He's going to make it through this."
The breath he lets out is hollow, skeptic. He wishes that were true, but he doesn't know anymore. Neal just died. For a couple of terrifying minutes, he was dead. For what? A check he wanted to cash? It doesn't want to compute.
El's voice startles him from his reverie. "Honey, I'm getting in the car right now. I'll be with you in twenty minutes."
"No," he quickly tells her. "No, they said it could take a while. He might go back into surgery. There was blood, it was dripping on the floor, and... Oh God."
"Peter. Honey." Her voice is urgent now. "I'm coming, okay?"
Yes, it's very much okay, because I really need you, he wants to tell her, because there's nothing more he wishes right now than feel her gentle hands cupping his face, her arms wrapping around him, her sheer presence giving meager comfort in dire situations. "All right," he just says, and the call disconnects.
The twenty-seven minutes are endless, and when he lays eyes on Elizabeth coming through the door, he feels tears prickling all over again. She doesn't say a word, just holds him close until he pulls away, severs their physical connection. He's never been a touchy-feely kind of guy, but there are moments where Peter Burke needs to be held.
They sit down next to each other and she laces her fingers through his. "Any news?" she softly asks.
He shakes his head, his eyes closed. The sliding door to the ICU is visible from where they're sitting, and a few minutes later, it buzzes and a doctor, dressed in dark blue scrubs exits. Both Peter and El get up, meeting him halfway, even though they don't even know if he's come to address them.
The physician is caught off-guard, and, no, he doesn't know the status of Mr. Caffrey. He says he's sorry, but Peter knows it's just a platitude. Peter has spent enough time in this place to know how hospital business works. Sure, some doctors still see the individual, the human being behind the medical treatment, but Peter knows all too well that you can't do this job long if you get too personally attached.
That's one of the things he has always liked about Neal. He cares-cares about the individual behind the case. Sometimes more than Peter does.
Time stretches on, and it's Elizabeth who gets fidgety. Peter just sits and sits. He tries not to rerun the images in his mind, but he's not entirely able to stop them. They don't talk. Much. El tries to get him to share more of what he saw, but she also understands that recounting it would make it too real.
The plastic chair creaks as he shifts his position. El looks at him, a certain expectancy in her gaze. His eyes flicker to hers, then flit away again. Time passes in increments of cups of terrible machine-brewed coffee and stale, salty snacks. The restroom down the hall smells of disinfectant, and the paper towel dispenser is empty. He tells an aide who's passing by, who doesn't seem to care.
When he comes back to the waiting room, the woman he saw kneeling on top of Neal (her weight pressing on his chest, her hands making blood keep pumping through Neal's veins) stands with Elizabeth. Peter quickens his steps and can just make out, "-being optimistic."
He's heard the words "carefully optimistic" too often of late. They've been carefully optimistic when Neal went into cardiac arrest too. Peter thinks he's quit wanting to be carefully optimistic if it means Neal could code again any second.
"Mr. Burke?" the woman greets him. "I'm Doctor Gershman. I was just telling your wife that we had to take Mr. Caffrey back into surgery. There was fluid building around his heart, a rare complication but not unheard of with this type of injury. We've managed to stabilize him, and there's room to be carefully-"
"Optimistic, I know," Peter rather rudely interrupts her, raising his voice more than he should. "That's what you said the last time too."
He can see she's a bit ruffled by his outburst, but quickly composes herself.
"I'm sorry," Peter says, his voice calmer.
"No, it's okay," she assures him. "This is a difficult time. I understand."
"I just... I need something a little more specific. Odds would be good. Is there a survival rate for this? Can you give me a number?"
"Sir," she stalls, "It'll be difficult to put this into percentages. Every case is different, there are so many factors-"
"Just give me an estimate. What are his chances of survival? Fifty percent? Sixty? What?"
She gives a small sigh, weighing the odds in her head. He can see she's struggling. "Mr. Burke, I can't really give you-"
"Please," he whispers.
"Okay," she concedes. "Considering the gunshot injury, the damage it's caused, the trauma, I'd say fifteen to twenty percent. But I could be wrong."
Peter's eyes widen. Fifteen to twenty percent. That's... low. Too low. He turns on his heels, walks to the window. "Damn," he mutters.
"If I may say so," she adds, "Mr. Caffrey is a healthy, young man. I've seen a lot of people coding, and it's usually the young ones without chronic medical issues who make it. The fact that we got his heart beating again is a good sign."
Peter whirled around. "Fifteen to twenty percent! And you're talking about good signs?!"
"Peter," Elizabeth cuts in, too matter-of-fact, almost accusing. "You asked her for odds."
He deflates, because it's wrong to get mad at the person who saved Neal's life. "Yeah, I did." There is a pregnant pause. "When can we see him?"
"The surgery could well last another hour or two. We have a waiting room up in General Surgery, it would probably be better if you waited there."
Peter's mouth forms a thin line. It feels like his life has been reduced to sitting in bland waiting areas where desperation and hope battle each other to the death. The young doctor gives them directions. Peter doesn't need the explanation. He's been there before, he's spent hours staring at tiny holes in the ceiling panels, the chipped veneer of the coffee table in the corner, the potted dragon tree next to it that looked like it was fighting a constant battle between being over- and underwatered.
"Thank you," he curtly nods to the woman. El gives him a reproachful look, but he just can't bring himself to utter an apology.
The General Surgery waiting room has beige chairs with soft seat cushions that are comfortable enough to doze off in, but he can’t, he won’t. After twenty minutes of oppressive silence, it occurs to him that he has calls to make. The team, June, Sara. A neuron somewhere along the way fires a thought off that spells the name 'Mozzie', but Peter quickly dismisses it.
Peter isn't sure what exactly went on between Neal and Mozzie, but he knows there's a rift between them now, and Peter has a feeling it's vaguely treasure-sized. He takes this in with mixed feelings. He'd have to lie if he said he hadn't somehow grown attached to the Little Guy, and El even more so. Somewhere deep in the confines of his gut he hopes that Mozzie knows-that he's got feelers out in the underworld that tell him of how dire Neal's situation really is.
Peter spends more time on the phone than expected. There is sympathy, shock, concern, a whole spectrum of emotions in varying degrees that filter through the receiver as he stands in the designated cell phone area. It doesn't help alleviate any of Peter's own worry, but if he allows himself to look closely, it offers a certain kind of reassurance that he's doing what he can. Or at least doing something.
On the way back to the waiting room, he stops by the vending machine. El prefers Mountain Dew over Coke in terms of soda-type caffeine source. Peter really wants a Coke, but he knows he's ingested enough caffeine in the last two days to last him a lifetime. In the end he goes for the Mist lemon-lime soda.
He's not sure how much time has passed when another doctor comes to talk to them. Peter thinks maybe two hours, maybe three. He's nodded off somewhere along the way. There are explanations of the surgery going as well as expected, of repaired damage and containment of complications. The words stable, and, yes, cautious optimism are used again. It's more of the same story.
The Burkes are being sent home. There is no pleading and bargaining with the staff to let them see Neal. They are not spouse, not family. It doesn't matter that they're as close to a family as he has right now. He's in recovery, and little change in his status is expected for several hours. They're being assured he's in good hands. Peter mentally adds, "Yeah, just like he was when he flatlined, and look how that turned out."
A tiny, accusing voice in the back of his mind tells him that actually turned out favorably, because Neal's still alive, isn't he? Peter knows better than to ask about odds again, because as much as he's a numbers person, the numbers he was given before offered little reassurance and a lot of trepidation.
Peter lingers by the window. His wife's gentle touch on his shoulder, she softly urges him to go home. He doesn't want to, even though he knows there is no rational reason to stay. She soothes words into his ear that eventually percolate.
They take their separate cars home, and Peter doesn't remember anything about the drive when he nears his doorstep. He wonders how he even made it here unscathed. The subconscious can be a wonderful thing.
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There is a call from Hughes in the morning. He's asking Peter to come into the office. From the no-nonsense tone in his voice and the explanation he is given, Peter knows he can't say no. He wonders if he can swing by the hospital on the way, but El's steadfast, down-home realism convinces him not to. She promises to go and call Peter with a status update.
In the car, he is fidgety, and his eyes are burning after a restless night with little sleep and close to no repose. He realizes that he will be of little use at work, and prays that nothing will come up that will test his patience.
Of course he is not so lucky, not by a long shot. Worried colleagues ask about Neal as he makes his way through the bullpen. He has barely entered his office when Hughes calls him over. Everything inside of Peter wants to scream No as he listens to what his boss is telling him. Not now, why now?!
There's a case in DC, an old case of Peter's that's cropped up again. One of the cold cases from years ago has gone warm again. A young, skilled scam artist that Peter had chased for almost a year. Not quite with the ferocity he'd chased Neal, but close enough to make Peter the authority on Trevor Hamwright. They'd closed the case, actually, because Hamwright was presumed dead. Now it turns out he isn't.
Hughes wants Peter to go down to DC. Peter protests, because there is no way he can leave New York right now. It is to no avail. It turns out the order isn't coming from Hughes, this is way above Hughes' head. It's not just a case of some little scam artist anymore, they're on the trail of a grand-scale scamming operation, and Peter's presence, his first-hand experience is key. In the end, Peter can do nothing but acquiesce.
Hughes' look on him is pained but sympathetic. The man has a mountain of experience under his belt, and then some. Peter realizes he must have lost loved ones, must have gone through the same thing he is, and he understands that Hughes would not be doing this if he had a choice.
Peter sighs and accepts his fate. Hughes has already arranged the travel itinerary, which tells Peter on the double just how big this is. He's taking a train early the next morning, which gives him little time to prepare. He inwardly curses. This is bad timing at its worst.
It's almost 5 PM by the time Peter leaves the office. He's spent the whole day, going through the archives, digging up files and reports on Hamwright. He's armed with a box of paperwork and his laptop as he makes his way to the Federal Building parking garage.
His mind was so occupied with work that he only thought of Neal a minute at a time, in between paper shuffling. El had called in the late morning, but she didn't have anything to report. Neal is still unconscious but stable. The doctors are reluctant with any prognoses, but the EEG looks good and there have been no post-op complications. This is good news.
At the hospital, Peter has a hard time being admitted to the ICU. Visiting hours are over, and he's told, FBI agent or not, he can't just prance in there and demand to see patients. In the end, they give in to his pleading and let him see Neal for ten minutes, making it clear that this is an exception. Peter understands. He does. But that doesn't make it any better.
It hits him all over again how fragile Neal is underneath the white sheets, with tubes and IVs poking out of him. Peter is glad to notice there is no lung ventilator, that Neal is breathing on his own. He's lost weight, and not just since the shooting. It's like a punch to the gut to think that Peter might have had a hand in that.
He wonders how he didn't notice just how much of a toll the aftermath of the kidnapping had taken on Neal. Or maybe he did, and he chose to ignore it?
Peter takes an unsteady step closer to the hospital bed. The protective gear they make him wear makes moving around awkward, unnatural. He doesn't feel like himself, and for a moment, he has a strange sensation that none of this is real. Then the heart monitor emits a short beep, and he's right back in ugly reality. Peter's eyes are transfixed on the numbers flickering across the screen, but they don't mean anything to him.
The staff tell him it's okay to touch Neal, but he can't bring himself to do it. The young man's handsome features are too gaunt, the liveliness has gone from his expression. The constantly curious, plotting blue eyes are hidden by closed eyelids. His hair is unkempt and greasy at the roots. Neal does not look like himself.
"Neal," Peter tentatively says, and then falls short on what else to say. What is there to say? Please stay with us? We need you? I need you? It all sounds so trite, so cliché, but it's no less true.
"Shit," he mutters under his breath. He can't do this.
He desperately tries to recall the last conversation they've had, what the last thing was that he said to Neal. No doubt something work-related. Hopefully not something harsh, but they were past the phase that was reigned by harshness.
The truth is, Peter's forgiven Neal-or at least as much as he ever can-for his involvement in his wife's kidnapping, his betrayal, his nature. Neal had done everything he could to get Elizabeth out of Keller's grasp, made his own sacrifices. At the time, Peter had been too blinded by shock and anger to see just how deeply the whole thing had jarred Neal. They'd all been so busy dealing with the trauma to their own lives, all the while placing the blame elsewhere.
Peter relives the ugly memories in installments, moments at a time. He isn't exactly sure where it all went wrong, but maybe it's not been one fateful blow but rather many little stab wounds. He doesn't remember much of the night where he returned home and found his house swarming with FBI agents, an overturned pot with tomato sauce spilled all over the kitchen floor. He does remember, however, that he went at Neal, got physical to the point where Neal was flat-out scared of him. He remembers yelling and blind rage and saying things he was pretty sure he couldn't take back.
At the time, he'd been too overwhelmed to see it, but Neal had dropped all masks at the words that Peter had yelled at him, there in his house, at the accusations he'd spit from this lips. There'd been hurt and unguarded pain in Neal's eyes in the two seconds that they'd stared at each other before Neal had obeyed Peter's command and left. Neal had not set foot in the Burkes' home since.
Now he wishes that he'd never lost his temper, that he could erase his actions and words. The moment he'd held his wife safely in his arms again, he was still angry, but the corrosive rage had simmered down to a low hum in his belly.
Forgiveness is a funny thing. It comes in two stages. The one where you forgive, and then one where you communicate forgiveness. Peter isn't sure when exactly he reached the first stage, but he's not reached the second one. It burns like acid in his stomach to think he may never get the chance.
It's not that anyone has clearly said Neal will never wake up, or even may never wake up, but Peter knows the possibility is real. His throat constricts and he swallows.
"I'm sorry, Neal. What I said to you that day, it... It wasn't fair. I'm sorry." It's just short of a whisper, and he knows Neal can't hear it. But he needed to say it.
He leaves Neal's room shortly thereafter. There is nothing more to say, not while Neal can't hear him, can't respond to him.
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Peter's stint in DC is demanding, to say the least. There are briefings and status meetings, research and more briefings. Peter barely gets a moment to breathe, and when he does, he notices there's two missed calls from Elizabeth on his cell phone. There's a text message too. It is short, to the point: Neal woke up. Call me. Peter's heart skips a happy beat.
When he calls, El's voice is filled with enthusiasm. Neal's regained consciousness. Only briefly, and not while she was there, but everything looks as good as expected. Peter breathes a long sigh of relief. He allows himself a small smile and revels in the liberating feeling of the huge weight coming off his shoulders.
She tells him she's planning on making good use of the ICU's afternoon visiting hours and will call him afterwards. He asks her to tell Neal that he's sorry he can't be there but will come as soon as he can.
Going back to work on the Hamwright case after the phone call is difficult. Distraction hits him a mile a minute. The DC colleagues notice, and upon concerned enquiries, Peter explains that a friend of his is in the hospital after being shot. There's empathic nods and muttered sympathy-and soon it's back to work. Peter makes an effort and tries to switch off the part of his brain that is hung up on Neal Caffrey's state of health.
He doesn't get the chance to speak to El again until he's in the hotel in the evening. Slipping off his shoes, taking off his tie, he flops onto the bed. He can't wait to hear her voice. It's a bit like coming home.
"Hey honey," she greets him, and her voice is still a lot more cheerful than it's been in the past days. "Busy day, huh?"
"Yeah, you don't know the half of it," he sighs. "How is Neal?"
"He's... Well, he's still pretty out of it, it's a little hard to say."
"Did you talk to him?"
"Not really. I'm not even sure he recognized me. He dozed off again after a minute. The morphine is making him so drowsy, but I don't think he was in pain."
"That's, well, I guess that's good," Peter smiles, and wishes he could have been there with her. He briefly considers the situation, because this must be weird for Elizabeth too. Not just the fact that she's in New York while he's stuck in Washington, but the fact that she's had almost no contact with Neal since the kidnapping.
He wonders how much Neal remembers, if he's even in a state of mind where things in the real world, outside of a painkiller induced haze, make any sense. It would be a while before he'd be able to hold a halfway coherent conversation. Suddenly Peter is scared of being faced with just that situation.
"And you, are you okay?" he asks Elizabeth.
"Oh honey, I'm fine," she assures him.
"I mean, you haven't really talked to Neal since... well..."
"I know," she concedes, "but it's okay. I'm just... As hard as it's been, I can't bear the thought of losing him."
"Yeah, same here," Peter reluctantly admits. He's never been good with the emotional side of things. He knows they're going to have to talk more about this eventually, because there's so many implications. He's not sure where they're going from here, but maybe there's a time and a place to discuss that.
"Do you know when you'll be back?" she asks.
He sighs again. "No. It'll be at least another day. They're building this huge case."
He can almost imagine her pouting at the other end. "Okay," she says, and he knows she's trying to make it sound cheerful. "Just... be safe, okay? We'll be here when you get back."
"Thanks, hon. I miss you."
"Miss you too," she breathes into the receiver.
"Yeah, how much?" he says, his voice haughty, mischievous.
"A lot."
"I don't believe you."
"Oh yeah?" she playfully joins the game. "You're saying I don't miss you?"
"Maybe."
"Okay, I'll tell you how much I miss you."
"Please do."
He smiles to himself. This feels like the old days, when he was fresh out of college and they only saw each other on the weekends. What follows is much like the old days too, and Peter briefly wonders when he got so old that he feels a tiny pang of embarrassment at engaging in something as libidinous as this.
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The next day is much like the previous one. More pouring over files, discussing strategies, re-reading old files, analyzing and interpreting surveillance audio and video. Peter's insights into Hamwright are more than helpful, and even though he doesn't want to be here any more than when Hughes told him to go, he can see why they wanted him at Headquarters.
He doesn't get the chance to talk to Elizabeth all day. When he gets back to the hotel, he's so hungry that his stomach churns, which makes finding something to eat a priority. Food in the hotel restaurant is overpriced and unimaginative, but he doesn't have the energy to go out and find somewhere decent to eat.
In the hotel room, he has a vague feeling of déjà vu when he calls El, except this time she's not quite as cheerful. He's immediately worried. "Honey, is something wrong? Did something happen with Neal?"
"No," she says, then, "I don't know."
"What, is he worse?"
"No, it's not that."
"Then what is it?"
There is a short moment of silence before she says, "I don't think he wants me there."
"What?" In his mind, he adds, How? Why? "Did he say something?"
"No, he... He didn't talk much. I mean, he's still really out of it. But he saw me, and he got all agitated. It was very awkward. I didn't stay long."
"Okay," he says skeptically. This is unexpected, puzzling.
"Peter, I don't know if I should go back tomorrow."
Something in Peter's stomach clenches. He needs to be in New York, but he's stuck here. He hears his wife's voice again. "What do you think?"
"El, I..." He doesn't know what to say. He wasn't there, he doesn't know what she's talking about.
"I know. I'm sorry. I just don't know what to do."
"Have you talked to June? Sara?"
"No, but I will."
The rest of their conversation is about every day problems and not at all lascivious. Peter goes to bed that night with a lump growing in his stomach.
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The breakthrough in the Hamwright case comes the next day. An informant gives them the right tip, and it's smooth sailing from there. Peter is determined to go home that day, because the paperwork can be taken care of from New York.
He catches a train out just after seven. Somewhere in the middle of Delaware it sits on the tracks in the middle of nowhere for half an eternity without moving an inch. Trouble with one of the switches, they're told. He arrives at home, bleary-eyed, just shy of midnight. El is waiting up, in bed, with her favorite crime novelist's latest work to keep her company. He carelessly drops the suitcase in the corner and sits on the edge of the bed where she lies. Her welcome back gift is a long, sweet kiss, a hand at the nape of his neck, fingers softly toying with his short hair there.
"I'm glad you're here. I've missed you so much," she whispers.
"I've missed you more," he responds.
He breaks the physical contact. "You didn't see Neal today?"
It's less a question than more a confirmation of what she's told him on the phone earlier.
"No, I just... I thought it might be best. I did talk to June, she said she would go. We weren't sure if they'd let her into the ICU, but she promised she would try. I talked to Sara too, and you know what she said? She hasn't spoken to Neal since the kidnapping. Don't you think that's weird?"
"Hm," Peter says through pressed together lips. Something's going on here that he's not aware of, that maybe he didn't want to see. He tries to think back to how things were before Neal got shot. Were there any signs? Had Neal been acting out of the ordinary?
It strikes him that he can't really tell. He had gotten good at not engaging with Neal on a personal level. Conversation centered around work is always courteous, reduced to a minimum. It's hard to tell what's going on with Neal beyond that.
The lump in his stomach is back with a vengeance.
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Peter calls June the next morning. She sounds surprised to hear his voice.
"Peter, it's been a long time."
He can also hear the accusation in her voice, but he doubts she knows the full picture. "It has. How are you?"
"I'm fine, Peter. Life's been kind to me." There is a brief pause before she continues. "But I think we both know one person who's not so lucky."
"Yes, and that's actually the reason why I'm calling." As if she didn't already know that.
What June reports to Peter is slightly disconcerting. She has visited Neal in the hospital for a short while, and she was of the impression that he was doing okay under the circumstances. The disconcerting part is when she tells Peter that Neal had vaguely hinted at the fact that he wanted to see neither Elizabeth nor Peter.
"Now, please understand that the poor boy was under the influence of some very potent drugs," June elaborates.
"Yes, thank you, June," Peter tells her.
"Will you go see him?" she asks flat-out, because June has an uncanny ability of extracting the obvious and getting straight to the point when it matters.
"You don't think I should?" he counters, because maybe that is what she is insinuating.
"Now, Peter, that is something you will have to decide for yourself."
"June, you must understand that things between Neal and me are a little complicated right now."
"They always are," she says sagely.
"But what happened to Neal, him getting shot, it's a terrible thing, and I had nothing to do with that."
"But that is not what we are talking about."
He sighs. "No, it's not. I'm not sure how much you know, how much Neal has told you."
"Let's just say he's told me enough to understand his position."
"So you do think I shouldn't visit him."
"No, that's not my call to make. Perhaps the two of you need this opportunity to talk."
"Perhaps we do," Peter agrees.
"Please don't upset him," June adds, and Peter isn't sure whether to be annoyed or thankful for her motherly concern for Neal. He can't really see how he and Neal can talk about any of this without upsetting either party, but he assures her he will do his best.
After he hangs up, the call leaves him strangely dissatisfied and unsettled.
A call shortly thereafter from Hughes orders him to the Bureau. He wants a status report, see the paperwork done, the works. Peter welcomes the distraction, because now he's not sure whether to see Neal or not.
Elizabeth finds him staring at the cell phone in his hand in the middle of their living room.
"Hon? Something wrong with your phone?"
He blinks. "What? No. No, it's just..."
Does he want to tell her? She deserves that much, doesn't she? He shifts his weight, lets the cell phone slip into his pocket. "I just talked to Hughes, he wants me in the office."
Now, why did he just say that? That's not what he wanted her to know.
"Okay," she just says. "Will you be home for dinner?"
"Yeah."
Why does she not ask him if he's going to see Neal? "El," he starts, "I also talked to June. She said Neal doesn't want to see us."
"Oh." It has a deflated ring to it, but she doesn't sound all that surprised. She has way too good a radar for these kinds of things. "Did she say why?"
"I think you know why."
She gives a curt nod. "Yeah, I thought as much."
He lets his chin sink just a little closer to his chest. His voice is just above a whisper. "What are we going to do?"
She closes the gap between them, slings her arms around his waist. "I don't know if this the right time to fight this battle. Do you really want to confront him at the hospital? Peter, he's just come out of a coma."
He nods wordlessly. She's right, of course. It wouldn't be fair. But it just about kills him that he's now forced into catatonic rigor, forced into standing by, watching helplessly until he gets his chance.
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Part 2
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Author: TeeJay
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Peter, Elizabeth, June
Written for: rabidchild67 for the collarcorner ficswap
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Spoilers for season 3, up to and very much including 3x10 'Countdown', PG-13 rated off-screen sex scene of a canon pairing
Summary: Elizabeth's kidnapping and its aftermath have caused a rift between Neal and Peter that is hard to bridge. Then Neal gets shot during a random bank heist, and everything changes.
Author's Note: This story includes a drabble I wrote and posted earlier, called 'Unexpected and Terrifying'. I'll explain my reasoning for that choice below in my note to RC.
Thank you so much, elrhiarhodan, for the beta! Thanks also goes out to kanarek13 for helping out here and there with encouragement, plot twists and wardrobe advice. I can't believe how many sweet and generous online friends I've made in this fandom.
Also, in light of recent explanations on what is gen and what isn't in the context of collarcorner, this fic contains an off-screen sex scene of a canon pairing, which might be pushing the boundaries a little bit. It's not graphic, and it's very vague, but since I felt it an important element where it's placed, and since I know my recipient has no issue at all with it, I was hesitant to remove it. And now I'll duck and hope I can get away with it. /o\
Disclaimer: White Collar, its characters and its settings belong to Jeff Eastin and USA Network. And, guys? Your characters are not only welcome, they're wonderful. I'm just borrowing, I promise.
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Dear rabidchild67,
Let me tell you, my first reaction when I received the e-mail with my ficswap assignment was: Noooo! You're pairing me up with my beta reader! On the other hand, I'm always happy to be able to write something for you, my wonderfully imaginative partner in crime, so I opted for being happy about it and finding someone else to beta this for me.
I feel a bit guilty, because this story doesn't quite match the prompt(s) you provided. Well, it does hit the "angst", "angsty h/c" and "every type of whump" tropes. The thing is, I really wanted to write you a kidnapping story. And I even did. I had over 5,000 words down, but when the end of August approached, I realized that story was turning into something I started to struggle with and wasn't sure I could finish writing in time and still get beta'ed for the deadline. So I did a 180 and wrote, uhm... this. (Let's just ignore the fact that it turned into its own 13,000+ words epic.)
As mentioned above, it provides a framework for and continues my 'Unexpected and Terrifying' drabble that you loved so much. And since you said you did, and I know that you love Neal!Whump and all around angst, this presented the perfect opportunity to write my own pinch hit that I was fairly certain I could complete in time. I hope you can forgive me for not exactly sticking to your prompt parameters.
That said, prepare for a super angsty angst fest. This is McPunisher at her best. I guess it's kind of my own version of 'These Wasted Blues', and if you squint, you can almost squeeze 'So Fast, So Numb' in there.
As for the kidnapping story I mentioned, I did get to eventually finish it, but, well, let's just say what I wrote sucked balls didn't quite work. And then it died a slow (but well deserved) death by beta-reader. So it looks like I'm gonna have to rewrite large portions of it to whip it into something that I can show to the public. I'm not sure how committed I still am to that story, but should I be able to go back to it, you'll be the first to know when it turns into something posting-worthy.
Much love,
Me
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Peter still remembers when he received the call. It was just after lunch on Thursday, around 1:30 PM. He was pouring himself a cup of coffee in the White Collar office community break room.
It's an NYPD officer. The news is delivered with swift precision and few pleasantries. Neal is in the hospital. In critical condition.
Peter isn't sure how to feel. He and Neal aren't close anymore. Conversation is solely work-related, personal contact kept to a bare minimum. In recent weeks, the latter has been fairly nonexistent. Ever since Elizabeth's abduction, its aftermath, it's been testy and awkward and difficult between them. There have been discussions with Hughes and Bancroft, and it was agreed that it would be better for everyone if Neal were assigned to a new team for a while.
Even though Neal’s now working for Agent Saunders' team, he still has his desk in the office, is still an asset to the unit, but for Peter it's different now. It's not about punishing Neal for his involvement in El's kidnapping, and he hopes Neal knows that. His transfer wasn't an executive decision made without his consent. It was a mutual agreement, made to suit everyone as best as possible. Neal had welcomed the change as much as Peter. They both needed the breathing room.
The voice on the phone gives Peter facts, asks a few questions. Instinctively, robotically, Peter inquires about specifics. Bank robbery. Gunshot wound to the chest. Pure coincidence Neal was there. It's tragically ironic.
Deeper shock sets in after Peter hangs up the phone. If he hasn't been sure how to feel, he surely knows now. He sinks down in one of the orange chairs, placing his palms on the table in front of him. As much distance as there is between them now, the thought of losing Neal scares him to death.
"Boss?" he hears Diana's voice from somewhere next to him. He looks up at her, realizing his ashen face must be startling her.
"Neal's been shot. I’ve got to go," the words tumble from his lips.
"What? Wait. You want me to come with you?"
"No," he says, already on the way out. "Thanks, but no."
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The next two days are a nightmare-or pretty close to one. There is little sleep and a lot of waiting, distress, and bad hospital coffee. Surgery, intensive care, careful optimism. The bullet grazed the heart, and Neal's lucky to be alive, they keep saying.
Peter spends more time in the hospital than he should. He knows that, and so does his Elizabeth. She's there too, sometimes. A lot of time, actually. They're both scared for Neal, and it frightens her as much as it does him to see his former partner reduced to tubes and blood transfusions and IVs. Even with the consideration of what happened two months ago, and the collateral damage it left in its wake.
They're allowed to visit Neal in the ICU, but only for a half-hour at a time. Neal doesn't regain consciousness, which the doctors assure them is not unusual or unexpected. IVs and perfusors provide fluids and medications. The ventilator has been replaced with a nasal oxygen cannula. Tension runs high and patience low. Peter's acquired an impressive stubble and the first night he sleeps in his own bed after the incident, rest does not come easy, and neither does sleep.
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The next morning is a shock to the system. It's not like what you see on TV, Peter thinks, as he watches through the ICU's window.
A cluster of doctors, nurses, med students pack around the hospital bed, discussing something he can't hear in a kind of quiet, yet charged panic. A petite woman kneels on the bed, hovering over Neal's body, pressing her weight through the heels of her hand into Neal's chest in fast-paced compressions.
Peter watches in paralyzing desperation as Neal's head is shoved back, an intubation tube being inserted into his mouth. The hands of a nurse press air from an ambu bag into his lungs in rhythmic patterns. Blood from somewhere he can't see drips onto the tiled floor. Drugs are injected frenetically into IV lines. Hands clad in blue nitrile gloves come away bloody. Eyes search out the heart monitor and don't see what they hope to see. It's messy and ugly and real.
Peter's own hand comes up, his palm pressing into the glass, fingers apart. He wishes he could give some of his own life to save Neal's.
How had this happened again? All the seemingly endless desperation in waiting rooms and visitor areas. And then this-unexpected and terrifying.
After what feels like half an eternity but can't have been more than a few minutes, chest compressions stop, and a sinus rhythm flickers across the heart monitor. Doctors shift and discuss, and the tension seems to ease just a little.
Peter breathes a small sigh of relief. Hope is a long way to go, but it's tangible now.
He feels a hand on his arm, turns his head. It's one of the ICU nurses. Her voice is sympathetic. "Sir, I need to ask you to leave."
Peter just nods. His brain has gone numb. He understands the implication, but it takes too many seconds to process. "Is he..." he stumbles on the words, chokes for a brief moment, "He's going to make it, right?"
"It's hard to say at this point, I'm afraid."
Her tone isn't harsh, just realistic. She's probably worked here long enough to know the odds, has seen too many people lose their lives, too many people come out of flatlines with permanent brain damage.
Peter lowers his head. "Is there somewhere I can wait?"
"There's a changing room outside the sliding door."
"Can someone come and notify me when I can see him."
She gives a small nod. "Yes, we can do that, but it could be a long time. Mr. Caffrey might have to go back into surgery."
"I'll wait," Peter just says, because there's no way he can leave.
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In the tiny room that's too stuffy, with chairs that are too uncomfortable, he calls his wife. He can barely get the words out, can barely recount what he's witnessed. Tears are stinging behind his eyelids, but that's as far as he allows them.
He draws a weary hand over his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. The long breath he draws in hitches in his throat. "El, I don't- What if he-"
"Peter," her soft voice soothes in his ear. "Honey, listen to me. Neal's a fighter. He's going to make it through this."
The breath he lets out is hollow, skeptic. He wishes that were true, but he doesn't know anymore. Neal just died. For a couple of terrifying minutes, he was dead. For what? A check he wanted to cash? It doesn't want to compute.
El's voice startles him from his reverie. "Honey, I'm getting in the car right now. I'll be with you in twenty minutes."
"No," he quickly tells her. "No, they said it could take a while. He might go back into surgery. There was blood, it was dripping on the floor, and... Oh God."
"Peter. Honey." Her voice is urgent now. "I'm coming, okay?"
Yes, it's very much okay, because I really need you, he wants to tell her, because there's nothing more he wishes right now than feel her gentle hands cupping his face, her arms wrapping around him, her sheer presence giving meager comfort in dire situations. "All right," he just says, and the call disconnects.
The twenty-seven minutes are endless, and when he lays eyes on Elizabeth coming through the door, he feels tears prickling all over again. She doesn't say a word, just holds him close until he pulls away, severs their physical connection. He's never been a touchy-feely kind of guy, but there are moments where Peter Burke needs to be held.
They sit down next to each other and she laces her fingers through his. "Any news?" she softly asks.
He shakes his head, his eyes closed. The sliding door to the ICU is visible from where they're sitting, and a few minutes later, it buzzes and a doctor, dressed in dark blue scrubs exits. Both Peter and El get up, meeting him halfway, even though they don't even know if he's come to address them.
The physician is caught off-guard, and, no, he doesn't know the status of Mr. Caffrey. He says he's sorry, but Peter knows it's just a platitude. Peter has spent enough time in this place to know how hospital business works. Sure, some doctors still see the individual, the human being behind the medical treatment, but Peter knows all too well that you can't do this job long if you get too personally attached.
That's one of the things he has always liked about Neal. He cares-cares about the individual behind the case. Sometimes more than Peter does.
Time stretches on, and it's Elizabeth who gets fidgety. Peter just sits and sits. He tries not to rerun the images in his mind, but he's not entirely able to stop them. They don't talk. Much. El tries to get him to share more of what he saw, but she also understands that recounting it would make it too real.
The plastic chair creaks as he shifts his position. El looks at him, a certain expectancy in her gaze. His eyes flicker to hers, then flit away again. Time passes in increments of cups of terrible machine-brewed coffee and stale, salty snacks. The restroom down the hall smells of disinfectant, and the paper towel dispenser is empty. He tells an aide who's passing by, who doesn't seem to care.
When he comes back to the waiting room, the woman he saw kneeling on top of Neal (her weight pressing on his chest, her hands making blood keep pumping through Neal's veins) stands with Elizabeth. Peter quickens his steps and can just make out, "-being optimistic."
He's heard the words "carefully optimistic" too often of late. They've been carefully optimistic when Neal went into cardiac arrest too. Peter thinks he's quit wanting to be carefully optimistic if it means Neal could code again any second.
"Mr. Burke?" the woman greets him. "I'm Doctor Gershman. I was just telling your wife that we had to take Mr. Caffrey back into surgery. There was fluid building around his heart, a rare complication but not unheard of with this type of injury. We've managed to stabilize him, and there's room to be carefully-"
"Optimistic, I know," Peter rather rudely interrupts her, raising his voice more than he should. "That's what you said the last time too."
He can see she's a bit ruffled by his outburst, but quickly composes herself.
"I'm sorry," Peter says, his voice calmer.
"No, it's okay," she assures him. "This is a difficult time. I understand."
"I just... I need something a little more specific. Odds would be good. Is there a survival rate for this? Can you give me a number?"
"Sir," she stalls, "It'll be difficult to put this into percentages. Every case is different, there are so many factors-"
"Just give me an estimate. What are his chances of survival? Fifty percent? Sixty? What?"
She gives a small sigh, weighing the odds in her head. He can see she's struggling. "Mr. Burke, I can't really give you-"
"Please," he whispers.
"Okay," she concedes. "Considering the gunshot injury, the damage it's caused, the trauma, I'd say fifteen to twenty percent. But I could be wrong."
Peter's eyes widen. Fifteen to twenty percent. That's... low. Too low. He turns on his heels, walks to the window. "Damn," he mutters.
"If I may say so," she adds, "Mr. Caffrey is a healthy, young man. I've seen a lot of people coding, and it's usually the young ones without chronic medical issues who make it. The fact that we got his heart beating again is a good sign."
Peter whirled around. "Fifteen to twenty percent! And you're talking about good signs?!"
"Peter," Elizabeth cuts in, too matter-of-fact, almost accusing. "You asked her for odds."
He deflates, because it's wrong to get mad at the person who saved Neal's life. "Yeah, I did." There is a pregnant pause. "When can we see him?"
"The surgery could well last another hour or two. We have a waiting room up in General Surgery, it would probably be better if you waited there."
Peter's mouth forms a thin line. It feels like his life has been reduced to sitting in bland waiting areas where desperation and hope battle each other to the death. The young doctor gives them directions. Peter doesn't need the explanation. He's been there before, he's spent hours staring at tiny holes in the ceiling panels, the chipped veneer of the coffee table in the corner, the potted dragon tree next to it that looked like it was fighting a constant battle between being over- and underwatered.
"Thank you," he curtly nods to the woman. El gives him a reproachful look, but he just can't bring himself to utter an apology.
The General Surgery waiting room has beige chairs with soft seat cushions that are comfortable enough to doze off in, but he can’t, he won’t. After twenty minutes of oppressive silence, it occurs to him that he has calls to make. The team, June, Sara. A neuron somewhere along the way fires a thought off that spells the name 'Mozzie', but Peter quickly dismisses it.
Peter isn't sure what exactly went on between Neal and Mozzie, but he knows there's a rift between them now, and Peter has a feeling it's vaguely treasure-sized. He takes this in with mixed feelings. He'd have to lie if he said he hadn't somehow grown attached to the Little Guy, and El even more so. Somewhere deep in the confines of his gut he hopes that Mozzie knows-that he's got feelers out in the underworld that tell him of how dire Neal's situation really is.
Peter spends more time on the phone than expected. There is sympathy, shock, concern, a whole spectrum of emotions in varying degrees that filter through the receiver as he stands in the designated cell phone area. It doesn't help alleviate any of Peter's own worry, but if he allows himself to look closely, it offers a certain kind of reassurance that he's doing what he can. Or at least doing something.
On the way back to the waiting room, he stops by the vending machine. El prefers Mountain Dew over Coke in terms of soda-type caffeine source. Peter really wants a Coke, but he knows he's ingested enough caffeine in the last two days to last him a lifetime. In the end he goes for the Mist lemon-lime soda.
He's not sure how much time has passed when another doctor comes to talk to them. Peter thinks maybe two hours, maybe three. He's nodded off somewhere along the way. There are explanations of the surgery going as well as expected, of repaired damage and containment of complications. The words stable, and, yes, cautious optimism are used again. It's more of the same story.
The Burkes are being sent home. There is no pleading and bargaining with the staff to let them see Neal. They are not spouse, not family. It doesn't matter that they're as close to a family as he has right now. He's in recovery, and little change in his status is expected for several hours. They're being assured he's in good hands. Peter mentally adds, "Yeah, just like he was when he flatlined, and look how that turned out."
A tiny, accusing voice in the back of his mind tells him that actually turned out favorably, because Neal's still alive, isn't he? Peter knows better than to ask about odds again, because as much as he's a numbers person, the numbers he was given before offered little reassurance and a lot of trepidation.
Peter lingers by the window. His wife's gentle touch on his shoulder, she softly urges him to go home. He doesn't want to, even though he knows there is no rational reason to stay. She soothes words into his ear that eventually percolate.
They take their separate cars home, and Peter doesn't remember anything about the drive when he nears his doorstep. He wonders how he even made it here unscathed. The subconscious can be a wonderful thing.
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There is a call from Hughes in the morning. He's asking Peter to come into the office. From the no-nonsense tone in his voice and the explanation he is given, Peter knows he can't say no. He wonders if he can swing by the hospital on the way, but El's steadfast, down-home realism convinces him not to. She promises to go and call Peter with a status update.
In the car, he is fidgety, and his eyes are burning after a restless night with little sleep and close to no repose. He realizes that he will be of little use at work, and prays that nothing will come up that will test his patience.
Of course he is not so lucky, not by a long shot. Worried colleagues ask about Neal as he makes his way through the bullpen. He has barely entered his office when Hughes calls him over. Everything inside of Peter wants to scream No as he listens to what his boss is telling him. Not now, why now?!
There's a case in DC, an old case of Peter's that's cropped up again. One of the cold cases from years ago has gone warm again. A young, skilled scam artist that Peter had chased for almost a year. Not quite with the ferocity he'd chased Neal, but close enough to make Peter the authority on Trevor Hamwright. They'd closed the case, actually, because Hamwright was presumed dead. Now it turns out he isn't.
Hughes wants Peter to go down to DC. Peter protests, because there is no way he can leave New York right now. It is to no avail. It turns out the order isn't coming from Hughes, this is way above Hughes' head. It's not just a case of some little scam artist anymore, they're on the trail of a grand-scale scamming operation, and Peter's presence, his first-hand experience is key. In the end, Peter can do nothing but acquiesce.
Hughes' look on him is pained but sympathetic. The man has a mountain of experience under his belt, and then some. Peter realizes he must have lost loved ones, must have gone through the same thing he is, and he understands that Hughes would not be doing this if he had a choice.
Peter sighs and accepts his fate. Hughes has already arranged the travel itinerary, which tells Peter on the double just how big this is. He's taking a train early the next morning, which gives him little time to prepare. He inwardly curses. This is bad timing at its worst.
It's almost 5 PM by the time Peter leaves the office. He's spent the whole day, going through the archives, digging up files and reports on Hamwright. He's armed with a box of paperwork and his laptop as he makes his way to the Federal Building parking garage.
His mind was so occupied with work that he only thought of Neal a minute at a time, in between paper shuffling. El had called in the late morning, but she didn't have anything to report. Neal is still unconscious but stable. The doctors are reluctant with any prognoses, but the EEG looks good and there have been no post-op complications. This is good news.
At the hospital, Peter has a hard time being admitted to the ICU. Visiting hours are over, and he's told, FBI agent or not, he can't just prance in there and demand to see patients. In the end, they give in to his pleading and let him see Neal for ten minutes, making it clear that this is an exception. Peter understands. He does. But that doesn't make it any better.
It hits him all over again how fragile Neal is underneath the white sheets, with tubes and IVs poking out of him. Peter is glad to notice there is no lung ventilator, that Neal is breathing on his own. He's lost weight, and not just since the shooting. It's like a punch to the gut to think that Peter might have had a hand in that.
He wonders how he didn't notice just how much of a toll the aftermath of the kidnapping had taken on Neal. Or maybe he did, and he chose to ignore it?
Peter takes an unsteady step closer to the hospital bed. The protective gear they make him wear makes moving around awkward, unnatural. He doesn't feel like himself, and for a moment, he has a strange sensation that none of this is real. Then the heart monitor emits a short beep, and he's right back in ugly reality. Peter's eyes are transfixed on the numbers flickering across the screen, but they don't mean anything to him.
The staff tell him it's okay to touch Neal, but he can't bring himself to do it. The young man's handsome features are too gaunt, the liveliness has gone from his expression. The constantly curious, plotting blue eyes are hidden by closed eyelids. His hair is unkempt and greasy at the roots. Neal does not look like himself.
"Neal," Peter tentatively says, and then falls short on what else to say. What is there to say? Please stay with us? We need you? I need you? It all sounds so trite, so cliché, but it's no less true.
"Shit," he mutters under his breath. He can't do this.
He desperately tries to recall the last conversation they've had, what the last thing was that he said to Neal. No doubt something work-related. Hopefully not something harsh, but they were past the phase that was reigned by harshness.
The truth is, Peter's forgiven Neal-or at least as much as he ever can-for his involvement in his wife's kidnapping, his betrayal, his nature. Neal had done everything he could to get Elizabeth out of Keller's grasp, made his own sacrifices. At the time, Peter had been too blinded by shock and anger to see just how deeply the whole thing had jarred Neal. They'd all been so busy dealing with the trauma to their own lives, all the while placing the blame elsewhere.
Peter relives the ugly memories in installments, moments at a time. He isn't exactly sure where it all went wrong, but maybe it's not been one fateful blow but rather many little stab wounds. He doesn't remember much of the night where he returned home and found his house swarming with FBI agents, an overturned pot with tomato sauce spilled all over the kitchen floor. He does remember, however, that he went at Neal, got physical to the point where Neal was flat-out scared of him. He remembers yelling and blind rage and saying things he was pretty sure he couldn't take back.
At the time, he'd been too overwhelmed to see it, but Neal had dropped all masks at the words that Peter had yelled at him, there in his house, at the accusations he'd spit from this lips. There'd been hurt and unguarded pain in Neal's eyes in the two seconds that they'd stared at each other before Neal had obeyed Peter's command and left. Neal had not set foot in the Burkes' home since.
Now he wishes that he'd never lost his temper, that he could erase his actions and words. The moment he'd held his wife safely in his arms again, he was still angry, but the corrosive rage had simmered down to a low hum in his belly.
Forgiveness is a funny thing. It comes in two stages. The one where you forgive, and then one where you communicate forgiveness. Peter isn't sure when exactly he reached the first stage, but he's not reached the second one. It burns like acid in his stomach to think he may never get the chance.
It's not that anyone has clearly said Neal will never wake up, or even may never wake up, but Peter knows the possibility is real. His throat constricts and he swallows.
"I'm sorry, Neal. What I said to you that day, it... It wasn't fair. I'm sorry." It's just short of a whisper, and he knows Neal can't hear it. But he needed to say it.
He leaves Neal's room shortly thereafter. There is nothing more to say, not while Neal can't hear him, can't respond to him.
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Peter's stint in DC is demanding, to say the least. There are briefings and status meetings, research and more briefings. Peter barely gets a moment to breathe, and when he does, he notices there's two missed calls from Elizabeth on his cell phone. There's a text message too. It is short, to the point: Neal woke up. Call me. Peter's heart skips a happy beat.
When he calls, El's voice is filled with enthusiasm. Neal's regained consciousness. Only briefly, and not while she was there, but everything looks as good as expected. Peter breathes a long sigh of relief. He allows himself a small smile and revels in the liberating feeling of the huge weight coming off his shoulders.
She tells him she's planning on making good use of the ICU's afternoon visiting hours and will call him afterwards. He asks her to tell Neal that he's sorry he can't be there but will come as soon as he can.
Going back to work on the Hamwright case after the phone call is difficult. Distraction hits him a mile a minute. The DC colleagues notice, and upon concerned enquiries, Peter explains that a friend of his is in the hospital after being shot. There's empathic nods and muttered sympathy-and soon it's back to work. Peter makes an effort and tries to switch off the part of his brain that is hung up on Neal Caffrey's state of health.
He doesn't get the chance to speak to El again until he's in the hotel in the evening. Slipping off his shoes, taking off his tie, he flops onto the bed. He can't wait to hear her voice. It's a bit like coming home.
"Hey honey," she greets him, and her voice is still a lot more cheerful than it's been in the past days. "Busy day, huh?"
"Yeah, you don't know the half of it," he sighs. "How is Neal?"
"He's... Well, he's still pretty out of it, it's a little hard to say."
"Did you talk to him?"
"Not really. I'm not even sure he recognized me. He dozed off again after a minute. The morphine is making him so drowsy, but I don't think he was in pain."
"That's, well, I guess that's good," Peter smiles, and wishes he could have been there with her. He briefly considers the situation, because this must be weird for Elizabeth too. Not just the fact that she's in New York while he's stuck in Washington, but the fact that she's had almost no contact with Neal since the kidnapping.
He wonders how much Neal remembers, if he's even in a state of mind where things in the real world, outside of a painkiller induced haze, make any sense. It would be a while before he'd be able to hold a halfway coherent conversation. Suddenly Peter is scared of being faced with just that situation.
"And you, are you okay?" he asks Elizabeth.
"Oh honey, I'm fine," she assures him.
"I mean, you haven't really talked to Neal since... well..."
"I know," she concedes, "but it's okay. I'm just... As hard as it's been, I can't bear the thought of losing him."
"Yeah, same here," Peter reluctantly admits. He's never been good with the emotional side of things. He knows they're going to have to talk more about this eventually, because there's so many implications. He's not sure where they're going from here, but maybe there's a time and a place to discuss that.
"Do you know when you'll be back?" she asks.
He sighs again. "No. It'll be at least another day. They're building this huge case."
He can almost imagine her pouting at the other end. "Okay," she says, and he knows she's trying to make it sound cheerful. "Just... be safe, okay? We'll be here when you get back."
"Thanks, hon. I miss you."
"Miss you too," she breathes into the receiver.
"Yeah, how much?" he says, his voice haughty, mischievous.
"A lot."
"I don't believe you."
"Oh yeah?" she playfully joins the game. "You're saying I don't miss you?"
"Maybe."
"Okay, I'll tell you how much I miss you."
"Please do."
He smiles to himself. This feels like the old days, when he was fresh out of college and they only saw each other on the weekends. What follows is much like the old days too, and Peter briefly wonders when he got so old that he feels a tiny pang of embarrassment at engaging in something as libidinous as this.
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The next day is much like the previous one. More pouring over files, discussing strategies, re-reading old files, analyzing and interpreting surveillance audio and video. Peter's insights into Hamwright are more than helpful, and even though he doesn't want to be here any more than when Hughes told him to go, he can see why they wanted him at Headquarters.
He doesn't get the chance to talk to Elizabeth all day. When he gets back to the hotel, he's so hungry that his stomach churns, which makes finding something to eat a priority. Food in the hotel restaurant is overpriced and unimaginative, but he doesn't have the energy to go out and find somewhere decent to eat.
In the hotel room, he has a vague feeling of déjà vu when he calls El, except this time she's not quite as cheerful. He's immediately worried. "Honey, is something wrong? Did something happen with Neal?"
"No," she says, then, "I don't know."
"What, is he worse?"
"No, it's not that."
"Then what is it?"
There is a short moment of silence before she says, "I don't think he wants me there."
"What?" In his mind, he adds, How? Why? "Did he say something?"
"No, he... He didn't talk much. I mean, he's still really out of it. But he saw me, and he got all agitated. It was very awkward. I didn't stay long."
"Okay," he says skeptically. This is unexpected, puzzling.
"Peter, I don't know if I should go back tomorrow."
Something in Peter's stomach clenches. He needs to be in New York, but he's stuck here. He hears his wife's voice again. "What do you think?"
"El, I..." He doesn't know what to say. He wasn't there, he doesn't know what she's talking about.
"I know. I'm sorry. I just don't know what to do."
"Have you talked to June? Sara?"
"No, but I will."
The rest of their conversation is about every day problems and not at all lascivious. Peter goes to bed that night with a lump growing in his stomach.
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The breakthrough in the Hamwright case comes the next day. An informant gives them the right tip, and it's smooth sailing from there. Peter is determined to go home that day, because the paperwork can be taken care of from New York.
He catches a train out just after seven. Somewhere in the middle of Delaware it sits on the tracks in the middle of nowhere for half an eternity without moving an inch. Trouble with one of the switches, they're told. He arrives at home, bleary-eyed, just shy of midnight. El is waiting up, in bed, with her favorite crime novelist's latest work to keep her company. He carelessly drops the suitcase in the corner and sits on the edge of the bed where she lies. Her welcome back gift is a long, sweet kiss, a hand at the nape of his neck, fingers softly toying with his short hair there.
"I'm glad you're here. I've missed you so much," she whispers.
"I've missed you more," he responds.
He breaks the physical contact. "You didn't see Neal today?"
It's less a question than more a confirmation of what she's told him on the phone earlier.
"No, I just... I thought it might be best. I did talk to June, she said she would go. We weren't sure if they'd let her into the ICU, but she promised she would try. I talked to Sara too, and you know what she said? She hasn't spoken to Neal since the kidnapping. Don't you think that's weird?"
"Hm," Peter says through pressed together lips. Something's going on here that he's not aware of, that maybe he didn't want to see. He tries to think back to how things were before Neal got shot. Were there any signs? Had Neal been acting out of the ordinary?
It strikes him that he can't really tell. He had gotten good at not engaging with Neal on a personal level. Conversation centered around work is always courteous, reduced to a minimum. It's hard to tell what's going on with Neal beyond that.
The lump in his stomach is back with a vengeance.
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Peter calls June the next morning. She sounds surprised to hear his voice.
"Peter, it's been a long time."
He can also hear the accusation in her voice, but he doubts she knows the full picture. "It has. How are you?"
"I'm fine, Peter. Life's been kind to me." There is a brief pause before she continues. "But I think we both know one person who's not so lucky."
"Yes, and that's actually the reason why I'm calling." As if she didn't already know that.
What June reports to Peter is slightly disconcerting. She has visited Neal in the hospital for a short while, and she was of the impression that he was doing okay under the circumstances. The disconcerting part is when she tells Peter that Neal had vaguely hinted at the fact that he wanted to see neither Elizabeth nor Peter.
"Now, please understand that the poor boy was under the influence of some very potent drugs," June elaborates.
"Yes, thank you, June," Peter tells her.
"Will you go see him?" she asks flat-out, because June has an uncanny ability of extracting the obvious and getting straight to the point when it matters.
"You don't think I should?" he counters, because maybe that is what she is insinuating.
"Now, Peter, that is something you will have to decide for yourself."
"June, you must understand that things between Neal and me are a little complicated right now."
"They always are," she says sagely.
"But what happened to Neal, him getting shot, it's a terrible thing, and I had nothing to do with that."
"But that is not what we are talking about."
He sighs. "No, it's not. I'm not sure how much you know, how much Neal has told you."
"Let's just say he's told me enough to understand his position."
"So you do think I shouldn't visit him."
"No, that's not my call to make. Perhaps the two of you need this opportunity to talk."
"Perhaps we do," Peter agrees.
"Please don't upset him," June adds, and Peter isn't sure whether to be annoyed or thankful for her motherly concern for Neal. He can't really see how he and Neal can talk about any of this without upsetting either party, but he assures her he will do his best.
After he hangs up, the call leaves him strangely dissatisfied and unsettled.
A call shortly thereafter from Hughes orders him to the Bureau. He wants a status report, see the paperwork done, the works. Peter welcomes the distraction, because now he's not sure whether to see Neal or not.
Elizabeth finds him staring at the cell phone in his hand in the middle of their living room.
"Hon? Something wrong with your phone?"
He blinks. "What? No. No, it's just..."
Does he want to tell her? She deserves that much, doesn't she? He shifts his weight, lets the cell phone slip into his pocket. "I just talked to Hughes, he wants me in the office."
Now, why did he just say that? That's not what he wanted her to know.
"Okay," she just says. "Will you be home for dinner?"
"Yeah."
Why does she not ask him if he's going to see Neal? "El," he starts, "I also talked to June. She said Neal doesn't want to see us."
"Oh." It has a deflated ring to it, but she doesn't sound all that surprised. She has way too good a radar for these kinds of things. "Did she say why?"
"I think you know why."
She gives a curt nod. "Yeah, I thought as much."
He lets his chin sink just a little closer to his chest. His voice is just above a whisper. "What are we going to do?"
She closes the gap between them, slings her arms around his waist. "I don't know if this the right time to fight this battle. Do you really want to confront him at the hospital? Peter, he's just come out of a coma."
He nods wordlessly. She's right, of course. It wouldn't be fair. But it just about kills him that he's now forced into catatonic rigor, forced into standing by, watching helplessly until he gets his chance.
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Part 2
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