WC: Rather Be
Title: Rather Be
Author: kalakirya
For: writerjc as part of thewhitecollarswap whitecollarswap
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Peter/El(/Neal)
Warnings/Triggers: None
Spoilers: None
Summary: Neal's gone in after Peter, and she's stuck out here.
It's one in the morning when Elizabeth gets the call. She almost doesn't take it, rolls over, three-quarters asleep and muzzily sure that Peter's just caught a break, that he'll be dressed by the time she's woken up enough to say goodbye. But the phone keeps ringing, and there's no shift in the mattress, no covers thrown back, no light kiss and quiet murmur to allow her to sink back into sleep.
It takes several seconds for the thought to trickle down, but he never came home last night, then the adrenaline kicks in, and she's lunging for the phone, swearing as it falls off the nightstand, reeling it back in by its power cord.
“Mrs. Burke?”
“Yes, this is she.”
“Ma'am, we have a situation.”
She doesn't so much fall as crumple. Her legs stop supporting her and she falls back onto the bed, on Peter's side, where Peter should be sleeping, but he's being held hostage in a warehouse somewhere in New Jersey, and she needs to be ready in ten minutes, because the FBI is sending someone over to pick her up.
She spends those ten minutes in a flurry of activity, afraid to stop because being afraid to stop is better than being afraid for Peter. Five minutes later she's dressed and standing at the door, and it's a measure of her worry that it's only then that she thinks of Satchmo. She takes him out, then brings him back in, because that means she's got to be back in time to take him back out later. She does lock him in the linoleum-tiled kitchen, though.
All the way there she's trying not to think about what could have gone wrong, what could be happening, what will happen before she can get there. They weren't going to tell her anything, but they've sent Lauren in the van to pick her up. She doesn't know Lauren well, the new member of the team, replacing Diana, whom El had always liked, and she can't decide if she's furious that they sent a woman, thinking that that would help somehow, that sharing estrogen with someone she hardly knows would make this more bearable, or if she's relieved, knowing that someone calculated the trade-off between sending someone El at least recognizes versus and keeping the training in position, rescuing Peter.
Once Lauren realizes that El isn't going to have hysterics, she's back in the loop, checking progress and options, keeping herself in the know. El finds this second-hand information infinitely more reassuring than any hand-holding, and discretely hangs on Lauren's every word.
They're about halfway there when she realizes that she hasn't heard Neal's name anywhere in the chatter. She wants to ask Lauren, but doesn't want to distract her, doesn't want to miss a shred of news. The worry beats at her, though, a sharp ache in the mass of terror and anger. No one else seems to be thinking of her husband's pet convict, though. Maybe Neal's escaped his keepers. Maybe Neal ran away in the confusion, using the hostage-taking as a cover, knowing that no one would look for him, no one would care when the Marshals called with the news that he's cut his anklet. Maybe Neal engineered the whole thing, to get away from Peter. As soon as the thought appears, she squashes it. Unfair to Neal, to attribute such faithless tactics to him. Maybe Neal was taken hostage too. Maybe Neal's dead.
She's terrified for Peter, she really is, sick to death that the love of her life might be taken away from her, but at least she has an inkling of where he is, what he's doing. She can delude herself that because she knows, she would also know if anything changed, if he... if anything changed.
But it's almost harder, not knowing about Neal. He's not her husband, not her heart, but he is a part of her life, and important part. A part she would grieve for, if anything went wrong. Even if Neal himself was what went wrong, she would grieve for the man she knew he could have been, the man she and Peter could have grown to love, as a wayward child, a steadfast friend, a dear lover.
She sees her reflection in the dark window, and realizes that she's crying.
“And circle around back-... what? Why was no one watching him?”
Lauren isn't shouting at her radio, though she is gripping it rather tightly. It was the change in her voice jolted El out of her fugue; she'd been half-listening, staring at the street lights that made everything look oddly orange. But there's something new happening now, and she makes an enquiring noise, throat too dry to get actual words out.
Lauren glances over to her, frustration writ large on her face.
“Caffrey's gone.”
It's a measure of how frazzled El is that that takes a moment to penetrate. It's been many years since Neal stopped being 'Caffrey', between her and Peter at least. He's 'Neal' to Peter, or sometimes nothing, a wry grin both furious and admiring. He's 'Neal' to El too, but lately also 'sweetie', and 'honey', hundreds of little endearments she showers on those she knows and loves.
Lauren's back to the phone, and El watches her, desperate for some news. Any news. The orange street lights play over Lauren's face, and details come pouring in. No one knew where Neal was. Who'd seen him last? No one knew. No one had seen him. Clinton had been watching him, but in the chaos, had lost track. Lauren swears, pulls out another cellphone, punches in a speed-dial.
“Hey, where- son of a bitch.” It's Clinton again. El feels her heart seize, but sense overtakes panic: he's not worried, but admiring. Pleased. “Son of a bitch took my walkie-talkie.” Jingling. “And my handcuffs.” El can hear him smiling now, and she smiles in unconscious response. “Son of a bitch.”
Another guy is missing handcuffs. And another. Another. Another. El is vaguely amused that they didn't hear him clink as he snuck off, but then, he's Neal Caffrey.
A tiny voice on the second cellphone, and Lauren switches, rattles off Neal's tracker number. She listens for a moment, then snaps the phone shut. El doesn't ask, but it's an effort of almost inhuman will. But then, maybe she was grinding her teeth, because Lauren looks over at her.
“He's still in there.”
Lauren seems half surprised, half exasperated. Later El will remember that Lauren wrote her thesis on Neal, and was probably reflecting how much rewriting she would be doing to account for this - to Lauren - unexpected turn of events. El isn't so much surprised as relieved, information superseding supposition: Neal's not gone, not dead, not running. Not in the wind. Whatever else might happen, whoever else she might grieve for, it wouldn't be the might-have-beens, and she's unexpectedly thankful for that scrap of comfort.
Ten minutes later the van pulls up to a parking lot on the outskirts of a small town. They're around back of a series of abandoned warehouses, just as advertised. Lauren jumps out almost before the van is stopped, El just a heartbeat behind her. She follows Lauren to the huddle of agents spilling out of one of the surveillance trucks, incongruously emblazoned with the cheery logo of one of the city's larger shipping companies. Clinton notices them first, gets Reese's attention, nods in their direction. The Senior Agent nods at Special Agent Cruz, then grasps El's hand. His handshake is strong, professional, and reassuring. She remembers that she'd always liked Peter's boss, even if he was indirectly responsible for Peter's somewhat obsessive work ethic. He's about to say something calm and comforting, but the walkie-talkie beside Clinton squawks and they both spin towards the sound. Clinton scoops it up, then frowns at it and turns the volume knob as far as it will go. It's only barely loud enough to reach El, but she catches Neal's whisper, oddly hoarse when so amplified.
“Jones, Lauren, anyone there?”
El has to physically hold herself back from diving at the walkie-talkie. She's not too sure what she would have done with it: asked if Peter was alright, if Neal was alright, what the hell he thought he was doing, was he getting Peter out. Reese, beside her, has the same instinct, but doesn't curb it, striding over to his vacated chair in the midst of the electronic chaos. El follows, and inveigles herself between Reese and the van, resting one hip on the van floor. Clinton looks as if he's about to give her his seat, so she waves him away - she's closer to the walkie-talkie here, her only link to Peter.
“Caffrey?”
El tries not to shout that of course it's Neal, didn't they hear him? But she knows her job, and also knows that this isn't it, and stays out of the action.
“Yeah, me. Listen, there're two guys at the front door, two at the back, and three guys doing walk-arounds. I think Peter's on the third floor, northwest corner.”
El can hear scribbling, probably someone taking notes, but her world has narrowed down to this tiny speaker that tells her Peter's still alive.
“Right. Just stay there Caffrey. Don't move, we're coming in.”
El is pretty sure that Neal's not listening anymore, now that he's relayed his information. Reese apparently concurs, because he nods to Clinton. The younger man - and when had he put on that flak jacket? - nods in confirmation, then turns to the ten jacketed agents behind him.
“Alright, you know the layout. Caffrey says Burke's on the third floor, northwest corner. Three hostiles in front, two in back, three moving. Hix,” Jones catches the eye of a older man standing near the front of the group, “You take Peters, Franklin and Aimeson to the front. Lloyd,” he nods to a red-haired agent who stands head and shoulders above his peers, “Morgan, Niels and Brant, go around back. I'll take Bates and James to the side entrance.”
She'd been glad when Peter took this job, because it meant she was less likely to be in a violent situation. She was glad when he turned down the post in Organized Crime, because it meant he was less likely to be in the line of fire. But now her husband is in that warehouse, tied up or or God only knew what, and she's out here, and...
No, goddamnit, she's not going to fall apart. She's a strong, confidant woman who's good at getting what she wants, especially when what she wants is the love of her life back, safe and sound. She pulls away from the van and locates Lauren, listening avidly from the other side of the van. El taps her on the shoulder, and when Lauren turns around, El asks, low and quiet, “what happened?”
The other woman purses her lips in disappoval, but right now, El couldn't care less. “It was a routine follow-up, just to check in on a lead in a laundering scam.” Lauren huffs a pained laugh. “Turns out he was financing a group of right-wing crazies who were stocking up on ammo before Armageddon. Peter and Caffrey walked right into the exchange. We think they grabbed Peter first, but underestimated Caffrey's... escape potential. He slipped out, called in the cavalry on a public phone, then,” she sighs, “slipped back in, apparently. With no backup, no plan, and no weapon.”
But he does have handcuffs, El thinks, and bites back a pained giggle.
Lauren doesn't seem to understand why Neal would go back in; she thinks that Neal is still looking for a way out, a chance to slip back into the game. El is sure that's not the case, though she's not sure she could say why, except she's learned to trust her instincts.
Not that those are much of a help, right now.
There's a tiny voice thinking it would have been better if they hadn't called her, better for her to not be here. Because she's not any use here, and if they hadn't called her, she wouldn't now know how much trouble her husband is in.
No, it's better to know.
Because however painful it is (and it's very, very painful), it would be intolerable to know, later, that she had been sleeping while her husband died.
Except that he won't. He can't.
And he's got Neal with him, right?
And somehow, she trusts Neal.
Well, no, she doesn't really trust Neal: not to tell her the honest truth about her new dress, and not to tease Peter about the extra ten pounds he's carrying. She wouldn't trust him to not fuss in her kitchen, or not paint the walls of her spare bedroom given half a chance.
But she does trust him to do his level best to keep Peter alive.
“Mrs. Burke?”
She jerks out of her reverie to find a tech in front of her. His name tag says 'Lombard', and she thinks she recognizes him from somewhere, maybe an office party of Peter's, but she's too distracted to pinpoint it and too agonized to care.
“Mrs. Burke, if you could come this way, please.”
He puts a hand on her arm and she wants to shake him off, but he's only trying to be comforting, and if she snaps at him, loses her equanimity, it might be hard to find it again. So she turns with him, starts to walk away.
She freezes, spins at the sound of gunfire from the building. A split second later the same shots burst through the speakers of the walkie-talkies, still amped up as far as they'll go, and she's running to the van before she realizes she's moved.
“Jones! What's happening in there!?” Reece is shouting into the walkie-talkie while organized chaos reigns around him. More men are shoving into bullet-proof vests while techs check their gear and weapons: are they sending in a second team?
Elizabeth realizes she's not sure if Jones' team had vests, and then wishes she hadn't though that. It's as if she only has enough prayers for one, though if angelic protection could be spread, she thinks she'd probably still concentrate it all on Peter. Let their families pray for them, because she is all the family Peter has in the world, and she cannot spare a thought for aught but him.
“Hughes?” It's Neal's voice again, but he's given up all pretense of silence, and is shouting into the walkie-talkie. “Guys? We could really use some back-up here!”
She wants to dive for the speaker, wrestle it away from Reece and demand to know how her husband is doing. The tech who was escorting her seems to notice her predicament, but appears to have given up on escorting her out. It's probably just as well: if he'd tried to remove her, she'd have broken his nose.
“Caffrey? Caffrey, what the hell is going on in there?
More shots ring through the grimy windows, echo in the walkie-talkies.
“Marco found us! I -”
“Neal, have you got Peter?”
El has a disconcerting moment when she can't spot Clinton, then realizes his voice is coming through the speakers.
“Yes, but he's- shit!”
“Caffrey! Caffrey!”
Reece is yelling into the speaker again, and El is beside him without really knowing how she got there.
“Have I mentioned how much I really, really hate guns?”
“Neal, if we get out of here, I don't care if I have to drag you, you're learning how to handle one. ”
That's Peter's voice. Faint, but there. Peter's alive. Peter's ok. Peter's alive.
She carefully lowers herself back to the edge of the van, because relief is flooding her system and in another three seconds she would have begun to cry but it's alright now. It's ok.
“Caffrey, what the hell is happening up there?”
“They've got us holed up on the third floor, northeast corner. I've got Peter, and he's a bit scraped up, but-”
“I'm fine damn it, give me the gun!”
“- but we could really use some help right about now!”
Neal's voice rises two octaves on the last word, and Elizabeth bites her lip in renewed worry. Maybe it would have been better to be at home, in bed, oblivious to the world.
“Jones, get your ass up there!”
More shots, redoubled in the speakers so that she can't count them.
“FBI! Put your weapons down! I said put your weapons down!”
She's so surprised she rocks on the ledge, almost losing her seating. She can't believe it, somehow. Had been hoping so hard that she's lost how to move beyond hope.
“Now put your hands in the air! In the air damn it!”
But she can't begin to lose her hope yet, can't begin to believe, because it would be cruelest to lose everything now, so close to the end.
There's silence on the walkie-talkie, but everyone's straining so hard to hear it she thinks the van might collapse beneath their concentrated attention.
“Neal, are you alright?”
A shaky groan from the walkie-talkie, and some scraping, as if someone is leveraging themselves up using that hand.
“Come on, up you get.”
Another groan, from a voice she knows as well as her own, and she's already crying when whoops erupt from the speaker. They almost drown out Peter's voice, but she's attuned to it, and could pick it out over a roaring stadium.
“Hey Jones, took you long enough.”
The next few hours are a blur. Clinton and his team come out first, guns trained on a bunch of rough-looking men Elizabeth does her best not to register; her nightmares have enough fodder as it is, and more details will not help matters. Some of them wear handcuffs, and she wonders how many of them Neal had cuffed before the fire fight.
Then Neal comes out, Peter's arm slung over his shoulder, and he's roughed-up and a little bloody and she's never been so thankful to see him in her life.
The ambulance staff are faster than she, having stationed themselves near the door, but she finds her husband's hand, and he smiles at her, and no one argues when she follows the stretcher into the ambulance.
At the hospital they determine that Peter has two broken ribs, a broken nose, a lot of bruising and some strained muscles, but she knows enough to know that it could have been far, far worse. The nurses bring her some tissues, and ask her to fill out some forms, and assure her that her husband will be fine.
She does as she's told, and downs gallon after gallon of coffee-like sludge until, three hours later, she's escorted to Peter's bedside. He looks white and wan and in need of painkillers, but his smile when he sees her is wonderful, and as she drags a chair over, she reflects that while there are many, many locations in which she'd rather be, there is nowhere else she would give her heart for, than to be at this man's side.
Author: kalakirya
For: writerjc as part of thewhitecollarswap whitecollarswap
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Peter/El(/Neal)
Warnings/Triggers: None
Spoilers: None
Summary: Neal's gone in after Peter, and she's stuck out here.
It's one in the morning when Elizabeth gets the call. She almost doesn't take it, rolls over, three-quarters asleep and muzzily sure that Peter's just caught a break, that he'll be dressed by the time she's woken up enough to say goodbye. But the phone keeps ringing, and there's no shift in the mattress, no covers thrown back, no light kiss and quiet murmur to allow her to sink back into sleep.
It takes several seconds for the thought to trickle down, but he never came home last night, then the adrenaline kicks in, and she's lunging for the phone, swearing as it falls off the nightstand, reeling it back in by its power cord.
“Mrs. Burke?”
“Yes, this is she.”
“Ma'am, we have a situation.”
She doesn't so much fall as crumple. Her legs stop supporting her and she falls back onto the bed, on Peter's side, where Peter should be sleeping, but he's being held hostage in a warehouse somewhere in New Jersey, and she needs to be ready in ten minutes, because the FBI is sending someone over to pick her up.
She spends those ten minutes in a flurry of activity, afraid to stop because being afraid to stop is better than being afraid for Peter. Five minutes later she's dressed and standing at the door, and it's a measure of her worry that it's only then that she thinks of Satchmo. She takes him out, then brings him back in, because that means she's got to be back in time to take him back out later. She does lock him in the linoleum-tiled kitchen, though.
All the way there she's trying not to think about what could have gone wrong, what could be happening, what will happen before she can get there. They weren't going to tell her anything, but they've sent Lauren in the van to pick her up. She doesn't know Lauren well, the new member of the team, replacing Diana, whom El had always liked, and she can't decide if she's furious that they sent a woman, thinking that that would help somehow, that sharing estrogen with someone she hardly knows would make this more bearable, or if she's relieved, knowing that someone calculated the trade-off between sending someone El at least recognizes versus and keeping the training in position, rescuing Peter.
Once Lauren realizes that El isn't going to have hysterics, she's back in the loop, checking progress and options, keeping herself in the know. El finds this second-hand information infinitely more reassuring than any hand-holding, and discretely hangs on Lauren's every word.
They're about halfway there when she realizes that she hasn't heard Neal's name anywhere in the chatter. She wants to ask Lauren, but doesn't want to distract her, doesn't want to miss a shred of news. The worry beats at her, though, a sharp ache in the mass of terror and anger. No one else seems to be thinking of her husband's pet convict, though. Maybe Neal's escaped his keepers. Maybe Neal ran away in the confusion, using the hostage-taking as a cover, knowing that no one would look for him, no one would care when the Marshals called with the news that he's cut his anklet. Maybe Neal engineered the whole thing, to get away from Peter. As soon as the thought appears, she squashes it. Unfair to Neal, to attribute such faithless tactics to him. Maybe Neal was taken hostage too. Maybe Neal's dead.
She's terrified for Peter, she really is, sick to death that the love of her life might be taken away from her, but at least she has an inkling of where he is, what he's doing. She can delude herself that because she knows, she would also know if anything changed, if he... if anything changed.
But it's almost harder, not knowing about Neal. He's not her husband, not her heart, but he is a part of her life, and important part. A part she would grieve for, if anything went wrong. Even if Neal himself was what went wrong, she would grieve for the man she knew he could have been, the man she and Peter could have grown to love, as a wayward child, a steadfast friend, a dear lover.
She sees her reflection in the dark window, and realizes that she's crying.
“And circle around back-... what? Why was no one watching him?”
Lauren isn't shouting at her radio, though she is gripping it rather tightly. It was the change in her voice jolted El out of her fugue; she'd been half-listening, staring at the street lights that made everything look oddly orange. But there's something new happening now, and she makes an enquiring noise, throat too dry to get actual words out.
Lauren glances over to her, frustration writ large on her face.
“Caffrey's gone.”
It's a measure of how frazzled El is that that takes a moment to penetrate. It's been many years since Neal stopped being 'Caffrey', between her and Peter at least. He's 'Neal' to Peter, or sometimes nothing, a wry grin both furious and admiring. He's 'Neal' to El too, but lately also 'sweetie', and 'honey', hundreds of little endearments she showers on those she knows and loves.
Lauren's back to the phone, and El watches her, desperate for some news. Any news. The orange street lights play over Lauren's face, and details come pouring in. No one knew where Neal was. Who'd seen him last? No one knew. No one had seen him. Clinton had been watching him, but in the chaos, had lost track. Lauren swears, pulls out another cellphone, punches in a speed-dial.
“Hey, where- son of a bitch.” It's Clinton again. El feels her heart seize, but sense overtakes panic: he's not worried, but admiring. Pleased. “Son of a bitch took my walkie-talkie.” Jingling. “And my handcuffs.” El can hear him smiling now, and she smiles in unconscious response. “Son of a bitch.”
Another guy is missing handcuffs. And another. Another. Another. El is vaguely amused that they didn't hear him clink as he snuck off, but then, he's Neal Caffrey.
A tiny voice on the second cellphone, and Lauren switches, rattles off Neal's tracker number. She listens for a moment, then snaps the phone shut. El doesn't ask, but it's an effort of almost inhuman will. But then, maybe she was grinding her teeth, because Lauren looks over at her.
“He's still in there.”
Lauren seems half surprised, half exasperated. Later El will remember that Lauren wrote her thesis on Neal, and was probably reflecting how much rewriting she would be doing to account for this - to Lauren - unexpected turn of events. El isn't so much surprised as relieved, information superseding supposition: Neal's not gone, not dead, not running. Not in the wind. Whatever else might happen, whoever else she might grieve for, it wouldn't be the might-have-beens, and she's unexpectedly thankful for that scrap of comfort.
Ten minutes later the van pulls up to a parking lot on the outskirts of a small town. They're around back of a series of abandoned warehouses, just as advertised. Lauren jumps out almost before the van is stopped, El just a heartbeat behind her. She follows Lauren to the huddle of agents spilling out of one of the surveillance trucks, incongruously emblazoned with the cheery logo of one of the city's larger shipping companies. Clinton notices them first, gets Reese's attention, nods in their direction. The Senior Agent nods at Special Agent Cruz, then grasps El's hand. His handshake is strong, professional, and reassuring. She remembers that she'd always liked Peter's boss, even if he was indirectly responsible for Peter's somewhat obsessive work ethic. He's about to say something calm and comforting, but the walkie-talkie beside Clinton squawks and they both spin towards the sound. Clinton scoops it up, then frowns at it and turns the volume knob as far as it will go. It's only barely loud enough to reach El, but she catches Neal's whisper, oddly hoarse when so amplified.
“Jones, Lauren, anyone there?”
El has to physically hold herself back from diving at the walkie-talkie. She's not too sure what she would have done with it: asked if Peter was alright, if Neal was alright, what the hell he thought he was doing, was he getting Peter out. Reese, beside her, has the same instinct, but doesn't curb it, striding over to his vacated chair in the midst of the electronic chaos. El follows, and inveigles herself between Reese and the van, resting one hip on the van floor. Clinton looks as if he's about to give her his seat, so she waves him away - she's closer to the walkie-talkie here, her only link to Peter.
“Caffrey?”
El tries not to shout that of course it's Neal, didn't they hear him? But she knows her job, and also knows that this isn't it, and stays out of the action.
“Yeah, me. Listen, there're two guys at the front door, two at the back, and three guys doing walk-arounds. I think Peter's on the third floor, northwest corner.”
El can hear scribbling, probably someone taking notes, but her world has narrowed down to this tiny speaker that tells her Peter's still alive.
“Right. Just stay there Caffrey. Don't move, we're coming in.”
El is pretty sure that Neal's not listening anymore, now that he's relayed his information. Reese apparently concurs, because he nods to Clinton. The younger man - and when had he put on that flak jacket? - nods in confirmation, then turns to the ten jacketed agents behind him.
“Alright, you know the layout. Caffrey says Burke's on the third floor, northwest corner. Three hostiles in front, two in back, three moving. Hix,” Jones catches the eye of a older man standing near the front of the group, “You take Peters, Franklin and Aimeson to the front. Lloyd,” he nods to a red-haired agent who stands head and shoulders above his peers, “Morgan, Niels and Brant, go around back. I'll take Bates and James to the side entrance.”
She'd been glad when Peter took this job, because it meant she was less likely to be in a violent situation. She was glad when he turned down the post in Organized Crime, because it meant he was less likely to be in the line of fire. But now her husband is in that warehouse, tied up or or God only knew what, and she's out here, and...
No, goddamnit, she's not going to fall apart. She's a strong, confidant woman who's good at getting what she wants, especially when what she wants is the love of her life back, safe and sound. She pulls away from the van and locates Lauren, listening avidly from the other side of the van. El taps her on the shoulder, and when Lauren turns around, El asks, low and quiet, “what happened?”
The other woman purses her lips in disappoval, but right now, El couldn't care less. “It was a routine follow-up, just to check in on a lead in a laundering scam.” Lauren huffs a pained laugh. “Turns out he was financing a group of right-wing crazies who were stocking up on ammo before Armageddon. Peter and Caffrey walked right into the exchange. We think they grabbed Peter first, but underestimated Caffrey's... escape potential. He slipped out, called in the cavalry on a public phone, then,” she sighs, “slipped back in, apparently. With no backup, no plan, and no weapon.”
But he does have handcuffs, El thinks, and bites back a pained giggle.
Lauren doesn't seem to understand why Neal would go back in; she thinks that Neal is still looking for a way out, a chance to slip back into the game. El is sure that's not the case, though she's not sure she could say why, except she's learned to trust her instincts.
Not that those are much of a help, right now.
There's a tiny voice thinking it would have been better if they hadn't called her, better for her to not be here. Because she's not any use here, and if they hadn't called her, she wouldn't now know how much trouble her husband is in.
No, it's better to know.
Because however painful it is (and it's very, very painful), it would be intolerable to know, later, that she had been sleeping while her husband died.
Except that he won't. He can't.
And he's got Neal with him, right?
And somehow, she trusts Neal.
Well, no, she doesn't really trust Neal: not to tell her the honest truth about her new dress, and not to tease Peter about the extra ten pounds he's carrying. She wouldn't trust him to not fuss in her kitchen, or not paint the walls of her spare bedroom given half a chance.
But she does trust him to do his level best to keep Peter alive.
“Mrs. Burke?”
She jerks out of her reverie to find a tech in front of her. His name tag says 'Lombard', and she thinks she recognizes him from somewhere, maybe an office party of Peter's, but she's too distracted to pinpoint it and too agonized to care.
“Mrs. Burke, if you could come this way, please.”
He puts a hand on her arm and she wants to shake him off, but he's only trying to be comforting, and if she snaps at him, loses her equanimity, it might be hard to find it again. So she turns with him, starts to walk away.
She freezes, spins at the sound of gunfire from the building. A split second later the same shots burst through the speakers of the walkie-talkies, still amped up as far as they'll go, and she's running to the van before she realizes she's moved.
“Jones! What's happening in there!?” Reece is shouting into the walkie-talkie while organized chaos reigns around him. More men are shoving into bullet-proof vests while techs check their gear and weapons: are they sending in a second team?
Elizabeth realizes she's not sure if Jones' team had vests, and then wishes she hadn't though that. It's as if she only has enough prayers for one, though if angelic protection could be spread, she thinks she'd probably still concentrate it all on Peter. Let their families pray for them, because she is all the family Peter has in the world, and she cannot spare a thought for aught but him.
“Hughes?” It's Neal's voice again, but he's given up all pretense of silence, and is shouting into the walkie-talkie. “Guys? We could really use some back-up here!”
She wants to dive for the speaker, wrestle it away from Reece and demand to know how her husband is doing. The tech who was escorting her seems to notice her predicament, but appears to have given up on escorting her out. It's probably just as well: if he'd tried to remove her, she'd have broken his nose.
“Caffrey? Caffrey, what the hell is going on in there?
More shots ring through the grimy windows, echo in the walkie-talkies.
“Marco found us! I -”
“Neal, have you got Peter?”
El has a disconcerting moment when she can't spot Clinton, then realizes his voice is coming through the speakers.
“Yes, but he's- shit!”
“Caffrey! Caffrey!”
Reece is yelling into the speaker again, and El is beside him without really knowing how she got there.
“Have I mentioned how much I really, really hate guns?”
“Neal, if we get out of here, I don't care if I have to drag you, you're learning how to handle one. ”
That's Peter's voice. Faint, but there. Peter's alive. Peter's ok. Peter's alive.
She carefully lowers herself back to the edge of the van, because relief is flooding her system and in another three seconds she would have begun to cry but it's alright now. It's ok.
“Caffrey, what the hell is happening up there?”
“They've got us holed up on the third floor, northeast corner. I've got Peter, and he's a bit scraped up, but-”
“I'm fine damn it, give me the gun!”
“- but we could really use some help right about now!”
Neal's voice rises two octaves on the last word, and Elizabeth bites her lip in renewed worry. Maybe it would have been better to be at home, in bed, oblivious to the world.
“Jones, get your ass up there!”
More shots, redoubled in the speakers so that she can't count them.
“FBI! Put your weapons down! I said put your weapons down!”
She's so surprised she rocks on the ledge, almost losing her seating. She can't believe it, somehow. Had been hoping so hard that she's lost how to move beyond hope.
“Now put your hands in the air! In the air damn it!”
But she can't begin to lose her hope yet, can't begin to believe, because it would be cruelest to lose everything now, so close to the end.
There's silence on the walkie-talkie, but everyone's straining so hard to hear it she thinks the van might collapse beneath their concentrated attention.
“Neal, are you alright?”
A shaky groan from the walkie-talkie, and some scraping, as if someone is leveraging themselves up using that hand.
“Come on, up you get.”
Another groan, from a voice she knows as well as her own, and she's already crying when whoops erupt from the speaker. They almost drown out Peter's voice, but she's attuned to it, and could pick it out over a roaring stadium.
“Hey Jones, took you long enough.”
The next few hours are a blur. Clinton and his team come out first, guns trained on a bunch of rough-looking men Elizabeth does her best not to register; her nightmares have enough fodder as it is, and more details will not help matters. Some of them wear handcuffs, and she wonders how many of them Neal had cuffed before the fire fight.
Then Neal comes out, Peter's arm slung over his shoulder, and he's roughed-up and a little bloody and she's never been so thankful to see him in her life.
The ambulance staff are faster than she, having stationed themselves near the door, but she finds her husband's hand, and he smiles at her, and no one argues when she follows the stretcher into the ambulance.
At the hospital they determine that Peter has two broken ribs, a broken nose, a lot of bruising and some strained muscles, but she knows enough to know that it could have been far, far worse. The nurses bring her some tissues, and ask her to fill out some forms, and assure her that her husband will be fine.
She does as she's told, and downs gallon after gallon of coffee-like sludge until, three hours later, she's escorted to Peter's bedside. He looks white and wan and in need of painkillers, but his smile when he sees her is wonderful, and as she drags a chair over, she reflects that while there are many, many locations in which she'd rather be, there is nowhere else she would give her heart for, than to be at this man's side.