White Collar - "Saving Grace In The Eye Of The Storm" (1/2)
Title: Saving Grace In The Eye Of The Storm (1/2)
Author: TeeJay
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Peter, Elizabeth
Written for: anonymous for collarcorner Prompt Fest Round 9
Prompt/Request: Hurricane Irene
Would like: Hurricane Irene hits NYC and Neal is caught up in the carnage. Hurt and alone, will Peter find him in time? Will Peter risk going against orders by entering the mandatory evacuation zone to find Neal? Would like both the rescue and recovery to be included (parental Peter and Elizabeth looking after their surrogate son especially appreciated!). H/C all the way!
Don't Want: anything overly romantic
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Neal!Whump (because I'm sadly addicted) and more or less vague-ish spoilers to things happening in season 3
Summary: Hurricane Irene nears New York City, and Neal has to go out there and run an errand. In the wrong place at the wrong time, Neal is suddenly trapped in the middle of a raging storm.
Author's Note: This story is a collaboration between myself and the wonderful kanarek13. It was written mainly by myself, but kanarek13 provided many, many ideas and insights, worked out the timeline, did most of the research and went through drafts and rewrites with me, so that I see it as both our story rather than mine alone.
This is set somewhere in mid season 3, prior to 'Countdown'.
For the sake of sense-making, let's assume that June's house is initially in evacuation zone B for Irene, which is difficult to determine because while the exterior of the house they use for filming is known, the actual address of the fictional mansion is not. Yes, we see an address for Riverside Drive in the pilot, but later shots of maps showing Neal's tracking data (particularly in season 3) suggest that the house is in or near Tudor City, which is in line with the rooftop patio skyline we see on the show. Also, we took a little bit of creative license with regard to shifts in evacuation zones as the storm rolls in. Humor us, okay?
BS Alert: Since both kanarek13 and I live in Europe and have (thankfully) never been in a hurricane, this might be more or less removed from reality. Please don't throw things, because we did try to do our research. If something's totally out of whack, please let us know so that we can fix it.
Thanks & Credits: Thank yous go out to rabidchild67 for the beta and kanarek13 for the many hours of keeping me company on LiveMessenger to make this into the coherent whumpy h/c fest it became.
Cover image background photo © Josh Bateman 2011 (used with permission). And if you wanna catch a glimpse of what exactly Irene was capable of, this might give you an idea, even though the video was not shot in New York.
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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Neal knew this had been a bad idea by the time he got to the Manhattan docks. When he'd left his loft earlier, the wind had just started to kick up, whipping his hair into his eyes in strong gusts. He figured he probably should have taken a rain jacket, but as it was, he wrapped his arms around his torso and braved the weather.
Public transport had been shut down for hours now, and waiting for one of the taxis that was still operating had taken a while.
He knew he was cutting it awfully close with the evacuation deadline looming over Manhattan. He'd agreed to stay at June's mansion, keep an eye on things while she was away. The house was in zone B, so evacuation wasn't mandatory. That had been yesterday. Neal had stayed, watched the clouds get darker, more dense, more menacing, had watched the wind increase in ferocity.
He'd kept watching the news, and then today they'd shifted the evac zones as the storm drew closer. June's mansion was now in evacuation zone A, meaning he had to leave after all. He was supposed to get out of Manhattan by 5 PM.
Neal had looked into options. The nearest emergency shelter was out of his radius, so he'd called Peter to make sure he was cleared to go there. Surprisingly, seeing how things were a little rocky between them right now, Peter had asked him to come to their place and stay with them rather than at the evac center. Neal had reluctantly agreed, even though he had the notion that the invite was less because of personal concern and more because Peter wanted him close by, keep an eye on him. Maybe there was lingering suspicion that Neal would use the melee of the storm to cut and run.
And Neal would have already been out there in Brooklyn an hour ago if it hadn't been for the phone call between him and Moz. Neal had naïvely (perhaps stupidly) assumed that Mozzie had taken care of the treasure, made sure it was safe when the first hurricane warnings had come in. Because, geez, Moz had set up the Treasure Cam, he'd been out there more often, probably, than he wanted Neal to know about, meticulously cataloguing the artwork, studying the Rembrandt, the Manet, the Max Ernst for hours at a time.
Neal had answered the call from a slightly panicked Moz, who was talking a mile a minute. "Neal, you need to go out to the warehouse, make sure the treasure is secured. I'm stuck in Detroit, and now flights are cancelled and I have no way of getting back to New York in time."
"Detroit? What the hell are you doing in Detroit?"
"Important business," Mozzie said off-handedly, hurriedly.
"And you couldn't have told me this earlier? I need to be out of here in an hour. They started canceling flights days ago, Moz!"
"Yeah, see, I was going to hitch a ride in a friend's Cessna. But that plan just went to hell."
"Great," Neal said sarcastically.
"Can you go?" Mozzie asked, hopeful, still panicked.
"What if Peter looks at my tracking data?"
"Neal," Mozzie declared in a no-nonsense tone. "We're talking about some of the finest, most valuable art in history. Do you think I care if the Suit can see where you're going? Fabricate a story, pull a con. You excel at that."
Neal got slightly annoyed, but could see Mozzie's point. "All right. I'll try."
The taxi driver gave Neal a disbelieving look when Neal told him his destination. In an accent that sounded vaguely eastern European, the guy asked him, "The docks? Are you crazy? You should be getting the hell out of here."
Neal had just given him a cold stare and asked, "Look, can you take me there or not?"
The driver had shut up and just dropped him off at the destination. Even though he'd been warned beforehand that the fare would be higher than normal in current conditions, Neal blanched at the price. It was unbelievable that some of the taxi drivers were milking this. As he exited the vehicle, the door of the cab almost blew out of Neal's hand.
He looked up at the sky, which was a menacing, dark gray wall. Thick droplets of rain were starting to pelt down, hitting him unpleasantly in the face. There were no trees here, but anything that wasn't fastened well enough was being blown through the alleys and streets. Neal could see a small piece of sheet metal traversing across his path, which was eventually stopped by the wall of the slightly derelict looking building he was passing. He hunched his shoulders and pressed on.
The brief walk to the warehouse already proved cumbersome. He had to stem his body weight against the wind, shielding his face from the stinging rain drops that increased in intensity. Finally inside, protected from the harsh weather, he allowed himself a short breath of relief.
He looked around, allowed a few seconds to marvel at the riches at his fingertips, but not much more than that. It took him longer than expected to set everything up so that he could be fairly sure it would be safe. Without shelves, it was impossible to secure everything to avoid water damage in case of flood, but with the help of the few pallets left in there, he had ensured that the most delicate, most valuable items were at least three feet above ground.
Of course if the warehouse collapsed, it'd be a whole other story, but there was nothing that Neal could do about it right now-not with the means he had at hand.
Even inside the building, with no windows to the outside world, he could tell the storm was only getting worse. Rain drummed on the metal walls and roof in a steady, heavy beat. Gusts of wind were making the construction creak in its hinges. Neal wasn't so sure the warehouse would be able to withstand the assault. The thought of all this treasure, having lain at the bottom of the ocean for more than 60 years, only to be buried and destroyed by a hurricane now, it would be tragically ironic.
When he was done, he briefly surveyed his handiwork before he left again. He had no idea how to get out of here. A look at his cell phone told him he'd missed the evacuation deadline now. It also told him he had no reception-the first signs of collateral damage from the storm. And even if he'd been able to call for a cab, there would hardly be any remaining in Manhattan that were still operating.
That left getting out of here on foot. He wasn't looking forward to it. When he exited the building, the wind slammed the door shut and out of his grasp. It attacked his back as he inserted the key in the lock and turned it with damp fingers.
His hair and clothes were soaking wet in under a minute as he made (more like fought) his way back towards the city. Plastic tarps flapped in the wind, barely audible over the howling of the gale. Loose pieces of trash bounced around between the buildings.
He briefly allowed himself to glance at the edge of the docks that jutted out into the river. Waves slapped against the concrete, sending frothy spray shooting upwards and over the edge.
Neal quickened his pace, turning left at the next corner. He knew he had to get away from the water.
Metal creaked and complained all around him. At one point, he even had to hold on to one of the walls of a building when a particularly strong gust of wind pressed him against it. The rain and the wind were so violent now that he had to duck his head, barely able to look at what was in front of him. This hurricane was effectively blinding and deafening him, and he knew he must be crazy to even be out here.
For a moment, he considered just seeking shelter somewhere, maybe go back to the warehouse, wait it out. Then again, there was a reason that the evacuation map had shown the territory nearest the water marked in bright red. Neal knew that when the water from the river came, it would only get worse. He needed to get away from the docks before he could think about looking for shelter.
By the time he became aware of the loud noise next to him, it was already too late. Screeching metal tilted dangerously in his direction as the dilapidated crane he was passing gave way to the gale-force winds whipping against it. There was no time to get out of the way, no chance of escape. The thing was massive, and its solid main beam crashed down on the asphalt a mere three feet from Neal. A split second later, something collapsed on top of him, pinning him to the ground. The force knocked the wind out of him and he could do nothing as the world around him faded to black.
He didn't know how long it took for him to come to. There was a whooshing in his ears, and he realized a few, disoriented seconds later that it wasn't only his own blood but the hurricane that was raging as violently as before-if not worse.
Something hurt. His ribs. His head. His leg. Dull at first, then more piercing, demanding more attention from his brain. He groaned, tried to move. The pain increased, and there was something... Something wasn't quite right.
His leg was pinned and there was also something covering his torso. His arms felt around helplessly, colliding with metal. Rain hit his skin, his face. Everything was wet and cold. Another moan, and he felt for what was lying on top of him. With a lot of effort, he managed to peel the rods of metal off his chest, but his movements were sluggish, slow.
His leg was more tricky. Propping himself up on his elbows, he could see the massive steel beam that was holding his right leg solidly to the ground above his knee. He tried to pull at it, but that only brought more pain and close to zero movement. His arms found the steel beam, but it weighed more than any healthy man could lift.
With a grunt of pain and exhaustion, he sank back against the wet concrete. It slowly sank in. He was trapped, out here at the Manhattan docks, in the eye of the storm without a soul in sight.
He tried to catch his breath, gathered some resolve. This was not acceptable. He needed to get out of here. With newfound strength, he tried to get his leg free once more. He tugged and pulled until he was out of breath, until he didn't know if his face was wet from the rain or tears of pain and desperation. He succumbed to a short, frustrated scream that dissolved and blended into the roar of the wind.
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Peter Burke looked at his watch for the umpteenth time in the last hour. He was starting to get more and more nervous by the minute.
"He should be here by now," he said to Elizabeth.
"Honey, maybe Neal got delayed somewhere. There's thousands of people trying to get out of Manhattan."
"The evacuation deadline was half an hour ago," Peter protested. "I told him to meet us here an hour ago."
He tried Neal's cell phone again, but only got the out of service message. "Damn," he hissed.
He fired up his laptop, brought up the software that let him check Neal's tracking data. He frowned at what he saw on the screen. Neal was still within his radius, but he was somewhere near the docks, the little red dot on the screen teasing him, not moving.
"And?" Elizabeth asked.
"This is weird. Says he's at the Manhattan docks."
She came around the table and looked at the screen with him. "The docks? Why would he be out there in this weather?"
Peter rubbed his chin. "Something's wrong."
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Neal was about to give up. He was cold and weak and exhausted. His head hurt, and his ribcage hurt, and his leg was giving him hell. This wasn't working, he needed another plan.
He lay back with his head on the ground, wondering whether anyone would be looking for him. He hoped, prayed that Peter had noticed something wasn't right. He should have realized by now Neal hadn't shown up at the agreed time.
Suddenly he realized that he might have a shot at getting attention, if that hadn't already happened. If he manipulated his tracker, cut it, could get it off somehow so that it would send a signal, then maybe someone would come.
He struggled to sit up as best as he could. His left leg was a far cry from being accessible, but he could move it. The tracker was hard to reach in this position, and he wondered how the hell he could get it to emit a signal. He looked around, and the only way he could see was to use brute force.
He fumbled around in the metallic rubble and finally came away with something akin to a metal rod. Reaching his leg with it was still difficult, and it was even more difficult to hit the right spot. At first he didn't have enough leverage, so his attempts fell flat on the hard plastic. The anklet was sturdy-it had to be. Which Neal now inwardly cursed.
A few times, he had to bite down on his lip and suppress a moan when the rod slipped and didn't quite hit its target. Neal's ankle would sport some impressive bruises the next day. He didn't know how often he had to try, but in the end, he hit the right spot with the right amount of force, and the plastic splintered. The green light went out, and Neal prayed that it would also alert the right people, would send someone springing into action.
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Peter still had Neal's tracking data up on the screen when his computer emitted an alarm. He rushed to the table, studied the read-out. Elizabeth was alarmed as well.
"What is it?"
"Neal's tracker just activated."
"Is he outside his radius?"
"No," he shook his head. "Still in the same spot."
"What do you think that means?" she asked.
"This isn't good. Something's definitely wrong. El, I need to go out there."
"Are you crazy? In the middle of a hurricane?"
He was already on the way upstairs to look for something more suitable to wear. "What if he's trapped out there? I don't know, locked in or something, unable to call for help."
"Peter, I think you're being a little paranoid."
"Am I?"
"Can't you call NYPD or the fire department to send someone?"
"I will. But they'll need my help to locate him. I gotta go."
Her gaze was skeptical, even a little afraid. "Peter, I hate to see you going out there."
"Honey, I wouldn't if this wasn't important. Do you want Neal to be out there on his own?"
She pondered this for a moment, then shook her head. "No. Go get him. And don't do anything stupid."
"I won't," he promised.
He gave her a soft kiss on the lips, then went upstairs to look for the most waterproof attire that he had.
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In the car, Peter called NYPD, but they were less than cooperative. In no uncertain terms, he was being told that they had their hands full and didn't have any personnel to spare to go out there on half a hunch. Peter tried to explain to them that it was more than a hunch, but he could certainly understand their rebuttal under these circumstances.
He didn't have any real proof that Neal was in danger. And NYPD was struggling as it was with the evac centers and sheer numbers of concerned calls coming in. He wished he could have an ambulance there, but he was told to radio it in if one was truly needed.
The drive was difficult. Gusts of wind kept shaking the car left and right, and the windshield wipers, even in fast mode, couldn't keep up with the mass of water that poured from the heavens. Thankfully, the streets in the direction of Manhattan were deserted. No one but he was crazy enough to drive right into the middle of the evacuation zone.
Slowly, painfully, he neared Neal's location. Twice he had to brake hard to avoid flying debris and tree branches. Finally, he got close to the docks. It took some navigating and it was hard to pinpoint where exactly Neal would be.
His car kept inching closer to the blinking red dot on the screen. When he seemed to be right on top of it, he stopped the car and got out. The hood of his rain jacket secured around his face, he looked around. He called out Neal's name a few times, but it was swept up by the wind and noise.
There was nothing there but buildings, and if Neal was inside one of them, it would be hard to find him. It would also be getting dark soon, and Peter realized it would be so much harder to find Neal if daylight was fading.
"Neal!" he hollered again, with no effect.
He briskly walked in one direction, rounded a corner, and that's when he saw it. Something had collapsed into the street that looked a lot like an old crane. Peter jogged closer, calling out Neal's name.
He thought he could see something-someone-lying amongst the metal. He quickened his pace, running as much as the weather would allow him. "Neal!" he yelled again, now seeing a figure amidst the debris. A figure that wasn't moving. Peter's stomach plummeted.
"Neal! No!" Peter yelled again, kneeling down next to Neal's unmoving body. "Please, God, don't let him be dead!" he prayed. His wet fingers fumbled for a pulse at Neal's neck, which was there, strong and steady. He was breathing too. That was good.
Peter tried to assess the scene, realized what was going on. Neal's leg was pinned underneath the metal structure. He tried to grab Neal under the shoulders, pull at him, but Neal's leg wasn't budging.
A moan escaped Neal's lips. Obviously, all the prodding and pulling was causing him pain. Peter stopped what he was doing, cupped Neal's face with his hands. "Neal. Neal, can you hear me?"
His eyes fluttered open, comprehension only slowly dawning. "Peter," Neal rasped. "You're here."
"Yeah, I'm here," he said. "Jesus, what-"
"Peter," Neal mumbled, his voice small, relieved, exhausted. "It hurts."
"I know, buddy. Don't worry. I'm gonna get you out of here, okay? Where does it hurt? Your leg?"
"Leg. Ribs. Head," came Neal's reply.
"Okay," Peter quickly assessed. Head. That wasn't good. Hopefully nothing serious, but the loss of consciousness earlier could be a bad sign. "Can you feel your toes, wiggle them?"
Neal's face scrunched up in pain, but he nodded yes.
He checked Neal's leg again a little more closely. It seemed to be pinned, but it didn't look like anything had pierced it. Lifting up the pant leg at the bottom, the skin looked darker than normal, but not dangerously purple. Circulation didn't seem to have been compromised too badly. If he could just move the metal beam a few inches, he might get Neal free.
Another gust of wind howled and pressed against his back so strongly that he almost stumbled as he straightened up. The rain had let up a little bit, but came back now full force.
Peter pushed the hood of his jacket up; it had slid down his forehead and was now blocking some of his visual field. He stood over the beam, his legs astride it, and gripped the metal edge. He tried to lift it with all his strength, but it was too heavy. He grunted and tried again, but to no avail. He stopped, looked at Neal.
"You still with me, buddy?"
"Yeah," came the weak reply.
"Good. Keep it that way."
Peter's eyes searched among the rubble for something he could use for extra leverage, something that could act as a lever. Nothing he found looked like it might be sturdy enough. Then it hit him. The jack he had in the car. That would work.
He crouched down next to Neal's head, raising his voice above the uproar. "Neal, listen to me. I can't lift this thing off. I need to get the jack from the car. I'll be back in a few minutes, okay? Can you stay awake for me? Can you do that?"
Neal blinked, then nodded slowly. Peter patted his shoulder. "Good."
He fought his way back to the car, rummaged around in the trunk until he found what he was looking for. The menacing rain clouds shrouded the world in a darkened haze, and he could feel the first inklings of dusk tugging at them. He decided to also dig out the flashlight from the glove compartment, but he hoped he could beat the fading daylight and get them both out of there by the time darkness descended.
He got in the car, throwing the jack and the flashlight onto the passenger seat. Now that he knew where Neal was, he wanted to get the Taurus as close as possible.
Stopping the vehicle right next to the scene, he braved the weather once more. Back outside, his first concern was for his partner. "Neal, you still with me?"
Neal had his eyes closed and didn't respond. Peter's heart skipped a beat. "Neal, come on. Wake up," he urged, touching his shoulder.
"I'm right here," Neal finally responded, voice thready.
"Yeah, you need to stay awake for me."
"I'm really cold."
"I know," Peter said, hoping it sounded reassuring. "I'll have you out of here soon. I have the jack." He showed it to Neal, then wedged it underneath the steel beam. He turned to Neal when it was secured in place.
"Okay, I'm gonna start lifting this thing. You need to help me get your leg out, okay? Can you start pulling, once the beam comes off?"
"I'll try," Neal replied.
"Okay. Ready?"
"Yeah."
Peter turned his attention back to the jack and started turning the lever. It wasn't easy to do this with the little space he had in among the debris with an injured Neal lying right next to him. He started panting, started sweating underneath his jacket.
The beam moved upward by fractions of an inch. Peter put more force into it, cranked harder. It seemed to take forever until he could feel Neal moving next to him.
Peter stopped and turned to Neal, who had propped himself up. A grimace of pain marred his features as he seemed to be moving his body backward. Peter stepped behind him and looped his arms through Neal's armpits, pulling him out.
Neal cried out in pain, and Peter didn't know if it was the ribs or the leg that caused it, but he could feel Neal coming free of the metal trap and pulled harder, ignoring the outcry.
He only let go of Neal once his legs had cleared the structure. Neal slumped back against the asphalt, his lips pressed together in a moan. Peter went to examine Neal's right thigh. There was a tear in the fabric of his khaki slacks, some blood. Trying to assess the extent of the damage proved difficult without getting the pants off, though it didn't seem like there was anything he could do about the injury other than getting Neal to a hospital.
"Can you walk?" he asked Neal.
"I don't know."
Yeah, probably not, Peter thought. He quickly slid over to the car and opened the back door, then crouched down next to Neal and lifted Neal's body into his arms to carry him to the Taurus.
Peter almost buckled under the weight, because, damn, Neal was heavy and his clothes rain-soaked, but he gripped on tightly. He could feel Neal shivering in his arms. It was only a few steps to the car, and he tried to place Neal on the back seat as gingerly as possible.
Neal had his eyes closed with pained lines on his forehead, his chest rising and falling in panting breaths. He could see he was shaking, and he didn't know if it was from shock or cold, or both. Peter quickly went back to the trunk, got out the blanket that he kept there for emergencies.
Back with Neal, he carefully draped the blanket over his trembling, soaking wet body, quickly squeezing Neal's upper arm for some comfort.
"You okay?" Peter asked.
"I'll live," Neal pressed out through clenched teeth. The activity and the pain must have made the adrenaline kick back in. He sounded a lot more alert when he said, "Just get us the hell out of here."
Peter was more than happy to oblige. He tried calling for an ambulance, but there was still no cell phone reception and his car didn't have a radio. He tried to think. What was the closest hospital? Lennox Hill? Mount Sinai? Metropolitan? Peter tried to remember if any of them had been evacuated, but he didn't think so.
The drive to Lennox Hill was as treacherous as the drive to the docks. Neal moaned a few times when Peter had to swerve or break to avoid obstacles on the road. Peter's main concern was to get to the emergency room as quickly as possible, but the drive still seemed to be taking forever.
Finally there, hospital staff helped get Neal onto a gurney, wheeled him inside. In the harsh fluorescent light, Peter realized for the first time all the scrapes and bruises, the exhaustion on his face, how ashen Neal's face looked. The kid was seriously shaken up, and something clamped around Peter's heart.
Neal was wheeled into a vacant exam room and Peter was stopped at the door. A doctor briefly quizzed him on what happened, on Neal's symptoms. Peter explained what he knew.
The doctor vanished inside, and the nurse that was with him asked, "Sir, are you injured as well?"
He shook his head. "No. No, I'm okay."
It was then that he realized there was blood on his hands. When he looked down, he noticed the ugly, crimson stains on his thighs for the first time. They seemed rather big and- Shit. He'd looked at Neal's leg wound, but it hadn't seemed all that serious. Had Neal lost more blood that he'd realized? Had he been injured somewhere other than his leg and Peter hadn't noticed? Or was it just the rain that had enlarged the stains?
The nurse pulled Peter from his reverie. He was urged to wait in the waiting area, then she told him where the restroom was so he could get cleaned up.
In the waiting room, he was happy to find that his cell phone seemed to be working. He called Elizabeth, explained to her that he was okay, and that Neal would hopefully be too. He didn't want to voice his concern about the extent of Neal's injuries until it was substantiated. El sounded relieved that Peter was fine, but he could also hear that she was worried for Neal.
He sat in the waiting room for a while, watching other storm victims and patients come in through the doors, frowning at crying children being comforted by their mothers in the waiting room with limited success, averting his eyes from the old man who was giving him distasteful looks for some reason he couldn't discern.
The nurse that came and asked for him was wearing light peach colored scrubs. She had questions about Neal's tracker and stated they were taking him to get a head CT and needed to remove it.
Peter's sense of foreboding immediately kicked in. A head CT. Did Neal have a serious head injury? This was disconcerting. When he asked, the nurse explained she couldn't tell Peter any medical information since he wasn't family, but she reassured him that Neal was well taken care of and that the CT was just a precaution. However, she needed to know about the tracking anklet.
Peter had somehow totally forgotten about the tracker, but he had a fleeting suspicion Neal had tried to break it, which might have been what triggered the signal it had sent. Peter quickly explained to the nurse what the device was and that it was okay to remove it. He also made sure to mention Neal was not dangerous or a flight risk. That seemed to reassure the nurse enough to walk away again, talk to the staff that was treating Neal.
It was more waiting after that. Daylight had all but faded in the meantime, and the storm was still waging its war. He could hear the rain whipping against the windows, could hear the wind sweeping through the streets with a ferociousness that was intimidating to even the bravest man. One of the fluorescent lights above him flickered at an unnerving frequency and the humming that accompanied it was starting to drive him crazy.
When his name was finally called again, he was all too happy to get out of there. Apparently Neal had asked for him by name. He was being sent to the exam room where Neal had first been taken. The upper part of the half gurney, half bed Neal was lying on was propped up at an angle. The blanket that covered his lower body stopped at the hip, revealing the hospital gown they had put him in. An IV was dripping clear fluid into his vein through a cannula in his arm.
Neal greeted Peter with a weak smile that fell short in its persuasiveness. He looked small, fragile and utterly exhausted.
"Hey buddy," Peter said.
"Hey," Neal said.
"How are you feeling?"
"Like someone tried to saw my leg off?" he said hesitantly, trying to sound upbeat but failed somewhere along the way.
Peter's mouth curved into a small smile at the quip. "So what's the verdict? Are they admitting you?"
At that moment, the doctor Peter had already spoken to earlier came into the room with a large, beige envelope and a patient chart in his hand. He looked at Peter, then addressed Neal. "Your x-rays came back, and we've also got the CT results."
The doctor looked at Peter. "And for privacy reasons, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
"I'd like him to stay," Neal said.
The doctor nodded. "Yes, of course." He then turned back to Neal. "Mr. Caffrey, I think you've been very lucky. You have a severe contusion of your thigh muscle, and there was a gash that required stitches. We found some bruising on your ribcage, but it appears to be minor and nothing's broken, though it's probably going to be painful for a while. There's no abnormalities on the CT. Still, the loss of consciousness is a concern and we've diagnosed a concussion. Your neurological exam was normal, but we'd like to keep you overnight for observation."
Neal groaned at the news, but Peter gave him a no-nonsense look. "Do I have to stay?" Neal asked.
"It is very much recommended," the doctor told him. "Head injuries can be tricky."
Neal gave Peter a pleading look, but Peter lifted his arms in defense. "I'm not signing you out AMA."
The doctor scribbled something on the chart, then looked back at Neal. "We're admitting you to the Internal Medicine ward for now. Someone should come and take you up there shortly."
"Okay, thank you," Neal said, and the doctor left.
Peter looked around, found a stool on wheels that he pulled closer to Neal's bed.
"Do you know where my clothes are? Can you make sure to collect them?"
Peter frowned. Why would Neal be concerned about his clothes right now? Maybe this was just the way your brain was wired when you were on painkillers after you'd just been through an ordeal like that, your mind holding on to things that were tangible, anchored in reality, felt normal.
"I'll take care of all of that, don't worry," Peter reassured him. He didn't have the heart to tell Neal they were probably ruined anyway.
Neal allowed himself to close his eyes, let the exhaustion wash over him, drawing in a breath. When he opened them again, he took in Peter's worried gaze.
"Neal, what were you doing out there?" Peter asked, his voice not accusing but gently curious.
Neal closed his eyes again, and Peter almost regretted asking the question. He did answer, however weary it came out. "It was for Mozzie."
"Mozzie? Was he out there?"
"No," Neal mumbled.
"Then what? Is he all right?"
"Yeah, he's fine. Can we not talk about that right now?"
"Okay," Peter acquiesced.
"How did you find me?" Neal asked tiredly after a short pause.
"I got worried when you didn't show up at our house. Checked your tracking data. Then your tracker activated, and I knew something was wrong."
"Yeah, thank God for that thing, huh?" A weak grin crept onto his face, but then he seemed to remember something. A brief flicker of something akin to panic upset the balance. "They cut it off when they put me in the scanner."
"I know. I cleared it. It's okay."
"So now what? You gonna handcuff me to the bed?"
"No, Neal," Peter said, "I'm gonna trust that you won't run. Where would you go in this weather anyway?"
"Is the storm still raging?"
Peter allowed himself a quick look out the window, but there was nothing there but darkness and droplets of rain clinging to the window pane, sliding down in a net of rivulets. "Like a son of a bitch," he told Neal.
Silence fell, and for a moment Peter thought that Neal might have dozed off, but Neal then said just short of a whisper, "I got buried under a crane today." It sounded almost like a revelation, definitely a realization.
"You did," Peter softly confirmed.
"And you saved me."
"Yeah."
It was barely audible, but Peter could still hear it. "Thank you."
Peter swiveled the chair in Neal's direction. He was close enough to touch him, and for a moment his hand hovered over Neal's arm. He didn't give in to the impulse and let his hand sink onto his own thighs, placing them palm-down on his jeans that were still damp from the rain, surprised at how warm the fabric felt underneath his hands.
"Any time, Neal," Peter said. And he meant it.
Peter thought Neal had dozed off after that. His breathing evened out, his eyes were closed, and he looked strangely, peacefully innocent. Peter hoped he could get some rest. It took maybe half an hour until a nurse came into the room to move Neal up to the Internal Medicine ward.
The commotion awoke Neal, but he seemed a little dazed. Peter suspected it was the pain meds, the aftershock finally setting in.
The nurse prepared Neal's bed for the transfer, eyeing Peter rather suspiciously, even though he'd tried not to get in the way. "Sir, we're moving Mr. Caffrey now. It'll take a while until he's settled in. I'm afraid you're going to have to come back later. Someone up in Internal Medicine can tell you the room number."
Peter wasn't about to leave Neal's side. At the very least he needed to make sure he was put in a decent room, that everything he needed was taken care of. He went with the friendly approach first and asked nicely, but the nurse remained steadfast. That was when he pulled the FBI agent card.
He got his badge from his pocket, held it up for her to see. "I'm afraid that Mr. Caffrey is a criminal consultant, out on a work release with the FBI. His tracking anklet was damaged in the accident, which is why I need to stay with him."
That made the nurse stop dead in her tracks. "He's a criminal? Why is he not handcuffed?"
"He's not dangerous."
"He is right here," Neal said, his voice slightly irritated, which Peter chose to ignore.
"Fine," the nurse just said to Peter. "Just stay out of the way."
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Up in Internal Medicine, Peter chose to let Neal have some dignity and waited in the hallway while they got him settled in the new room. A no-nonsense looking nurse gave Peter a forced smile as she exited the room and nodded to indicate he could go back in. No doubt the ER nurse had briefed her on Neal's CI status.
When Peter knocked and went inside, Neal gave him a weak smile that he knew was meant to be encouraging but only got halfway there. "Making sure I didn't run?" Neal asked.
"Something like that."
"Seriously, why are you still here? And don't give me the 'convicted criminal' explanation, because I'm not buying that."
"Neal, I'm just..." Peter didn't know how to say it, so he trailed off.
"What? Worried? Peter, that's sweet and all, but I'm all right. I can stay a night in the hospital by myself. Go home to your wife."
Peter regarded him for a long moment. "Are you sure?"
Neal actually emitted a short, honest laugh at that. "Yes, I'm sure. Go home. Be with El. Please."
Peter still looked hesitant, but there was a defiance in Neal's expression that finally made him concede. He met Neal's gaze, held eye contact. "Neal, can I count on you not running? Because without your tracker, and no way to get a new one before tomorrow, I should be asking the hospital to restrain you to the bed."
"You said it yourself. Where would I go in this weather? And quite honestly? This," he gestured at his thigh, "hurts like hell. Putting weight on it isn't very high on my to-do list right now."
Something in Neal's expression struck a chord with Peter as Neal said, "But if it'll make you feel better, you can have them restrain me. I mean, sleeping will be a pain that way, but..."
"No," Peter interrupted. "It's all right. But, Neal, if I come back here tomorrow morning and you're gone, you know that-"
Neal interrupted him. "I know. You'll chase me, you'll catch me. I go back to prison. Peter, I promise I won't run."
Peter's gaze lingered on Neal for a long moment. "All right," he finally said. Looking around the room, he asked, "Do you have everything you need?"
"Yeah. Hospital gown. Toothbrush, towels, it's all there."
"I'll be back tomorrow morning," Peter promised.
"Tell Elizabeth I'm sorry," Neal said as Peter was about to leave the room.
"For what?"
"For dragging you away from her during one of the scariest nights the city has seen in a while."
Peter smiled a small smile at that. "I'll tell her, but I'm sure her mothering instincts will erase any grudge she might have ever held when she sees you like this."
Neal groaned a little, and Peter's smile widened. "Come on, don't pretend you're not going to enjoy it."
Neal replied with a faint smirk. "Maybe I will. Just a little."
"You better. Hang in there, okay?"
"I will," Neal acknowledged.
As he left the hospital, Peter still had a tiny, nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach to make himself vulnerable like this. If Neal ran, he'd be in a world of trouble as well, and he was all too aware of it. To trust Neal completely was not something that was written down in Peter's rulebook just yet. But here, tonight, under these circumstances, it had seemed like the right thing. He just hoped he wouldn't regret it the next morning.
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The night was fitful for Peter. He wasn't sure if it was the wind pressing in gusts against the window panes, or the uncertainty of having left Neal trackerless in a Manhattan hospital, or possibly a combination of both.
He got up before six, his wife still breathing evenly next to him under a mound of sheets. In the living room he was greeted by a tail-wagging Satchmo. Outside, the sky was still gray, the leaves of the trees still bent and rustled in the wind, and raindrops pit-patted into the puddles in the street at a steady frequency. Peter decided to inspect the yard for storm damage.
Soft footsteps on the stairs announced Elizabeth's presence fifteen minutes later, her body wrapped tightly in a terry-cloth robe. "Good morning," she said, looking sleepy and sounding it too.
"What, no coffee?" she grouched.
"Sorry," he apologized. "I was checking the yard."
"Any damage?"
"No, just a few tree branches and a lot of stray leaves. Looks like everything held up."
She came over, softly kissed his lips. "I'll make coffee."
Peter went upstairs to get dressed for work and came back downstairs a little later. The steaming mug of coffee that Elizabeth handed him was accepted gladly. He proceeded into the living room where he switched on the TV to tune it to a news station. On the screen, a newscaster was standing by the waterside, reporting that Irene had caused less damage than expected. This was encouraging.
"Looks like the worst is over," he said to Elizabeth.
"Yeah." She stood next to him, watched the newscaster recite her story for a moment. "You going to see Neal?"
"I hope they'll release him today. I was going to go there before work."
"I'd like to come with you. We should drop by his place first, get him some clothes."
He draped an arm around her shoulders, kissed her softly on the head. "Yeah."
She looked up at him, a question forming in her eyes. "You said his thigh was pretty bad. He's not gonna be able to navigate all those stairs at June's house, is he?"
Peter shrugged. "I don't know. I suppose they'll give him crutches."
"Honey, shouldn't we bring him here? At least until he's halfway mobile again."
It came as no surprise to Peter for her to suggest it. And he wasn't opposed to the idea either. "You sure you want a dependent, grouching, whining Neal Caffrey in our house?"
She laughed. "Now, when you phrase it that way..."
Peter sobered. "I think it'll be good for him."
"All right, then let's go get him."
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It felt weird for Peter to enter June's mansion with no one present. As per Neal's request he'd collected Neal's personal items at the hospital the night before, and extracted the keys to the house from them. He'd suspected that June had sent all the housekeeping personnel home, so it was no surprise when he rang the doorbell and no one answered. He used Neal's keys to gain entry, feeling strangely out of place and very much like an intruder.
The mansion felt like a haunted house, some of the wooden steps creaking ever so slightly under his weight. He and El made their way upstairs to Neal's loft.
El immediately started packing some of Neal's clothes into a small duffel bag. Peter opened the door to the patio, looking around. Someone had done a pretty thorough job of securing what was possible. The boxwoods had been moved next to the walls and tied in place with some kind of light rope. The table and chairs had been moved aside as well. Two of the chairs had toppled over and Peter bent down to put them back in place. He also moved a few twigs and branches out of the way that the wind had carried up here.
Back inside, El just came back out of the hallway that led to the bathroom. "Okay, I think I've got everything he might need. You ready to go?"
"Yep," he confirmed.
A call back from Hughes came in as Peter had just pulled off the curb, answering the message that Peter had left on his voicemail earlier that morning. As expected, Hughes had no problem with Peter coming in late under the circumstances. Peter thought he could even detect concern in Hughes' voice when he asked if Caffrey was okay. Neal had made many friends and only a few enemies in the time he'd worked with the FBI, and Peter couldn't deny a certain hint of pride welling up inside him.
At the hospital, Peter found the smell of disinfectant and the bland, gray interior mildly intimidating. They found Neal's room effortlessly with Peter leading the way. Entering the room, they were welcomed by a much more alert looking Neal than he remembered from the night before.
The first thing that struck Peter was an angry bruise that covered Neal's cheek and a number of scratches on his forehead. Somehow he hadn't noticed them being so prominent the night before.
Peter tried to sound cheerful as he greeted Neal with a, "Hey."
Neal said a, "Hey," back. When he saw Elizabeth, his expression brightened visibly. "Elizabeth," he smiled at her.
"Neal," she smiled at him, stepping closer to his bed, squeezing his hand encouragingly. "You had a quite a night last night, huh?"
"Yeah, I guess you could say that."
"So, are they releasing you?" Peter probed.
"One can only hope. But I think they might."
"How's your leg?" Peter asked.
"You know, sore... I'll live."
Elizabeth held up the bag, placed it on a chair in the corner. "We brought you some clothes."
"Raided Peter's wardrobe?" Neal said with a smirk.
"No, actually, this is from your own collection," Elizabeth explained.
"You went by my place?"
Peter nodded. "We did."
Neal looked genuinely touched. "Really, you didn't have to."
"Yeah," Peter said, "you can thank us later by not being a pain in the neck when you're staying with us."
"I'm... what? I'm staying with you?"
Elizabeth stepped closer to the bed again. "We just thought it'd be a lot more convenient. There's not as many stairs, and you'll need all the help you can get to move around for the next few days."
"No, seriously, I'll be fine at June's house," Neal protested.
"Yeah, sure you will," Peter countered. "Just like you were fine extracting yourself from under a pile of debris in the middle of a hurricane."
Elizabeth put on her best puppy dog eyes. "Please, Neal, we'd love to have you."
He considered this for a moment, unable to resist her large, blue eyes. "I really don't want to impose..."
She smiled a winning smile at him. "Please. You're not imposing. We're glad to help."
He averted his eyes, looked at the fingers in his lap. "Thank you," he said in a low, honest voice.
Her hands found his arm, her warm fingers encircled it, squeezing a little. "Any time."
Peter was starting to get a little fidgety. "So, what do we need to do to get you out of here?"
Neal's grin was slightly sheepish. "I don't know, maybe you could flash your badge again. That always seems to work wonders."
"Don't push it," Peter warned, but left the room anyway to find someone who could move the process along.
It took almost an hour to get all the paperwork ready and fix Neal up to leave the hospital. El gracefully excused herself when it was time for Neal to get dressed. Peter stayed to help, which Neal grudgingly (but still gratefully) allowed. Getting Neal into a pair of rather fancy looking track pants took time and a lot of grimaces and hisses. Peter caught a brief glimpse at the angry purple bruise on Neal's ribcage as he changed into a t-shirt, and inwardly winced. That had to hurt.
Finally dressed in a black zip-sweater, Peter helped him put on the loafers El had chosen for their convenient absence of shoe laces. They'd advised Neal earlier to walk on crutches for at least the next three days. Miraculously, El appeared with a pair in Neal's room just when the nurse entered with a wheelchair.
Neal looked at her questioningly, but there was no time for questions when Peter's strong hands helped him gingerly into the wheelchair.
Neal awkwardly hobbled on crutches to Peter's car in front of the hospital and El helped him into the passenger seat. By the time they had driven to Brooklyn and maneuvered Neal inside the Burkes' living room, he was utterly exhausted.
Peter kept a watchful eye on him as Elizabeth went upstairs and prepared the guestroom. "You all right?" Peter inquired.
"Yeah, peachy. As long as I don't have to move again."
Peter smiled at that. "No, you don't have to move again, at least not for a while. Though unfortunately the bathroom is upstairs."
Neal groaned at that. "Yeah, thanks. There's one thing that's more convenient at June's place."
Peter rubbed his chin. Darn, he hadn't thought of that. "We can still take you there if you want."
"No," Neal said tiredly. "I'll manage. And, you know, maybe I just won't drink anything."
"Yeah, not a great plan. Especially since I recall the doctor saying-"
"Yeah, yeah," Neal waved dismissively, "Kidney output and all that. Geez, you don't need to go all Nurse Ratched on me."
Peter lifted his hands apologetically. "Okay, okay. Sorry."
Neal just sighed and Peter went to the kitchen, pouring two glasses of orange juice. He went back to the living room with them, placing one in front of Neal, sipping from the other. He sat down in the armchair nearby, a worried eye trained on his CI.
Neal had stretched out his injured leg on the couch and was reclined there with his head against the headrest, his eyes closed. He opened them just a little when silence ensued.
"Hover much?" Neal asked, a slightly annoyed edge to his voice.
"What, this is my house!"
"Yeah, and that's why I didn't want to stay here in the first place."
It was then that Elizabeth came downstairs again. "Now, now, boys, play nice."
"Please tell your husband not to hover," Neal grumbled.
El gave Peter a chiding look. "What did you do?"
Peter's expression spelled pure innocence. "Nothing! I swear. I'm just sitting here."
She went over to Peter, placed a hand on his shoulder. "Honey, weren't you planning to go to the office?"
Peter got up with a grunt. "Okay, I can see when I'm not wanted."
She gave him a commiserative look, accompanying him to the door. "Honey," she whispered, "I'm sure he didn't mean it. He's in pain and-"
"Yeah, yeah, I know," he interrupted. Stealing a quick glance at Neal's unmoving form on their couch, he added in a more conciliatory tone, "Just... take care of him. Make sure he takes the painkillers."
She gave him a winning smile. "I will. Will you be home for dinner?"
"I'll try."
She gave him a quick peck on the lips before he left.
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Part 2
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Author: TeeJay
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Peter, Elizabeth
Written for: anonymous for collarcorner Prompt Fest Round 9
Prompt/Request: Hurricane Irene
Would like: Hurricane Irene hits NYC and Neal is caught up in the carnage. Hurt and alone, will Peter find him in time? Will Peter risk going against orders by entering the mandatory evacuation zone to find Neal? Would like both the rescue and recovery to be included (parental Peter and Elizabeth looking after their surrogate son especially appreciated!). H/C all the way!
Don't Want: anything overly romantic
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Neal!Whump (because I'm sadly addicted) and more or less vague-ish spoilers to things happening in season 3
Summary: Hurricane Irene nears New York City, and Neal has to go out there and run an errand. In the wrong place at the wrong time, Neal is suddenly trapped in the middle of a raging storm.
Author's Note: This story is a collaboration between myself and the wonderful kanarek13. It was written mainly by myself, but kanarek13 provided many, many ideas and insights, worked out the timeline, did most of the research and went through drafts and rewrites with me, so that I see it as both our story rather than mine alone.
This is set somewhere in mid season 3, prior to 'Countdown'.
For the sake of sense-making, let's assume that June's house is initially in evacuation zone B for Irene, which is difficult to determine because while the exterior of the house they use for filming is known, the actual address of the fictional mansion is not. Yes, we see an address for Riverside Drive in the pilot, but later shots of maps showing Neal's tracking data (particularly in season 3) suggest that the house is in or near Tudor City, which is in line with the rooftop patio skyline we see on the show. Also, we took a little bit of creative license with regard to shifts in evacuation zones as the storm rolls in. Humor us, okay?
BS Alert: Since both kanarek13 and I live in Europe and have (thankfully) never been in a hurricane, this might be more or less removed from reality. Please don't throw things, because we did try to do our research. If something's totally out of whack, please let us know so that we can fix it.
Thanks & Credits: Thank yous go out to rabidchild67 for the beta and kanarek13 for the many hours of keeping me company on LiveMessenger to make this into the coherent whumpy h/c fest it became.
Cover image background photo © Josh Bateman 2011 (used with permission). And if you wanna catch a glimpse of what exactly Irene was capable of, this might give you an idea, even though the video was not shot in New York.
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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Neal knew this had been a bad idea by the time he got to the Manhattan docks. When he'd left his loft earlier, the wind had just started to kick up, whipping his hair into his eyes in strong gusts. He figured he probably should have taken a rain jacket, but as it was, he wrapped his arms around his torso and braved the weather.
Public transport had been shut down for hours now, and waiting for one of the taxis that was still operating had taken a while.
He knew he was cutting it awfully close with the evacuation deadline looming over Manhattan. He'd agreed to stay at June's mansion, keep an eye on things while she was away. The house was in zone B, so evacuation wasn't mandatory. That had been yesterday. Neal had stayed, watched the clouds get darker, more dense, more menacing, had watched the wind increase in ferocity.
He'd kept watching the news, and then today they'd shifted the evac zones as the storm drew closer. June's mansion was now in evacuation zone A, meaning he had to leave after all. He was supposed to get out of Manhattan by 5 PM.
Neal had looked into options. The nearest emergency shelter was out of his radius, so he'd called Peter to make sure he was cleared to go there. Surprisingly, seeing how things were a little rocky between them right now, Peter had asked him to come to their place and stay with them rather than at the evac center. Neal had reluctantly agreed, even though he had the notion that the invite was less because of personal concern and more because Peter wanted him close by, keep an eye on him. Maybe there was lingering suspicion that Neal would use the melee of the storm to cut and run.
And Neal would have already been out there in Brooklyn an hour ago if it hadn't been for the phone call between him and Moz. Neal had naïvely (perhaps stupidly) assumed that Mozzie had taken care of the treasure, made sure it was safe when the first hurricane warnings had come in. Because, geez, Moz had set up the Treasure Cam, he'd been out there more often, probably, than he wanted Neal to know about, meticulously cataloguing the artwork, studying the Rembrandt, the Manet, the Max Ernst for hours at a time.
Neal had answered the call from a slightly panicked Moz, who was talking a mile a minute. "Neal, you need to go out to the warehouse, make sure the treasure is secured. I'm stuck in Detroit, and now flights are cancelled and I have no way of getting back to New York in time."
"Detroit? What the hell are you doing in Detroit?"
"Important business," Mozzie said off-handedly, hurriedly.
"And you couldn't have told me this earlier? I need to be out of here in an hour. They started canceling flights days ago, Moz!"
"Yeah, see, I was going to hitch a ride in a friend's Cessna. But that plan just went to hell."
"Great," Neal said sarcastically.
"Can you go?" Mozzie asked, hopeful, still panicked.
"What if Peter looks at my tracking data?"
"Neal," Mozzie declared in a no-nonsense tone. "We're talking about some of the finest, most valuable art in history. Do you think I care if the Suit can see where you're going? Fabricate a story, pull a con. You excel at that."
Neal got slightly annoyed, but could see Mozzie's point. "All right. I'll try."
The taxi driver gave Neal a disbelieving look when Neal told him his destination. In an accent that sounded vaguely eastern European, the guy asked him, "The docks? Are you crazy? You should be getting the hell out of here."
Neal had just given him a cold stare and asked, "Look, can you take me there or not?"
The driver had shut up and just dropped him off at the destination. Even though he'd been warned beforehand that the fare would be higher than normal in current conditions, Neal blanched at the price. It was unbelievable that some of the taxi drivers were milking this. As he exited the vehicle, the door of the cab almost blew out of Neal's hand.
He looked up at the sky, which was a menacing, dark gray wall. Thick droplets of rain were starting to pelt down, hitting him unpleasantly in the face. There were no trees here, but anything that wasn't fastened well enough was being blown through the alleys and streets. Neal could see a small piece of sheet metal traversing across his path, which was eventually stopped by the wall of the slightly derelict looking building he was passing. He hunched his shoulders and pressed on.
The brief walk to the warehouse already proved cumbersome. He had to stem his body weight against the wind, shielding his face from the stinging rain drops that increased in intensity. Finally inside, protected from the harsh weather, he allowed himself a short breath of relief.
He looked around, allowed a few seconds to marvel at the riches at his fingertips, but not much more than that. It took him longer than expected to set everything up so that he could be fairly sure it would be safe. Without shelves, it was impossible to secure everything to avoid water damage in case of flood, but with the help of the few pallets left in there, he had ensured that the most delicate, most valuable items were at least three feet above ground.
Of course if the warehouse collapsed, it'd be a whole other story, but there was nothing that Neal could do about it right now-not with the means he had at hand.
Even inside the building, with no windows to the outside world, he could tell the storm was only getting worse. Rain drummed on the metal walls and roof in a steady, heavy beat. Gusts of wind were making the construction creak in its hinges. Neal wasn't so sure the warehouse would be able to withstand the assault. The thought of all this treasure, having lain at the bottom of the ocean for more than 60 years, only to be buried and destroyed by a hurricane now, it would be tragically ironic.
When he was done, he briefly surveyed his handiwork before he left again. He had no idea how to get out of here. A look at his cell phone told him he'd missed the evacuation deadline now. It also told him he had no reception-the first signs of collateral damage from the storm. And even if he'd been able to call for a cab, there would hardly be any remaining in Manhattan that were still operating.
That left getting out of here on foot. He wasn't looking forward to it. When he exited the building, the wind slammed the door shut and out of his grasp. It attacked his back as he inserted the key in the lock and turned it with damp fingers.
His hair and clothes were soaking wet in under a minute as he made (more like fought) his way back towards the city. Plastic tarps flapped in the wind, barely audible over the howling of the gale. Loose pieces of trash bounced around between the buildings.
He briefly allowed himself to glance at the edge of the docks that jutted out into the river. Waves slapped against the concrete, sending frothy spray shooting upwards and over the edge.
Neal quickened his pace, turning left at the next corner. He knew he had to get away from the water.
Metal creaked and complained all around him. At one point, he even had to hold on to one of the walls of a building when a particularly strong gust of wind pressed him against it. The rain and the wind were so violent now that he had to duck his head, barely able to look at what was in front of him. This hurricane was effectively blinding and deafening him, and he knew he must be crazy to even be out here.
For a moment, he considered just seeking shelter somewhere, maybe go back to the warehouse, wait it out. Then again, there was a reason that the evacuation map had shown the territory nearest the water marked in bright red. Neal knew that when the water from the river came, it would only get worse. He needed to get away from the docks before he could think about looking for shelter.
By the time he became aware of the loud noise next to him, it was already too late. Screeching metal tilted dangerously in his direction as the dilapidated crane he was passing gave way to the gale-force winds whipping against it. There was no time to get out of the way, no chance of escape. The thing was massive, and its solid main beam crashed down on the asphalt a mere three feet from Neal. A split second later, something collapsed on top of him, pinning him to the ground. The force knocked the wind out of him and he could do nothing as the world around him faded to black.
He didn't know how long it took for him to come to. There was a whooshing in his ears, and he realized a few, disoriented seconds later that it wasn't only his own blood but the hurricane that was raging as violently as before-if not worse.
Something hurt. His ribs. His head. His leg. Dull at first, then more piercing, demanding more attention from his brain. He groaned, tried to move. The pain increased, and there was something... Something wasn't quite right.
His leg was pinned and there was also something covering his torso. His arms felt around helplessly, colliding with metal. Rain hit his skin, his face. Everything was wet and cold. Another moan, and he felt for what was lying on top of him. With a lot of effort, he managed to peel the rods of metal off his chest, but his movements were sluggish, slow.
His leg was more tricky. Propping himself up on his elbows, he could see the massive steel beam that was holding his right leg solidly to the ground above his knee. He tried to pull at it, but that only brought more pain and close to zero movement. His arms found the steel beam, but it weighed more than any healthy man could lift.
With a grunt of pain and exhaustion, he sank back against the wet concrete. It slowly sank in. He was trapped, out here at the Manhattan docks, in the eye of the storm without a soul in sight.
He tried to catch his breath, gathered some resolve. This was not acceptable. He needed to get out of here. With newfound strength, he tried to get his leg free once more. He tugged and pulled until he was out of breath, until he didn't know if his face was wet from the rain or tears of pain and desperation. He succumbed to a short, frustrated scream that dissolved and blended into the roar of the wind.
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Peter Burke looked at his watch for the umpteenth time in the last hour. He was starting to get more and more nervous by the minute.
"He should be here by now," he said to Elizabeth.
"Honey, maybe Neal got delayed somewhere. There's thousands of people trying to get out of Manhattan."
"The evacuation deadline was half an hour ago," Peter protested. "I told him to meet us here an hour ago."
He tried Neal's cell phone again, but only got the out of service message. "Damn," he hissed.
He fired up his laptop, brought up the software that let him check Neal's tracking data. He frowned at what he saw on the screen. Neal was still within his radius, but he was somewhere near the docks, the little red dot on the screen teasing him, not moving.
"And?" Elizabeth asked.
"This is weird. Says he's at the Manhattan docks."
She came around the table and looked at the screen with him. "The docks? Why would he be out there in this weather?"
Peter rubbed his chin. "Something's wrong."
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Neal was about to give up. He was cold and weak and exhausted. His head hurt, and his ribcage hurt, and his leg was giving him hell. This wasn't working, he needed another plan.
He lay back with his head on the ground, wondering whether anyone would be looking for him. He hoped, prayed that Peter had noticed something wasn't right. He should have realized by now Neal hadn't shown up at the agreed time.
Suddenly he realized that he might have a shot at getting attention, if that hadn't already happened. If he manipulated his tracker, cut it, could get it off somehow so that it would send a signal, then maybe someone would come.
He struggled to sit up as best as he could. His left leg was a far cry from being accessible, but he could move it. The tracker was hard to reach in this position, and he wondered how the hell he could get it to emit a signal. He looked around, and the only way he could see was to use brute force.
He fumbled around in the metallic rubble and finally came away with something akin to a metal rod. Reaching his leg with it was still difficult, and it was even more difficult to hit the right spot. At first he didn't have enough leverage, so his attempts fell flat on the hard plastic. The anklet was sturdy-it had to be. Which Neal now inwardly cursed.
A few times, he had to bite down on his lip and suppress a moan when the rod slipped and didn't quite hit its target. Neal's ankle would sport some impressive bruises the next day. He didn't know how often he had to try, but in the end, he hit the right spot with the right amount of force, and the plastic splintered. The green light went out, and Neal prayed that it would also alert the right people, would send someone springing into action.
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Peter still had Neal's tracking data up on the screen when his computer emitted an alarm. He rushed to the table, studied the read-out. Elizabeth was alarmed as well.
"What is it?"
"Neal's tracker just activated."
"Is he outside his radius?"
"No," he shook his head. "Still in the same spot."
"What do you think that means?" she asked.
"This isn't good. Something's definitely wrong. El, I need to go out there."
"Are you crazy? In the middle of a hurricane?"
He was already on the way upstairs to look for something more suitable to wear. "What if he's trapped out there? I don't know, locked in or something, unable to call for help."
"Peter, I think you're being a little paranoid."
"Am I?"
"Can't you call NYPD or the fire department to send someone?"
"I will. But they'll need my help to locate him. I gotta go."
Her gaze was skeptical, even a little afraid. "Peter, I hate to see you going out there."
"Honey, I wouldn't if this wasn't important. Do you want Neal to be out there on his own?"
She pondered this for a moment, then shook her head. "No. Go get him. And don't do anything stupid."
"I won't," he promised.
He gave her a soft kiss on the lips, then went upstairs to look for the most waterproof attire that he had.
+-+-+-+-+
In the car, Peter called NYPD, but they were less than cooperative. In no uncertain terms, he was being told that they had their hands full and didn't have any personnel to spare to go out there on half a hunch. Peter tried to explain to them that it was more than a hunch, but he could certainly understand their rebuttal under these circumstances.
He didn't have any real proof that Neal was in danger. And NYPD was struggling as it was with the evac centers and sheer numbers of concerned calls coming in. He wished he could have an ambulance there, but he was told to radio it in if one was truly needed.
The drive was difficult. Gusts of wind kept shaking the car left and right, and the windshield wipers, even in fast mode, couldn't keep up with the mass of water that poured from the heavens. Thankfully, the streets in the direction of Manhattan were deserted. No one but he was crazy enough to drive right into the middle of the evacuation zone.
Slowly, painfully, he neared Neal's location. Twice he had to brake hard to avoid flying debris and tree branches. Finally, he got close to the docks. It took some navigating and it was hard to pinpoint where exactly Neal would be.
His car kept inching closer to the blinking red dot on the screen. When he seemed to be right on top of it, he stopped the car and got out. The hood of his rain jacket secured around his face, he looked around. He called out Neal's name a few times, but it was swept up by the wind and noise.
There was nothing there but buildings, and if Neal was inside one of them, it would be hard to find him. It would also be getting dark soon, and Peter realized it would be so much harder to find Neal if daylight was fading.
"Neal!" he hollered again, with no effect.
He briskly walked in one direction, rounded a corner, and that's when he saw it. Something had collapsed into the street that looked a lot like an old crane. Peter jogged closer, calling out Neal's name.
He thought he could see something-someone-lying amongst the metal. He quickened his pace, running as much as the weather would allow him. "Neal!" he yelled again, now seeing a figure amidst the debris. A figure that wasn't moving. Peter's stomach plummeted.
"Neal! No!" Peter yelled again, kneeling down next to Neal's unmoving body. "Please, God, don't let him be dead!" he prayed. His wet fingers fumbled for a pulse at Neal's neck, which was there, strong and steady. He was breathing too. That was good.
Peter tried to assess the scene, realized what was going on. Neal's leg was pinned underneath the metal structure. He tried to grab Neal under the shoulders, pull at him, but Neal's leg wasn't budging.
A moan escaped Neal's lips. Obviously, all the prodding and pulling was causing him pain. Peter stopped what he was doing, cupped Neal's face with his hands. "Neal. Neal, can you hear me?"
His eyes fluttered open, comprehension only slowly dawning. "Peter," Neal rasped. "You're here."
"Yeah, I'm here," he said. "Jesus, what-"
"Peter," Neal mumbled, his voice small, relieved, exhausted. "It hurts."
"I know, buddy. Don't worry. I'm gonna get you out of here, okay? Where does it hurt? Your leg?"
"Leg. Ribs. Head," came Neal's reply.
"Okay," Peter quickly assessed. Head. That wasn't good. Hopefully nothing serious, but the loss of consciousness earlier could be a bad sign. "Can you feel your toes, wiggle them?"
Neal's face scrunched up in pain, but he nodded yes.
He checked Neal's leg again a little more closely. It seemed to be pinned, but it didn't look like anything had pierced it. Lifting up the pant leg at the bottom, the skin looked darker than normal, but not dangerously purple. Circulation didn't seem to have been compromised too badly. If he could just move the metal beam a few inches, he might get Neal free.
Another gust of wind howled and pressed against his back so strongly that he almost stumbled as he straightened up. The rain had let up a little bit, but came back now full force.
Peter pushed the hood of his jacket up; it had slid down his forehead and was now blocking some of his visual field. He stood over the beam, his legs astride it, and gripped the metal edge. He tried to lift it with all his strength, but it was too heavy. He grunted and tried again, but to no avail. He stopped, looked at Neal.
"You still with me, buddy?"
"Yeah," came the weak reply.
"Good. Keep it that way."
Peter's eyes searched among the rubble for something he could use for extra leverage, something that could act as a lever. Nothing he found looked like it might be sturdy enough. Then it hit him. The jack he had in the car. That would work.
He crouched down next to Neal's head, raising his voice above the uproar. "Neal, listen to me. I can't lift this thing off. I need to get the jack from the car. I'll be back in a few minutes, okay? Can you stay awake for me? Can you do that?"
Neal blinked, then nodded slowly. Peter patted his shoulder. "Good."
He fought his way back to the car, rummaged around in the trunk until he found what he was looking for. The menacing rain clouds shrouded the world in a darkened haze, and he could feel the first inklings of dusk tugging at them. He decided to also dig out the flashlight from the glove compartment, but he hoped he could beat the fading daylight and get them both out of there by the time darkness descended.
He got in the car, throwing the jack and the flashlight onto the passenger seat. Now that he knew where Neal was, he wanted to get the Taurus as close as possible.
Stopping the vehicle right next to the scene, he braved the weather once more. Back outside, his first concern was for his partner. "Neal, you still with me?"
Neal had his eyes closed and didn't respond. Peter's heart skipped a beat. "Neal, come on. Wake up," he urged, touching his shoulder.
"I'm right here," Neal finally responded, voice thready.
"Yeah, you need to stay awake for me."
"I'm really cold."
"I know," Peter said, hoping it sounded reassuring. "I'll have you out of here soon. I have the jack." He showed it to Neal, then wedged it underneath the steel beam. He turned to Neal when it was secured in place.
"Okay, I'm gonna start lifting this thing. You need to help me get your leg out, okay? Can you start pulling, once the beam comes off?"
"I'll try," Neal replied.
"Okay. Ready?"
"Yeah."
Peter turned his attention back to the jack and started turning the lever. It wasn't easy to do this with the little space he had in among the debris with an injured Neal lying right next to him. He started panting, started sweating underneath his jacket.
The beam moved upward by fractions of an inch. Peter put more force into it, cranked harder. It seemed to take forever until he could feel Neal moving next to him.
Peter stopped and turned to Neal, who had propped himself up. A grimace of pain marred his features as he seemed to be moving his body backward. Peter stepped behind him and looped his arms through Neal's armpits, pulling him out.
Neal cried out in pain, and Peter didn't know if it was the ribs or the leg that caused it, but he could feel Neal coming free of the metal trap and pulled harder, ignoring the outcry.
He only let go of Neal once his legs had cleared the structure. Neal slumped back against the asphalt, his lips pressed together in a moan. Peter went to examine Neal's right thigh. There was a tear in the fabric of his khaki slacks, some blood. Trying to assess the extent of the damage proved difficult without getting the pants off, though it didn't seem like there was anything he could do about the injury other than getting Neal to a hospital.
"Can you walk?" he asked Neal.
"I don't know."
Yeah, probably not, Peter thought. He quickly slid over to the car and opened the back door, then crouched down next to Neal and lifted Neal's body into his arms to carry him to the Taurus.
Peter almost buckled under the weight, because, damn, Neal was heavy and his clothes rain-soaked, but he gripped on tightly. He could feel Neal shivering in his arms. It was only a few steps to the car, and he tried to place Neal on the back seat as gingerly as possible.
Neal had his eyes closed with pained lines on his forehead, his chest rising and falling in panting breaths. He could see he was shaking, and he didn't know if it was from shock or cold, or both. Peter quickly went back to the trunk, got out the blanket that he kept there for emergencies.
Back with Neal, he carefully draped the blanket over his trembling, soaking wet body, quickly squeezing Neal's upper arm for some comfort.
"You okay?" Peter asked.
"I'll live," Neal pressed out through clenched teeth. The activity and the pain must have made the adrenaline kick back in. He sounded a lot more alert when he said, "Just get us the hell out of here."
Peter was more than happy to oblige. He tried calling for an ambulance, but there was still no cell phone reception and his car didn't have a radio. He tried to think. What was the closest hospital? Lennox Hill? Mount Sinai? Metropolitan? Peter tried to remember if any of them had been evacuated, but he didn't think so.
The drive to Lennox Hill was as treacherous as the drive to the docks. Neal moaned a few times when Peter had to swerve or break to avoid obstacles on the road. Peter's main concern was to get to the emergency room as quickly as possible, but the drive still seemed to be taking forever.
Finally there, hospital staff helped get Neal onto a gurney, wheeled him inside. In the harsh fluorescent light, Peter realized for the first time all the scrapes and bruises, the exhaustion on his face, how ashen Neal's face looked. The kid was seriously shaken up, and something clamped around Peter's heart.
Neal was wheeled into a vacant exam room and Peter was stopped at the door. A doctor briefly quizzed him on what happened, on Neal's symptoms. Peter explained what he knew.
The doctor vanished inside, and the nurse that was with him asked, "Sir, are you injured as well?"
He shook his head. "No. No, I'm okay."
It was then that he realized there was blood on his hands. When he looked down, he noticed the ugly, crimson stains on his thighs for the first time. They seemed rather big and- Shit. He'd looked at Neal's leg wound, but it hadn't seemed all that serious. Had Neal lost more blood that he'd realized? Had he been injured somewhere other than his leg and Peter hadn't noticed? Or was it just the rain that had enlarged the stains?
The nurse pulled Peter from his reverie. He was urged to wait in the waiting area, then she told him where the restroom was so he could get cleaned up.
In the waiting room, he was happy to find that his cell phone seemed to be working. He called Elizabeth, explained to her that he was okay, and that Neal would hopefully be too. He didn't want to voice his concern about the extent of Neal's injuries until it was substantiated. El sounded relieved that Peter was fine, but he could also hear that she was worried for Neal.
He sat in the waiting room for a while, watching other storm victims and patients come in through the doors, frowning at crying children being comforted by their mothers in the waiting room with limited success, averting his eyes from the old man who was giving him distasteful looks for some reason he couldn't discern.
The nurse that came and asked for him was wearing light peach colored scrubs. She had questions about Neal's tracker and stated they were taking him to get a head CT and needed to remove it.
Peter's sense of foreboding immediately kicked in. A head CT. Did Neal have a serious head injury? This was disconcerting. When he asked, the nurse explained she couldn't tell Peter any medical information since he wasn't family, but she reassured him that Neal was well taken care of and that the CT was just a precaution. However, she needed to know about the tracking anklet.
Peter had somehow totally forgotten about the tracker, but he had a fleeting suspicion Neal had tried to break it, which might have been what triggered the signal it had sent. Peter quickly explained to the nurse what the device was and that it was okay to remove it. He also made sure to mention Neal was not dangerous or a flight risk. That seemed to reassure the nurse enough to walk away again, talk to the staff that was treating Neal.
It was more waiting after that. Daylight had all but faded in the meantime, and the storm was still waging its war. He could hear the rain whipping against the windows, could hear the wind sweeping through the streets with a ferociousness that was intimidating to even the bravest man. One of the fluorescent lights above him flickered at an unnerving frequency and the humming that accompanied it was starting to drive him crazy.
When his name was finally called again, he was all too happy to get out of there. Apparently Neal had asked for him by name. He was being sent to the exam room where Neal had first been taken. The upper part of the half gurney, half bed Neal was lying on was propped up at an angle. The blanket that covered his lower body stopped at the hip, revealing the hospital gown they had put him in. An IV was dripping clear fluid into his vein through a cannula in his arm.
Neal greeted Peter with a weak smile that fell short in its persuasiveness. He looked small, fragile and utterly exhausted.
"Hey buddy," Peter said.
"Hey," Neal said.
"How are you feeling?"
"Like someone tried to saw my leg off?" he said hesitantly, trying to sound upbeat but failed somewhere along the way.
Peter's mouth curved into a small smile at the quip. "So what's the verdict? Are they admitting you?"
At that moment, the doctor Peter had already spoken to earlier came into the room with a large, beige envelope and a patient chart in his hand. He looked at Peter, then addressed Neal. "Your x-rays came back, and we've also got the CT results."
The doctor looked at Peter. "And for privacy reasons, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
"I'd like him to stay," Neal said.
The doctor nodded. "Yes, of course." He then turned back to Neal. "Mr. Caffrey, I think you've been very lucky. You have a severe contusion of your thigh muscle, and there was a gash that required stitches. We found some bruising on your ribcage, but it appears to be minor and nothing's broken, though it's probably going to be painful for a while. There's no abnormalities on the CT. Still, the loss of consciousness is a concern and we've diagnosed a concussion. Your neurological exam was normal, but we'd like to keep you overnight for observation."
Neal groaned at the news, but Peter gave him a no-nonsense look. "Do I have to stay?" Neal asked.
"It is very much recommended," the doctor told him. "Head injuries can be tricky."
Neal gave Peter a pleading look, but Peter lifted his arms in defense. "I'm not signing you out AMA."
The doctor scribbled something on the chart, then looked back at Neal. "We're admitting you to the Internal Medicine ward for now. Someone should come and take you up there shortly."
"Okay, thank you," Neal said, and the doctor left.
Peter looked around, found a stool on wheels that he pulled closer to Neal's bed.
"Do you know where my clothes are? Can you make sure to collect them?"
Peter frowned. Why would Neal be concerned about his clothes right now? Maybe this was just the way your brain was wired when you were on painkillers after you'd just been through an ordeal like that, your mind holding on to things that were tangible, anchored in reality, felt normal.
"I'll take care of all of that, don't worry," Peter reassured him. He didn't have the heart to tell Neal they were probably ruined anyway.
Neal allowed himself to close his eyes, let the exhaustion wash over him, drawing in a breath. When he opened them again, he took in Peter's worried gaze.
"Neal, what were you doing out there?" Peter asked, his voice not accusing but gently curious.
Neal closed his eyes again, and Peter almost regretted asking the question. He did answer, however weary it came out. "It was for Mozzie."
"Mozzie? Was he out there?"
"No," Neal mumbled.
"Then what? Is he all right?"
"Yeah, he's fine. Can we not talk about that right now?"
"Okay," Peter acquiesced.
"How did you find me?" Neal asked tiredly after a short pause.
"I got worried when you didn't show up at our house. Checked your tracking data. Then your tracker activated, and I knew something was wrong."
"Yeah, thank God for that thing, huh?" A weak grin crept onto his face, but then he seemed to remember something. A brief flicker of something akin to panic upset the balance. "They cut it off when they put me in the scanner."
"I know. I cleared it. It's okay."
"So now what? You gonna handcuff me to the bed?"
"No, Neal," Peter said, "I'm gonna trust that you won't run. Where would you go in this weather anyway?"
"Is the storm still raging?"
Peter allowed himself a quick look out the window, but there was nothing there but darkness and droplets of rain clinging to the window pane, sliding down in a net of rivulets. "Like a son of a bitch," he told Neal.
Silence fell, and for a moment Peter thought that Neal might have dozed off, but Neal then said just short of a whisper, "I got buried under a crane today." It sounded almost like a revelation, definitely a realization.
"You did," Peter softly confirmed.
"And you saved me."
"Yeah."
It was barely audible, but Peter could still hear it. "Thank you."
Peter swiveled the chair in Neal's direction. He was close enough to touch him, and for a moment his hand hovered over Neal's arm. He didn't give in to the impulse and let his hand sink onto his own thighs, placing them palm-down on his jeans that were still damp from the rain, surprised at how warm the fabric felt underneath his hands.
"Any time, Neal," Peter said. And he meant it.
Peter thought Neal had dozed off after that. His breathing evened out, his eyes were closed, and he looked strangely, peacefully innocent. Peter hoped he could get some rest. It took maybe half an hour until a nurse came into the room to move Neal up to the Internal Medicine ward.
The commotion awoke Neal, but he seemed a little dazed. Peter suspected it was the pain meds, the aftershock finally setting in.
The nurse prepared Neal's bed for the transfer, eyeing Peter rather suspiciously, even though he'd tried not to get in the way. "Sir, we're moving Mr. Caffrey now. It'll take a while until he's settled in. I'm afraid you're going to have to come back later. Someone up in Internal Medicine can tell you the room number."
Peter wasn't about to leave Neal's side. At the very least he needed to make sure he was put in a decent room, that everything he needed was taken care of. He went with the friendly approach first and asked nicely, but the nurse remained steadfast. That was when he pulled the FBI agent card.
He got his badge from his pocket, held it up for her to see. "I'm afraid that Mr. Caffrey is a criminal consultant, out on a work release with the FBI. His tracking anklet was damaged in the accident, which is why I need to stay with him."
That made the nurse stop dead in her tracks. "He's a criminal? Why is he not handcuffed?"
"He's not dangerous."
"He is right here," Neal said, his voice slightly irritated, which Peter chose to ignore.
"Fine," the nurse just said to Peter. "Just stay out of the way."
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Up in Internal Medicine, Peter chose to let Neal have some dignity and waited in the hallway while they got him settled in the new room. A no-nonsense looking nurse gave Peter a forced smile as she exited the room and nodded to indicate he could go back in. No doubt the ER nurse had briefed her on Neal's CI status.
When Peter knocked and went inside, Neal gave him a weak smile that he knew was meant to be encouraging but only got halfway there. "Making sure I didn't run?" Neal asked.
"Something like that."
"Seriously, why are you still here? And don't give me the 'convicted criminal' explanation, because I'm not buying that."
"Neal, I'm just..." Peter didn't know how to say it, so he trailed off.
"What? Worried? Peter, that's sweet and all, but I'm all right. I can stay a night in the hospital by myself. Go home to your wife."
Peter regarded him for a long moment. "Are you sure?"
Neal actually emitted a short, honest laugh at that. "Yes, I'm sure. Go home. Be with El. Please."
Peter still looked hesitant, but there was a defiance in Neal's expression that finally made him concede. He met Neal's gaze, held eye contact. "Neal, can I count on you not running? Because without your tracker, and no way to get a new one before tomorrow, I should be asking the hospital to restrain you to the bed."
"You said it yourself. Where would I go in this weather? And quite honestly? This," he gestured at his thigh, "hurts like hell. Putting weight on it isn't very high on my to-do list right now."
Something in Neal's expression struck a chord with Peter as Neal said, "But if it'll make you feel better, you can have them restrain me. I mean, sleeping will be a pain that way, but..."
"No," Peter interrupted. "It's all right. But, Neal, if I come back here tomorrow morning and you're gone, you know that-"
Neal interrupted him. "I know. You'll chase me, you'll catch me. I go back to prison. Peter, I promise I won't run."
Peter's gaze lingered on Neal for a long moment. "All right," he finally said. Looking around the room, he asked, "Do you have everything you need?"
"Yeah. Hospital gown. Toothbrush, towels, it's all there."
"I'll be back tomorrow morning," Peter promised.
"Tell Elizabeth I'm sorry," Neal said as Peter was about to leave the room.
"For what?"
"For dragging you away from her during one of the scariest nights the city has seen in a while."
Peter smiled a small smile at that. "I'll tell her, but I'm sure her mothering instincts will erase any grudge she might have ever held when she sees you like this."
Neal groaned a little, and Peter's smile widened. "Come on, don't pretend you're not going to enjoy it."
Neal replied with a faint smirk. "Maybe I will. Just a little."
"You better. Hang in there, okay?"
"I will," Neal acknowledged.
As he left the hospital, Peter still had a tiny, nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach to make himself vulnerable like this. If Neal ran, he'd be in a world of trouble as well, and he was all too aware of it. To trust Neal completely was not something that was written down in Peter's rulebook just yet. But here, tonight, under these circumstances, it had seemed like the right thing. He just hoped he wouldn't regret it the next morning.
+-+-+-+-+
The night was fitful for Peter. He wasn't sure if it was the wind pressing in gusts against the window panes, or the uncertainty of having left Neal trackerless in a Manhattan hospital, or possibly a combination of both.
He got up before six, his wife still breathing evenly next to him under a mound of sheets. In the living room he was greeted by a tail-wagging Satchmo. Outside, the sky was still gray, the leaves of the trees still bent and rustled in the wind, and raindrops pit-patted into the puddles in the street at a steady frequency. Peter decided to inspect the yard for storm damage.
Soft footsteps on the stairs announced Elizabeth's presence fifteen minutes later, her body wrapped tightly in a terry-cloth robe. "Good morning," she said, looking sleepy and sounding it too.
"What, no coffee?" she grouched.
"Sorry," he apologized. "I was checking the yard."
"Any damage?"
"No, just a few tree branches and a lot of stray leaves. Looks like everything held up."
She came over, softly kissed his lips. "I'll make coffee."
Peter went upstairs to get dressed for work and came back downstairs a little later. The steaming mug of coffee that Elizabeth handed him was accepted gladly. He proceeded into the living room where he switched on the TV to tune it to a news station. On the screen, a newscaster was standing by the waterside, reporting that Irene had caused less damage than expected. This was encouraging.
"Looks like the worst is over," he said to Elizabeth.
"Yeah." She stood next to him, watched the newscaster recite her story for a moment. "You going to see Neal?"
"I hope they'll release him today. I was going to go there before work."
"I'd like to come with you. We should drop by his place first, get him some clothes."
He draped an arm around her shoulders, kissed her softly on the head. "Yeah."
She looked up at him, a question forming in her eyes. "You said his thigh was pretty bad. He's not gonna be able to navigate all those stairs at June's house, is he?"
Peter shrugged. "I don't know. I suppose they'll give him crutches."
"Honey, shouldn't we bring him here? At least until he's halfway mobile again."
It came as no surprise to Peter for her to suggest it. And he wasn't opposed to the idea either. "You sure you want a dependent, grouching, whining Neal Caffrey in our house?"
She laughed. "Now, when you phrase it that way..."
Peter sobered. "I think it'll be good for him."
"All right, then let's go get him."
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It felt weird for Peter to enter June's mansion with no one present. As per Neal's request he'd collected Neal's personal items at the hospital the night before, and extracted the keys to the house from them. He'd suspected that June had sent all the housekeeping personnel home, so it was no surprise when he rang the doorbell and no one answered. He used Neal's keys to gain entry, feeling strangely out of place and very much like an intruder.
The mansion felt like a haunted house, some of the wooden steps creaking ever so slightly under his weight. He and El made their way upstairs to Neal's loft.
El immediately started packing some of Neal's clothes into a small duffel bag. Peter opened the door to the patio, looking around. Someone had done a pretty thorough job of securing what was possible. The boxwoods had been moved next to the walls and tied in place with some kind of light rope. The table and chairs had been moved aside as well. Two of the chairs had toppled over and Peter bent down to put them back in place. He also moved a few twigs and branches out of the way that the wind had carried up here.
Back inside, El just came back out of the hallway that led to the bathroom. "Okay, I think I've got everything he might need. You ready to go?"
"Yep," he confirmed.
A call back from Hughes came in as Peter had just pulled off the curb, answering the message that Peter had left on his voicemail earlier that morning. As expected, Hughes had no problem with Peter coming in late under the circumstances. Peter thought he could even detect concern in Hughes' voice when he asked if Caffrey was okay. Neal had made many friends and only a few enemies in the time he'd worked with the FBI, and Peter couldn't deny a certain hint of pride welling up inside him.
At the hospital, Peter found the smell of disinfectant and the bland, gray interior mildly intimidating. They found Neal's room effortlessly with Peter leading the way. Entering the room, they were welcomed by a much more alert looking Neal than he remembered from the night before.
The first thing that struck Peter was an angry bruise that covered Neal's cheek and a number of scratches on his forehead. Somehow he hadn't noticed them being so prominent the night before.
Peter tried to sound cheerful as he greeted Neal with a, "Hey."
Neal said a, "Hey," back. When he saw Elizabeth, his expression brightened visibly. "Elizabeth," he smiled at her.
"Neal," she smiled at him, stepping closer to his bed, squeezing his hand encouragingly. "You had a quite a night last night, huh?"
"Yeah, I guess you could say that."
"So, are they releasing you?" Peter probed.
"One can only hope. But I think they might."
"How's your leg?" Peter asked.
"You know, sore... I'll live."
Elizabeth held up the bag, placed it on a chair in the corner. "We brought you some clothes."
"Raided Peter's wardrobe?" Neal said with a smirk.
"No, actually, this is from your own collection," Elizabeth explained.
"You went by my place?"
Peter nodded. "We did."
Neal looked genuinely touched. "Really, you didn't have to."
"Yeah," Peter said, "you can thank us later by not being a pain in the neck when you're staying with us."
"I'm... what? I'm staying with you?"
Elizabeth stepped closer to the bed again. "We just thought it'd be a lot more convenient. There's not as many stairs, and you'll need all the help you can get to move around for the next few days."
"No, seriously, I'll be fine at June's house," Neal protested.
"Yeah, sure you will," Peter countered. "Just like you were fine extracting yourself from under a pile of debris in the middle of a hurricane."
Elizabeth put on her best puppy dog eyes. "Please, Neal, we'd love to have you."
He considered this for a moment, unable to resist her large, blue eyes. "I really don't want to impose..."
She smiled a winning smile at him. "Please. You're not imposing. We're glad to help."
He averted his eyes, looked at the fingers in his lap. "Thank you," he said in a low, honest voice.
Her hands found his arm, her warm fingers encircled it, squeezing a little. "Any time."
Peter was starting to get a little fidgety. "So, what do we need to do to get you out of here?"
Neal's grin was slightly sheepish. "I don't know, maybe you could flash your badge again. That always seems to work wonders."
"Don't push it," Peter warned, but left the room anyway to find someone who could move the process along.
It took almost an hour to get all the paperwork ready and fix Neal up to leave the hospital. El gracefully excused herself when it was time for Neal to get dressed. Peter stayed to help, which Neal grudgingly (but still gratefully) allowed. Getting Neal into a pair of rather fancy looking track pants took time and a lot of grimaces and hisses. Peter caught a brief glimpse at the angry purple bruise on Neal's ribcage as he changed into a t-shirt, and inwardly winced. That had to hurt.
Finally dressed in a black zip-sweater, Peter helped him put on the loafers El had chosen for their convenient absence of shoe laces. They'd advised Neal earlier to walk on crutches for at least the next three days. Miraculously, El appeared with a pair in Neal's room just when the nurse entered with a wheelchair.
Neal looked at her questioningly, but there was no time for questions when Peter's strong hands helped him gingerly into the wheelchair.
Neal awkwardly hobbled on crutches to Peter's car in front of the hospital and El helped him into the passenger seat. By the time they had driven to Brooklyn and maneuvered Neal inside the Burkes' living room, he was utterly exhausted.
Peter kept a watchful eye on him as Elizabeth went upstairs and prepared the guestroom. "You all right?" Peter inquired.
"Yeah, peachy. As long as I don't have to move again."
Peter smiled at that. "No, you don't have to move again, at least not for a while. Though unfortunately the bathroom is upstairs."
Neal groaned at that. "Yeah, thanks. There's one thing that's more convenient at June's place."
Peter rubbed his chin. Darn, he hadn't thought of that. "We can still take you there if you want."
"No," Neal said tiredly. "I'll manage. And, you know, maybe I just won't drink anything."
"Yeah, not a great plan. Especially since I recall the doctor saying-"
"Yeah, yeah," Neal waved dismissively, "Kidney output and all that. Geez, you don't need to go all Nurse Ratched on me."
Peter lifted his hands apologetically. "Okay, okay. Sorry."
Neal just sighed and Peter went to the kitchen, pouring two glasses of orange juice. He went back to the living room with them, placing one in front of Neal, sipping from the other. He sat down in the armchair nearby, a worried eye trained on his CI.
Neal had stretched out his injured leg on the couch and was reclined there with his head against the headrest, his eyes closed. He opened them just a little when silence ensued.
"Hover much?" Neal asked, a slightly annoyed edge to his voice.
"What, this is my house!"
"Yeah, and that's why I didn't want to stay here in the first place."
It was then that Elizabeth came downstairs again. "Now, now, boys, play nice."
"Please tell your husband not to hover," Neal grumbled.
El gave Peter a chiding look. "What did you do?"
Peter's expression spelled pure innocence. "Nothing! I swear. I'm just sitting here."
She went over to Peter, placed a hand on his shoulder. "Honey, weren't you planning to go to the office?"
Peter got up with a grunt. "Okay, I can see when I'm not wanted."
She gave him a commiserative look, accompanying him to the door. "Honey," she whispered, "I'm sure he didn't mean it. He's in pain and-"
"Yeah, yeah, I know," he interrupted. Stealing a quick glance at Neal's unmoving form on their couch, he added in a more conciliatory tone, "Just... take care of him. Make sure he takes the painkillers."
She gave him a winning smile. "I will. Will you be home for dinner?"
"I'll try."
She gave him a quick peck on the lips before he left.
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Part 2
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