[WC Fic] "Swan Dive", rated PG (part 1 of 1)
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Title: Swan Dive
Author: Ivorysilk
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Checkmate (Episode 3-11)
Summary Written to satisfy my need for post-ep hurt/comfort (this one focuses on Neal, although they all get pretty whumped, and I might need to write that fic too).
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, or this universe. I am writing this for my own self-indulgent fun, and because, like Neal, I clearly covet other people's things, even if they will never be my own.
Author’s Notes: Many thanks to the very gracious hoosierbitch, who kindly offered to beta this for me! She is wonderful and thorough and brilliant! Any remaining errors are my own.
Comments, positive or negative, are treasured. Thanks for reading.
************************
It had been a tense few days, so it was no wonder Neal had woken up that morning with a splitting headache. He’d had a mild one after Keller had whacked him with the cane the day before--but his vision had cleared up by the time he’d tumbled out of the van and his aim had been steady. The headache hadn’t faded, but there had been lots to do and think about, even after they’d subdued Keller. By the time Neal walked into the FBI headquarters Thursday morning, ready to make his confession--mouth tasting bitter, headache blurring his thoughts, bright lights blinding his eyes--he felt horrible.
Facing lifetime in prison would do that to you.
Peter, in the boardroom, looked almost as terrible as Neal felt. Peter’s face was haggard and drawn, his right eye darkly bruised and his expression grim.
But then Peter made him watch. Relief made Neal momentarily light-headed while his aching head made it even harder to focus. When Peter asked if he was okay with Keller taking credit for the art theft, Neal found it almost hard to find the words. He needed a minute--just a minute--to process.
And the Peter told him about the commutation hearing. His mind spun. He blinked at the words, obscuring the look on Peter’s face which was confusing and indecipherable, and just--he had to sit down. Just for a minute.
He headed down the stairs towards his desk against the wall, trying as hard as he could to look casual, to look nonchalant--and the pain in his head spiked. Suddenly it was as if someone had dimmed the lights, before turning them off completely.
And then he was falling.
************************
Peter looked up at the loud crash outside his office to see utter chaos. There were people running and yelling--and there was Neal, lying on the rough carpet, face down. Not moving.
Hughes was in the middle of everyone, holding up a hand--and Neal wasn’t moving.
Peter couldn’t process anything anymore. It was all too much--almost losing El, hours and days of fear and worry, then finding El but being unable to find Neal, finding Neal bleeding on the ground with Keller above him, and then having El safe and Neal safe but then being told that Neal was going to be free and he was going to lose him anyway and now--
Now Neal was lying unmoving on the carpet in the bullpen and Peter was just watching him through the glass.
He found himself in the bullpen with no real idea of how he got there, standing beside Neal’s still body before falling to his knees. He was afraid to touch Neal. Neal didn’t move.
“Does anyone know what happened?” Reece was asking above him. “Peter? What happened?”
“He was in a fight with Keller earlier,” said Peter, feeling like he was in a daze. Everything seemed so unreal. “He seemed fine. I don’t--”
Everyone seemed to have a story: Caffrey had smiled at her that morning, Caffrey had seemed fine, Caffrey’s tie was in a double Windsor, Caffrey had made a joke, Caffrey had--
“Keller was wailing on him with a cane,” said Peter dumbly. “He could have--” Keller could have done anything. If Neal hadn’t been feeling well, Peter thought with a flash of anger, if Neal had been injured, why hadn’t he said something? Why hadn’t he gotten himself checked out? He was supposed to have filled out a report. It was just like Caffrey to think the rules applied to someone else, to ignore procedure--
And then, a wave of guilt: Peter was Neal’s handler; he should have made Neal fill out a report. It was Peter’s job to make sure his people were okay. Why hadn’t he--
And then, out of nowhere, an EMT was beside him, in a blue uniform, asking questions, bending down to Neal. She had blonde hair, in braids, and looked too young. They must have come quickly. She was there too quickly, and she was too young, what was she--
“Sir, you have to move aside, sir?” And someone was pushing him back from Neal, and he tried to protest, snarled and shouted while a man in a uniform was calling out numbers and acronyms and none of it made any sense because of course Neal was breathing and of course --
“Peter!” said Reese, and his voice cut through the haze in Peter’s mind. Peter looked up. “You need to come over here and answer these questions.” Peter shook his head and stood up.
“Did he hit his head?” There was a man standing with Reese in an EMT uniform. He had floppy red hair and looked like that kid from Harry Potter, his expression serious and intent. He kept asking questions. “Sir, it’s very important that--”
“I don’t know. I didn’t--” Peter couldn’t think, he couldn’t --
“He’s got a gash on the side of his head,” the other EMT called, while the girl was setting up a stretcher. Peter was impressed by how quickly they’d gotten there. The two by Neal were talking about oxygen levels and blood pressure and were rolling Neal onto a backboard. He tried to focus on the question.
“I don’t know,” Peter said.
They were putting Neal on a stretcher, carrying him out. Peter took a couple of steps forward, but Diana put her hand on his arm, and hung on with gentle pressure. He stopped.
“Boss, they’re taking him to Lenox Hill. I can drive us.” Diana was behind him, her voice calm and composed. He followed where she went.
*******************************
They wouldn’t let him see Neal. They wouldn’t let him see Neal, even though Diana had used her siren on the way over and dropped him at the front door, and he had to have arrived just after Neal. But when he’d arrived at the hospital, they’d just sent him to the waiting room, and they wouldn’t let him see Neal.
“I need to see him,” said Peter, and the nurse said something about waiting and emergency surgery and critical condition and Peter just did not understand.
“He was fine,” explained Peter once again. “He seemed fine.” He turned to Diana. “He shot Keller through my pant leg--a small moving target while he had only limited visibility and from a distance--it was perfect. He had to have been fine. I need to see him. He was fine.”
“Sir--Agent Burke,” said the nurse, who was ridiculously small and curly-haired and annoying, “I know this is difficult, but you have to understand that head injuries are dangerous--particularly this kind of injury, precisely because the patient can seem fine. Periods of lucidity are very common with epidural hematomas. We’ve got Mr. Caffrey in surgery right now. You’ll need to wait here, and we’ll let you know when you can see him.”
“Peter,” said Diana, and she seemed to be speaking slowly, clearly, as if to someone very young, “you need to stay here, and sit down, and wait. Do you need me to call Elizabeth?”
“I don’t--” Peter began, because clearly they just did not understand. Neal was fine. Elizabeth was at home, and she was fine. He didn’t understand why they were all even still here. “No, El’s at home. She’s fine.”
“Okay,” said Diana. “Okay. Please, just wait here. I’ve gotta call Christie.” She hesitated. “Will you wait here?”
Peter nodded, slowly, and both the nurse and Diana walked away. He saw Diana pull out her cell phone, saw her make a call, saw her frown. When she came back, she was still frowning.
“What did Christie say?”
“She said that this is one of the best hospitals in New York. She said she’d ask who’s doing the surgery and check out his credentials. Peter--” Diana swallowed. “Peter, head injuries of this type can be dangerous. But Neal’s young, and you know how hard his head is. He’s going to be okay.”
“He was fine,” repeated Peter, bewildered. “He’s--”
“I know, Boss,” said Diana, and her eyes were scared and worried and sympathetic, all at once. “I know.”
********************************
Neal woke abruptly. Someone was holding his hand. He tried to sit up, to prop himself up with his free hand, but he couldn’t move it. He tugged harder, but it didn’t budge. He felt imbalanced and weak and fuzzy, while his head still hurt. He tried to open his eyes, but they felt heavy and his eyelashes stuck to his skin. Somewhere, something started beeping.
“Neal? Neal, calm down.” Peter’s voice, with a trace of anxiety. Peter was upset. Something was wrong.
“Peter?” His voice was a mangled whisper of sound.
“Hey, how’re you doing? Just relax, all right?” Peter’s tone hadn’t changed, even though the words seemed meant to comfort.
Neal tried to move his head, but it wouldn’t shift. He didn’t--
“Where?” He was starting to panic. He couldn’t move and he couldn’t see and he didn’t know--
“Come on, now, relax. You’re in the hospital.” Peter’s voice was deep and deliberate, albeit still with an edge of worry.
A terrible thought, then. Peter was here, watching him, which meant ... “What? Why--is it morning? Did I miss the hearing?”
Peter made a noise like a bark of laughter, quickly cut off. “No, no. It isn’t scheduled for another three months. Just relax.” He sounded like he was smiling, and Neal really, really wanted to open his eyes. So he pulled his hand from Peter’s, rubbed them, and did.
He blinked, and blinked again against the light before closing them quickly again.
“Elizabeth? She’s still okay?” Why was Peter here, all alone? Where was Elizabeth?
“She’s fine, Neal. She was here for a time, but she went home to get some sleep. She’s still pretty tired. She’ll be back in the morning.”
“Oh,” said Neal, absorbing that, sagging back against the hard hospital bed. But he had to--“I didn’t, Peter, I need my cell, I should call--”
“No, no, just rest,” said Peter quickly, cutting him off. “You need to make a call, you let me know, all right? I’ll do it for you, for now. Who do you need to call?” Peter’s voice was brisk and businesslike, and it calmed Neal, a little. If Peter said he would do it, he would.
“Call to reschedule,” said Neal urgently. “Peter, I have to--”
“It’s okay, just stay calm, all right? I’ll take care of it, you got me?” Peter’s voice was sure and firm.
He tried to nod; he tried, but even that small movement was just too painful. He settled for squeezing Peter’s hand instead, eyes still tightly closed. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. Peter was with him. Peter was still angry, he knew that, he hadn’t forgotten, and maybe it was just because the anklet was off and maybe Peter was just keeping an eye on him, but even so: Peter was with him.
He swallowed, wishing for some water. “What time is it?”
“Little after six,” replied Peter. “You need anything? I’ve dimmed the lights, so you can open your eyes now, if you want.”
He tried again and managed, squinting slightly. Everything was shadowed and blurred. He blinked, willing his eyes to focus. “Thirsty. I’m--”
“Yeah, okay, they said you can have a little water, if you want. Here. Drink slowly, all right?” There was a straw at his lips, and he sipped, but it was so much effort. Too much effort. He was still thirsty but he stopped anyway, too tired to continue. After a moment, Peter took the straw away.
Neal was tired, but suddenly, he was burning with the need to understand. He couldn’t sleep--he had to know. “What happened? Peter, what--”
“Shhh, quiet. They think Keller must have hit you on the head. Did he?” Peter’s voice was serious and demanding, like he got when he interrogated people. When he interrogated Neal.
“Elizabeth?” he murmured. He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten to ask earlier. She was fine--or had he dreamed that?
“She’s fine, as I just said. Come on, Neal,” said Peter, sounding slightly exasperated now, which actually made Neal feel a little less crazy, even if he was stuck in the hospital and couldn’t remember much. “Did you get hit on the head?”
Neal struggled to answer, to answer quickly, to give Peter the information he needed. He didn’t even question his need to please Peter anymore. “Yeah. Knocked me out, put me in the van--”
“He knocked you out before the van?” Peter’s question was quick, sharp.
Neal tried to answer this question too. “Yeah, and when I got out, he got me with the Raphael--a Raphael, Peter! They have to fix the canvas, Peter, Mozzie could--” This was very important; he’d almost forgotten, but with some ...
“Neal, focus. Are you telling me you got hit with a cane, got knocked out, and then got hit by a wooden picture frame?”
“And a tire iron, I think. I didn’t really pay much attention.” Neal was starting to get really tired; he wanted to stay awake but wasn’t sure he could. He hoped that Mozzie had passed along that art restorer’s name.
“Dammit, Neal, why didn’t you say anything?” Peter was yelling.
“But I was fine!” he protested, stung. “You saw me!” And he’d made a damn fine shot too, even lying flat on his back with the blood falling into his eyes.
“Oh, sure you were,” retorted Peter sarcastically. “When I got to you, you were bleeding and lying on the ground!”
“That was later. He smashed the Raphael--Peter, you really have to talk to--” Peter kept forgetting about the Raphael, and it had to be dealt with soon, it was so--
“Okay, okay. It’s okay. I’ll take care of it,” Peter said in a reassuring tone which made Neal suspect that Peter didn’t care about the Raphael at all and just thought Neal was being silly. “And then we are going to talk about this--about how badly you were hurt and why you didn’t see a doctor immediately like you should have--but for right now, you’re going to rest. Got it?”
Peter moved out of his line of sight, and Neal simply didn’t have the energy to try to follow his movement. It was bothering Neal, how--how he couldn’t move, couldn’t escape. So he forced himself, forced his body to try to sit up, to try--
Peter was suddenly right in front of him, eyes wild and scared and voice too loud. “You just had brain surgery, Neal! Stop it!” When Neal blinked, confused, Peter sighed and said, “You need to take it easy. Neal, you had an epidural hematoma. That’s a bleed inside your head, and it’s literally a swollen head--it’s really dangerous. You just got out of emergency surgery. You almost died. You have to take it easy.”
“Oh. I didn’t--” Neal started, still unable to understand, although clearly Peter expected him to. What had happened?
“It’d be just like you to die before your commutation hearing,” Peter muttered under his breath.
“I’m sorry?” Who was dying? His head ached and his mind was spinning.
“Damn right you are. Mozzie has been beside himself. So has El. So has everyone, really. You took a header down the stairs.” Peter accused him, pointing his finger at Neal.
“In front of everyone?” Neal could imagine nothing worse. They’d all think--
“Yeah, Neal, I’m told it was a perfectly elegant swan dive, right off the stairs, right in front of everyone. You got escorted out on a stretcher. So let this be a lesson to you.”
No no no. “I didn’t mean to--I--”
“You made a loud thunk. So, highly doubtful that you did it on purpose. Now go to sleep. No, really, Neal. I want you to sleep, and I’m not answering any more questions.” Peter pulled the covers up to Neal’s chin, tucking him in, sort of, which was weird but almost nice, even if he was uncomfortable lying in this position where he couldn’t move. “Everything else can keep,” Peter was saying, and Neal didn’t really believe him because he knew there were important things he should be saying even if he couldn’t remember them. “I promise.”
Neal blinked. “Peter?” He had something to tell Peter, but he couldn’t remember what it was, and he felt himself falling into sleep, but he didn’t want to be left alone, and he wanted to ask Peter if he would stay, but Peter was still upset with him and besides he needed to go and be with Elizabeth, and he couldn’t--
“You’re not officially off-anklet yet, Caffrey. Which means that as long as you’re trackerless, I’m not going anywhere. Sleep.” Peter’s voice was gruff, but the hand now stroking back Neal’s hair from his eyes was gentle and caring. Eventually Peter’s hand found Neal’s again and hung on, warm and solid.
Neal fell asleep smiling.
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End! Comments are very much appreciated :-) As always, if you got this far, thanks very much for reading.
Title: Swan Dive
Author: Ivorysilk
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Checkmate (Episode 3-11)
Summary Written to satisfy my need for post-ep hurt/comfort (this one focuses on Neal, although they all get pretty whumped, and I might need to write that fic too).
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, or this universe. I am writing this for my own self-indulgent fun, and because, like Neal, I clearly covet other people's things, even if they will never be my own.
Author’s Notes: Many thanks to the very gracious hoosierbitch, who kindly offered to beta this for me! She is wonderful and thorough and brilliant! Any remaining errors are my own.
Comments, positive or negative, are treasured. Thanks for reading.
************************
It had been a tense few days, so it was no wonder Neal had woken up that morning with a splitting headache. He’d had a mild one after Keller had whacked him with the cane the day before--but his vision had cleared up by the time he’d tumbled out of the van and his aim had been steady. The headache hadn’t faded, but there had been lots to do and think about, even after they’d subdued Keller. By the time Neal walked into the FBI headquarters Thursday morning, ready to make his confession--mouth tasting bitter, headache blurring his thoughts, bright lights blinding his eyes--he felt horrible.
Facing lifetime in prison would do that to you.
Peter, in the boardroom, looked almost as terrible as Neal felt. Peter’s face was haggard and drawn, his right eye darkly bruised and his expression grim.
But then Peter made him watch. Relief made Neal momentarily light-headed while his aching head made it even harder to focus. When Peter asked if he was okay with Keller taking credit for the art theft, Neal found it almost hard to find the words. He needed a minute--just a minute--to process.
And the Peter told him about the commutation hearing. His mind spun. He blinked at the words, obscuring the look on Peter’s face which was confusing and indecipherable, and just--he had to sit down. Just for a minute.
He headed down the stairs towards his desk against the wall, trying as hard as he could to look casual, to look nonchalant--and the pain in his head spiked. Suddenly it was as if someone had dimmed the lights, before turning them off completely.
And then he was falling.
************************
Peter looked up at the loud crash outside his office to see utter chaos. There were people running and yelling--and there was Neal, lying on the rough carpet, face down. Not moving.
Hughes was in the middle of everyone, holding up a hand--and Neal wasn’t moving.
Peter couldn’t process anything anymore. It was all too much--almost losing El, hours and days of fear and worry, then finding El but being unable to find Neal, finding Neal bleeding on the ground with Keller above him, and then having El safe and Neal safe but then being told that Neal was going to be free and he was going to lose him anyway and now--
Now Neal was lying unmoving on the carpet in the bullpen and Peter was just watching him through the glass.
He found himself in the bullpen with no real idea of how he got there, standing beside Neal’s still body before falling to his knees. He was afraid to touch Neal. Neal didn’t move.
“Does anyone know what happened?” Reece was asking above him. “Peter? What happened?”
“He was in a fight with Keller earlier,” said Peter, feeling like he was in a daze. Everything seemed so unreal. “He seemed fine. I don’t--”
Everyone seemed to have a story: Caffrey had smiled at her that morning, Caffrey had seemed fine, Caffrey’s tie was in a double Windsor, Caffrey had made a joke, Caffrey had--
“Keller was wailing on him with a cane,” said Peter dumbly. “He could have--” Keller could have done anything. If Neal hadn’t been feeling well, Peter thought with a flash of anger, if Neal had been injured, why hadn’t he said something? Why hadn’t he gotten himself checked out? He was supposed to have filled out a report. It was just like Caffrey to think the rules applied to someone else, to ignore procedure--
And then, a wave of guilt: Peter was Neal’s handler; he should have made Neal fill out a report. It was Peter’s job to make sure his people were okay. Why hadn’t he--
And then, out of nowhere, an EMT was beside him, in a blue uniform, asking questions, bending down to Neal. She had blonde hair, in braids, and looked too young. They must have come quickly. She was there too quickly, and she was too young, what was she--
“Sir, you have to move aside, sir?” And someone was pushing him back from Neal, and he tried to protest, snarled and shouted while a man in a uniform was calling out numbers and acronyms and none of it made any sense because of course Neal was breathing and of course --
“Peter!” said Reese, and his voice cut through the haze in Peter’s mind. Peter looked up. “You need to come over here and answer these questions.” Peter shook his head and stood up.
“Did he hit his head?” There was a man standing with Reese in an EMT uniform. He had floppy red hair and looked like that kid from Harry Potter, his expression serious and intent. He kept asking questions. “Sir, it’s very important that--”
“I don’t know. I didn’t--” Peter couldn’t think, he couldn’t --
“He’s got a gash on the side of his head,” the other EMT called, while the girl was setting up a stretcher. Peter was impressed by how quickly they’d gotten there. The two by Neal were talking about oxygen levels and blood pressure and were rolling Neal onto a backboard. He tried to focus on the question.
“I don’t know,” Peter said.
They were putting Neal on a stretcher, carrying him out. Peter took a couple of steps forward, but Diana put her hand on his arm, and hung on with gentle pressure. He stopped.
“Boss, they’re taking him to Lenox Hill. I can drive us.” Diana was behind him, her voice calm and composed. He followed where she went.
*******************************
They wouldn’t let him see Neal. They wouldn’t let him see Neal, even though Diana had used her siren on the way over and dropped him at the front door, and he had to have arrived just after Neal. But when he’d arrived at the hospital, they’d just sent him to the waiting room, and they wouldn’t let him see Neal.
“I need to see him,” said Peter, and the nurse said something about waiting and emergency surgery and critical condition and Peter just did not understand.
“He was fine,” explained Peter once again. “He seemed fine.” He turned to Diana. “He shot Keller through my pant leg--a small moving target while he had only limited visibility and from a distance--it was perfect. He had to have been fine. I need to see him. He was fine.”
“Sir--Agent Burke,” said the nurse, who was ridiculously small and curly-haired and annoying, “I know this is difficult, but you have to understand that head injuries are dangerous--particularly this kind of injury, precisely because the patient can seem fine. Periods of lucidity are very common with epidural hematomas. We’ve got Mr. Caffrey in surgery right now. You’ll need to wait here, and we’ll let you know when you can see him.”
“Peter,” said Diana, and she seemed to be speaking slowly, clearly, as if to someone very young, “you need to stay here, and sit down, and wait. Do you need me to call Elizabeth?”
“I don’t--” Peter began, because clearly they just did not understand. Neal was fine. Elizabeth was at home, and she was fine. He didn’t understand why they were all even still here. “No, El’s at home. She’s fine.”
“Okay,” said Diana. “Okay. Please, just wait here. I’ve gotta call Christie.” She hesitated. “Will you wait here?”
Peter nodded, slowly, and both the nurse and Diana walked away. He saw Diana pull out her cell phone, saw her make a call, saw her frown. When she came back, she was still frowning.
“What did Christie say?”
“She said that this is one of the best hospitals in New York. She said she’d ask who’s doing the surgery and check out his credentials. Peter--” Diana swallowed. “Peter, head injuries of this type can be dangerous. But Neal’s young, and you know how hard his head is. He’s going to be okay.”
“He was fine,” repeated Peter, bewildered. “He’s--”
“I know, Boss,” said Diana, and her eyes were scared and worried and sympathetic, all at once. “I know.”
********************************
Neal woke abruptly. Someone was holding his hand. He tried to sit up, to prop himself up with his free hand, but he couldn’t move it. He tugged harder, but it didn’t budge. He felt imbalanced and weak and fuzzy, while his head still hurt. He tried to open his eyes, but they felt heavy and his eyelashes stuck to his skin. Somewhere, something started beeping.
“Neal? Neal, calm down.” Peter’s voice, with a trace of anxiety. Peter was upset. Something was wrong.
“Peter?” His voice was a mangled whisper of sound.
“Hey, how’re you doing? Just relax, all right?” Peter’s tone hadn’t changed, even though the words seemed meant to comfort.
Neal tried to move his head, but it wouldn’t shift. He didn’t--
“Where?” He was starting to panic. He couldn’t move and he couldn’t see and he didn’t know--
“Come on, now, relax. You’re in the hospital.” Peter’s voice was deep and deliberate, albeit still with an edge of worry.
A terrible thought, then. Peter was here, watching him, which meant ... “What? Why--is it morning? Did I miss the hearing?”
Peter made a noise like a bark of laughter, quickly cut off. “No, no. It isn’t scheduled for another three months. Just relax.” He sounded like he was smiling, and Neal really, really wanted to open his eyes. So he pulled his hand from Peter’s, rubbed them, and did.
He blinked, and blinked again against the light before closing them quickly again.
“Elizabeth? She’s still okay?” Why was Peter here, all alone? Where was Elizabeth?
“She’s fine, Neal. She was here for a time, but she went home to get some sleep. She’s still pretty tired. She’ll be back in the morning.”
“Oh,” said Neal, absorbing that, sagging back against the hard hospital bed. But he had to--“I didn’t, Peter, I need my cell, I should call--”
“No, no, just rest,” said Peter quickly, cutting him off. “You need to make a call, you let me know, all right? I’ll do it for you, for now. Who do you need to call?” Peter’s voice was brisk and businesslike, and it calmed Neal, a little. If Peter said he would do it, he would.
“Call to reschedule,” said Neal urgently. “Peter, I have to--”
“It’s okay, just stay calm, all right? I’ll take care of it, you got me?” Peter’s voice was sure and firm.
He tried to nod; he tried, but even that small movement was just too painful. He settled for squeezing Peter’s hand instead, eyes still tightly closed. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. Peter was with him. Peter was still angry, he knew that, he hadn’t forgotten, and maybe it was just because the anklet was off and maybe Peter was just keeping an eye on him, but even so: Peter was with him.
He swallowed, wishing for some water. “What time is it?”
“Little after six,” replied Peter. “You need anything? I’ve dimmed the lights, so you can open your eyes now, if you want.”
He tried again and managed, squinting slightly. Everything was shadowed and blurred. He blinked, willing his eyes to focus. “Thirsty. I’m--”
“Yeah, okay, they said you can have a little water, if you want. Here. Drink slowly, all right?” There was a straw at his lips, and he sipped, but it was so much effort. Too much effort. He was still thirsty but he stopped anyway, too tired to continue. After a moment, Peter took the straw away.
Neal was tired, but suddenly, he was burning with the need to understand. He couldn’t sleep--he had to know. “What happened? Peter, what--”
“Shhh, quiet. They think Keller must have hit you on the head. Did he?” Peter’s voice was serious and demanding, like he got when he interrogated people. When he interrogated Neal.
“Elizabeth?” he murmured. He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten to ask earlier. She was fine--or had he dreamed that?
“She’s fine, as I just said. Come on, Neal,” said Peter, sounding slightly exasperated now, which actually made Neal feel a little less crazy, even if he was stuck in the hospital and couldn’t remember much. “Did you get hit on the head?”
Neal struggled to answer, to answer quickly, to give Peter the information he needed. He didn’t even question his need to please Peter anymore. “Yeah. Knocked me out, put me in the van--”
“He knocked you out before the van?” Peter’s question was quick, sharp.
Neal tried to answer this question too. “Yeah, and when I got out, he got me with the Raphael--a Raphael, Peter! They have to fix the canvas, Peter, Mozzie could--” This was very important; he’d almost forgotten, but with some ...
“Neal, focus. Are you telling me you got hit with a cane, got knocked out, and then got hit by a wooden picture frame?”
“And a tire iron, I think. I didn’t really pay much attention.” Neal was starting to get really tired; he wanted to stay awake but wasn’t sure he could. He hoped that Mozzie had passed along that art restorer’s name.
“Dammit, Neal, why didn’t you say anything?” Peter was yelling.
“But I was fine!” he protested, stung. “You saw me!” And he’d made a damn fine shot too, even lying flat on his back with the blood falling into his eyes.
“Oh, sure you were,” retorted Peter sarcastically. “When I got to you, you were bleeding and lying on the ground!”
“That was later. He smashed the Raphael--Peter, you really have to talk to--” Peter kept forgetting about the Raphael, and it had to be dealt with soon, it was so--
“Okay, okay. It’s okay. I’ll take care of it,” Peter said in a reassuring tone which made Neal suspect that Peter didn’t care about the Raphael at all and just thought Neal was being silly. “And then we are going to talk about this--about how badly you were hurt and why you didn’t see a doctor immediately like you should have--but for right now, you’re going to rest. Got it?”
Peter moved out of his line of sight, and Neal simply didn’t have the energy to try to follow his movement. It was bothering Neal, how--how he couldn’t move, couldn’t escape. So he forced himself, forced his body to try to sit up, to try--
Peter was suddenly right in front of him, eyes wild and scared and voice too loud. “You just had brain surgery, Neal! Stop it!” When Neal blinked, confused, Peter sighed and said, “You need to take it easy. Neal, you had an epidural hematoma. That’s a bleed inside your head, and it’s literally a swollen head--it’s really dangerous. You just got out of emergency surgery. You almost died. You have to take it easy.”
“Oh. I didn’t--” Neal started, still unable to understand, although clearly Peter expected him to. What had happened?
“It’d be just like you to die before your commutation hearing,” Peter muttered under his breath.
“I’m sorry?” Who was dying? His head ached and his mind was spinning.
“Damn right you are. Mozzie has been beside himself. So has El. So has everyone, really. You took a header down the stairs.” Peter accused him, pointing his finger at Neal.
“In front of everyone?” Neal could imagine nothing worse. They’d all think--
“Yeah, Neal, I’m told it was a perfectly elegant swan dive, right off the stairs, right in front of everyone. You got escorted out on a stretcher. So let this be a lesson to you.”
No no no. “I didn’t mean to--I--”
“You made a loud thunk. So, highly doubtful that you did it on purpose. Now go to sleep. No, really, Neal. I want you to sleep, and I’m not answering any more questions.” Peter pulled the covers up to Neal’s chin, tucking him in, sort of, which was weird but almost nice, even if he was uncomfortable lying in this position where he couldn’t move. “Everything else can keep,” Peter was saying, and Neal didn’t really believe him because he knew there were important things he should be saying even if he couldn’t remember them. “I promise.”
Neal blinked. “Peter?” He had something to tell Peter, but he couldn’t remember what it was, and he felt himself falling into sleep, but he didn’t want to be left alone, and he wanted to ask Peter if he would stay, but Peter was still upset with him and besides he needed to go and be with Elizabeth, and he couldn’t--
“You’re not officially off-anklet yet, Caffrey. Which means that as long as you’re trackerless, I’m not going anywhere. Sleep.” Peter’s voice was gruff, but the hand now stroking back Neal’s hair from his eyes was gentle and caring. Eventually Peter’s hand found Neal’s again and hung on, warm and solid.
Neal fell asleep smiling.
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End! Comments are very much appreciated :-) As always, if you got this far, thanks very much for reading.