Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Diana Berrigan, Clinton Jones, Reese Hughes, Elizabeth Burke, Mozzie
Pairings: Peter Burke/Neal Caffrey, (non-graphic, but mentioned OT3)
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Triggers: GSW
Word Count: ~ 2300
Summary: Neal is takes one too many risks, but all is right in the end.
Written
Peter supposes that it is inevitable. Neal’s very existence is defined by the risks he’s taken. All the lies, the cons, the cheats – the games he’s played with people’s lives and livelihoods has been defined by an almost pathological disregard for the consequences of risk. In the years and months he’s been with the FBI, Peter’s attempted to retrain and refocus his friend – to get him to understand the consequences of his actions. Not from just a moral perspective – but from friend to friend (and now lover to lover).
He knows that Neal pays lip service to Peter’s admonitions, but sometimes (a very rare sometimes) a little more than lip service to Peter’s words of caution. Neal is, at heart, a great big ball of id – with little interest in self control. Actually, that’s not true at all. Neal’s got phenomenal self-control, when he chooses to exercise it – it’s just that he rarely does.
Today is not one of those days. Today is a day of flat out, full out, throttles opened, thrusters engaged Neal Caffrey doing what he does best – plunging everyone into mass hysteria and coming out with the prize in hand. Except that today, Neal goes one step too far, and he ends up with a bullet in him. And Peter ends up on his knees, with Neal’s lifeblood spurting through his hands, as he tries to hold back the flood, tries to keep Neal alive as the fragments of hot metal that have torn through his chest continue to wreak havoc.
It feels like an eternity from the time he screams “MAN DOWN” until a bus arrives and EMTs pour out. They gently, gently pull him away as the press gauze and packing into the wound on the right side of Neal’s chest. Peter thanks whatever powers that look over fools and geniuses that the bullet went wide of its target, because though it was from a small caliber weapon, Neal was shot at nearly point blank range.
Peter stands there, helpless as the EMTs work to stabilize Neal and transfer him to the ambulance. He wants to ride with Neal, but they hold him off and Peter truly does know better. But it feels like part of his heart, his soul is in that vehicle racing away, towards the nearest hospital. Neal is, for all intents and purposes, a shot cop and there is not a single hospital emergency room in New York City that doesn’t give super-priority to men and women injured in the line of duty.
“Boss…” It’s Diana. “I can take you there. Jones will go back and do the paperwork.” She looks over at her colleague, who nods in agreement.
Peter turns to her and slowly remembers who he is and what he was doing before everything fell apart. He struggles to form the words, and Diana gently pulls him towards standard issue FBI sedan, pushes him into the passenger seat and buckles him in like he’s a small, helpless child. In a way, he is. Peter’s eyes are unfocused, seeing only Neal’s ashen face and the dark red blood staining the pristine white shirt. Nothing registers – not the trip across town with sirens blaring, not the sharp and highly illegal turns Diana makes as she chased the ambulance to the nearest hospital. Diana, however, wills the car to go faster; she grinds her teeth and wants to scream at the traffic that doesn’t part at the sound of the approaching siren.
Peter is in emotional shock – his hands are shaking and all he can hear is that gunshot and Neal hitting the ground. The sound a real bullet makes as it leaves the chamber is nothing like what you expect. It’s not loud – it’s more like a pop than a bang. The little mousegun that their art thief had been carrying makes about as much noise as a barking toy poodle, but the damage it causes...
It feels like the scene at the airport all over again – except that this time, he doesn’t save Neal’s life. That is still hanging in the balance.
Diana finally pulls up to the hospital emergency entrance. She flashes her badge and drives right up to the door. Peter bolts out of the car and into the hospital, trying to find someone, anyone who can give him information about Neal. He holds up his badge and runs around the intake and nursing stations, until he catches a glimpse of doctors and nurses working frantically around someone in an operating room. Peter approaches doorway, not wanting to interfere, but needing to know what’s going on. He’s oblivious to the blood that’s stained his suit and hands, that’s covering him from collar to belt.
He stands there, watching and listening as the medical jargon flows back and forth. Over the years, Peter’s picked up a few things (mostly from watching ER), and he knows about cell savers and intubation and pulse/ox levels and how crashing is a terrible thing. Someone in the room – a doctor maybe (it’s hard to tell who’s who these days) – shouts for security to get him out of the room (he must have wandered in without realizing it). Security does come and Peter tries to flash his badge but the rent-a-cop gently ignores him. She pulls him out into a private waiting area and asks him if he needs medical assistance.
“That’s my partner in there.” Peter doesn’t elaborate on the fact that he means a life partner as well as his professional partner. The security guard nods gravely and tells him she understands, but he can’t stay and watch – he doesn’t want to endanger the patient, does he? She asks if there’s anyone who should be called, and just as Peter thinks of El, his phone rings. It’s that stupid, stupid rap song and it’s El and he can barely talk. He doesn’t have to – Diana had called her after she left Peter, and El was on her way to the hospital.
Time, as a concept, has no meaning. An hour passes and a nurse comes in and gives Peter a top from a set of scrubs, so he can take off his blood stained clothing. He changes in the men’s room and sees himself. Neal’s dried blood is a series of macabre marks on his face and hands. Peter washes it away, but like Lady Macbeth, he feels that the stains will never come off. Elizabeth finally arrives and she throws herself into Peter’s arms. She feels him shaking and she pulls him back into the waiting room. Peter’s impatience and his anxiety grow exponentially. El has to restrain him from trying to get back into the operating room area.
At the third hour, Moz and June arrive. Moz is twitchy about the hospital and he starts to upbraid Peter for not getting in contact with him immediately. But he sees Peter’s eyes and the flecks of dried blood – Neal’s blood – that are encrusted around Peter’s fingernails and desists.
By the fifth hour, they’ve been joined by Diana and Jones and Hughes.
At the seventh hour, a doctor comes out and asked for Neal’s family. All eyes are on Peter and Elizabeth. They don’t explain their relationship to the doctor – and Peter doesn’t care if the man thinks he’s Neal’s father or brother or lover.
The bullet had nicked a major artery and collapsed Neal’s right lung, but they were able to repair the damage with a Gore-Tex graft. There was no damage to his heart and provided that he doesn’t develop an infection, Neal is given a significant chance of a full recovery. Neal isn’t out of the woods, and the next twenty-four hours will be critical, but the doctor and the rest of the surgical team are confident. Peter won’t be able to see Neal for several more hours.
Peter doesn’t know if he wants to vomit or collapse from relief, and he thinks he’s at significant risk to do both, but he walks back to the waiting contingent of Neal’s friends and tells them the good news. Other than El, it’s only Moz who lingers.
“Suit – you should go home for a bit. Get cleaned up, get a bite to eat. I’ll stay here and keep watch.” Moz’s gaze flickers over to Mrs. Suit and his eyes soften with affection. They nod at each other, in perfect agreement.
Peter wants to stay – but he knows the little man is right. Moz makes for an odd St. Bernard, but there’s no one else who Peter would trust with Neal’s safety right now.
Neal’s eyelids feel like they’ve been weighted down with sandbags. And ironically, his mouth feels like it’s been filled with sand. He rolls his tongue around and yes – it feels like sandpaper. He wonders, caught in the odd state between sleep and wakefulness, if he’s been wandering in the desert. He must have made a sound because the light seeping through his closed eyelids is blocked and someone calls his name.
It’s Peter.
He tries to open his eyes, but they are too heavy or something is keeping them shut. He tries to speak but his mouth is too dry. Someone, Peter, swabs his lips with a wet sponge and gently wipes his eyes, easing away the accumulated crust. Neal’s finally able to blink them opened and of course, nothing’s in focus. His contacts are out and his glasses are probably somewhere completely out of reach.
No, they aren’t. Peter slips them carefully onto his face and suddenly everything is sharp and bright and it hurts to breathe. Peter’s dear, beautiful (yes, beautiful) face is lined with worry and there’s tinge of gray to his skin and at least two days growth of stubble. He tries to talk but nothing comes out but a dry croak and Peter’s there with a cup filled with ice chips but only allows him to take two. He tries to reach up and touch that face, to ease the worry and he doesn’t understand why Peter looks so terrible and why he can’t talk and why everything hurts so much. The beepbeepbeep in the background seems to get just a bit faster
“Shhhh, stay still. Don’t move.” Peter’s warm, dry hand brushes his forehead and Neal’s instantly comforted and everything slows down again. Neal turns his face into Peter’s comforting palm. The pain doesn’t go away as much as it recedes against the tenderness of his lover’s touch.
Neal tries to form the words, tries to find understanding in the chaos of his body. Peter instantly understands.
“You were shot. Corrig got greedy. He shot you point blank after you exchanged cases. You had to have an artery repaired. It’s a good thing that little bastard was only carrying a poodle-shooter.”
Everything comes back to him in a rush and Neal wants to laugh at Peter’s description of the tiny handgun Stefan Corrig pulled on him. It just hurts too much.
Peter feeds him a few more ice chips and as the dryness in his sore throat eases, he’s able to form words.
“How long?”
“It took them seven hours to patch you up – which isn’t bad, considering.” Peter snorts. “You’ve been in and out for about three days. They removed the breathing tube yesterday.”
Neal has vague memories of medical people hovering over him, calling his name, telling him to wake up. He remembers bright lights and pain and the great rush of air into his lungs and the praise and looking up and seeing Elizabeth’s out of focus face with her blue eyes swimming with tears.
He tries to lift his hand to dislodge the tube blowing oxygen into his nostrils. It stinks of plastic and chemicals but he can’t lift his hands, they are shackled to the bed. He’s startled and disturbed and pulls. And all of a sudden Peter’s hand is on his arm.
“Don’t struggle.”
Neal obeys because he can’t think of any reason not to obey Peter, and Peter does something. He’s not unlocking but pulling and tugging and all of a sudden, his hand is loose. He wasn’t cuffed to the bed, but tied there with gauze. He vaguely understands Peter’s explanation that he needed to be restrained so he wouldn’t pull out the IV lines.
He turns his head with an effort to see Peter’s face again.
And he finds it. Peter smiles at him and he feels, if not better, then comforted. Neal tries to smile back at Peter, he tries to tell Peter that everything will be all right, but it’s suddenly too much effort to stay awake. Neal closes his eyes; he pulls off his glasses and lets them fall where they will. He hears Peter pick them up and then he feels Peter near him, and he doesn’t want to let Peter go and he reaches out blindly and then Peter takes his hand, fingers and palms threading together.
Neal doesn’t quite fall asleep – he’s not dreaming but drifting on the drugs that are dripping into his veins. He lets his mind go where it will, and he’s back in Venice, back on the Rialto Bridge, but the city’s empty of everyone – tourists and residents. The only other living creatures are the pigeons that flutter and land and coo. In his mind, their history changes. He doesn’t jump off of the bridge, he doesn’t escape. He simply puts down his bag and he walks into Peter’s arms and holds on tight.
He hears Peter whisper to him, and he’s not sure if it’s Peter-in-Hospital or Peter-In-Venice, but he knows the words are an absolute truth.
“My heart, I am never letting you go.”
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