Work Text:
Bonjour à Nouveau
Hello Again
Peter’s feet are pounding beneath him before he hears the residing thud of Keller’s body as it collided sickeningly against the filthy asphalt. He ignored the lead-like feeling precariously weaving its way up his limbs and coiling about his joints, weighing his bones down to the point of exhaustion.
He ignored the burning in his muscles as his legs stretched further and faster, feet forcefully pressing against the concrete in his panicked haze. His heart had already begun pounding far too rapidly against his ribcage, beating in a hurried succession which threatened to crack through the fragile-feeling prison of his ribs. A sour taste had crawled along his throat and settled unpleasantly on the edge of his tongue as he neared his destination, a heavy feeling like jagged rocks resting at the pit of his stomach.
Climbing down the steps with barely contained worry, he continued to ignore the close numbness of his legs and heaviness of his arms, as if he were supporting the weight of the world and having absolutely naught to do with the pistol loosely clutched in between his long fingers.
A million thoughts simultaneously flooded his mind, worries and fears emerging at an incredible pace and streaming into his consciousness to bubble up in the trembling of his fingers. The signs had all been there; ever present and loud in Keller’s body language, the manner in which he held himself. The assurance in his gaze, the looseness of his shoulders, the confidence reverberating in his taunting tone with words which struck more fear in Peter than the gunshot he’d heard earlier.
A chance to say goodbye.
No. Peter could only deny the facts of what he’d heard, what he’d seen and observed and gathered through the information which he had immediately and subconsciously processed in the raging storm of his mind. Keller had believed what he was saying, not even Peter could deny that. And yet…
“Neal!?” He barely recognised his own voice as it echoed almost tauntingly in his ears, a sound awash with trepidation and dread.
When he reached the bottom of the steps, and he landed so heavily on his feet he had half a mind to believe he’d worn a hole in the ground, his breath left him with the suddenness and immediacy of a storm during a harsh winter. All calm and rational thoughts he had processed, all understanding and comprehension he had gathered which enabled him to resist the panic and evade the overwhelming fear instantaneously crumbled into a thousand miniscule shrapnel pieces as soon as he found the subject of his thoughts.
“Neal!?”
Lying prone, unmoving and so utterly still on concrete blighted and stained, his friend lay with barely the slightest breath to rake through his lithe figure. An image of long, too-frozen limbs resting atop a spreading pool of crimson; splashes of red against the filthy ground like aged paint across a dried canvas. Neal’s once white shirt had become a startling shade of scarlet, jacket and trousers stained beyond salvation. Dark hair alarmingly evident in contrast against chillingly ashen skin, long, thin, talented fingers curled inwards towards a palm outstretched across the dirty floor, a mocking plea for help. Neal lay with barely a beating heart in a devastating painting of his own blood.
Peter didn’t feel himself move. He hadn’t realised he had until his knees collided painfully against the ground beside his friend, trousers immediately absorbing the red, knees instantaneously becoming soaked and latching onto his skin. He barely sensed the movement of his arms, covered in chills with fingers trembling and a fist tightening around his heart as he reached for Neal.
“Neal?” A whisper, a single quiet whisper which echoed within the room like the loudest of calls. “Neal?”
Peter’s breath was quickly leaving him and a mistiness he refused to acknowledge collected behind his eyes. His heart thudded painfully in his chest and he felt an unfamiliar weight against it, and like a dam stopping the flow of water his rationality was stolen from him. His fingers reached out quickly yet with the slightest sliver of fear, and the pads of the digits brushing against Neal’s skin almost tenderly.
“Hey,” his mind caught up to him and he attempted to force some composure and comprehension into his actions, “Neal, hey!”
He edged forward closer and ignored the sickening feeling of his trousers damp and soaked at the knees and beneath. With shaky fingers he felt the cold, clammy skin of Neal’s neck and took a silent moment to relish in the soft thrumming of a weak pulse dancing beneath his touch.
With one hand he felt along Neal’s shirt for the wound, fingers becoming drenched in red as they rested on the younger man’s chest. With the other hand, he tore off his long-sleeved shirt and scrunched it into a fabric mess before pressing it without wait against the gaping hole in Neal’s chest.
Applying pressure without mercy, the material quickly began to absorb the red and emitted the first conscious movement from Neal Peter had yet to see.
Carefully, ever so carefully, Peter applied slightly more force as Neal’s long eyelashes began to flutter slowly, a dark delicate prison against the paleness of his skin. It only took a moment, but soon the agent was staring down at the unfocused ice-blue orbs of his best-friend, tinted with loss and weighed down by exhaustion. Just the sight of those eyes had Peter’s heart sighing in gratuitous relief.
“Hey, hey, buddy, just keep those baby blues open for me, okay?” Peter shifted, his free hand hurrying towards the pocket in his trousers where his phone was. Under the pressure he was applying Neal very slightly shifted, a soft breath escaping rapidly paling lips.
“P’ter…?” A word, quiet, hushed and followed by sharp ragged breathing echoed in his ears. Neal’s voice was weak and his energy seemed to seep from him faster than his inhales.
“Yeah, buddy,” he quickly dialled with shaking fingers and manoeuvred the cell phone to rest between his shoulder and ear, “I got you Neal, just hang in there, you hear?”
He spoke into the receiver quickly with both hands now free to press almost gently against the shirt plastered to Neal’s chest, marvelling at the calmness of his voice as he relayed man down, damn it, get me EMTs-
“Peter…” Another cough and the older man let the phone slip from his grasp to clatter noisily to the filthy ground, immediately forgotten once he’d called for help. Attention now solely focused on his injured friend, he noted how material of his shirt was quickly becoming crimson, how his fingers were dyed so, how the red seemed to stain everything and it wouldn’t stop, it was everywhere, on everything, it was on the floor, on Neal’s shirt, on his hands, on his- on his-
“Peter…?”
“Yeah, hey Neal, just keep talking to me, okay?” His voice broke towards the end, accommodated by the winded wheezing of his friend’s voice as he choked on his own breath. “Neal, hey- Neal-” the younger man stuttered, and something red splattered between his lips.
Blood. Blood dying pale lips and slipping down the side of Neal’s mouth, a thin streak like an ugly mistake on a masterpiece. Jesus Christ.
Blurriness tainted his vision momentarily and he couldn’t see through the corners of his eyes. Moisture collected around his eyelashes but he ignored it because this was not the time-
“I’m,” bloodied lips parted, and Peter’s heart clenched so tightly he almost feared it might burst, “I’m…” Neal paused, as if those words had exhausted him, drained him so entirely of his energy, his life, his-
“Neal, hey- you just hang in- hang in there, Neal, you hear? Just stay with me.”
His hands pressed more forcefully against the wound in a futile attempt to pause or slow or stop the bleeding, and Neal let out a soft cry of pain as if too tired for greater expression. Peter didn’t think about the stickiness on his fingers, how his palms were plastered to the fabric of his shirt with blood, how the red dying Neal’s lips, his skin, his clothes, terrified him, how his silence was like fingers coiling about his heart and squeezing, how his voice seemed to shake and his thoughts seemed to tremble at the sight of his best-friend so immobile, and still, and dying.
Dying, Neal was dying, dying, dying- he was going to-
“Neal!”
Neal kept those pale blue eyes on Peter, eyelashes fluttering every few moments, lips parted ever so slowly because he hadn’t the energy to close them. His voice, quiet and tainted with red, echoed so, so softly, like the dying light at the end of the day-
“Thank… you…”
He blinked the haziness from his sight with tremendous will, forcing down emotion that was threatening to erupt-
No, Peter knew what this was, knew what the artist bleeding beside him was thinking, knew what Peter could never have the heart to say, or think. No, Neal wasn’t doing this, not to him, not now, not after everything.
He felt the tears welling in his eyes, his throat closing as it clogged with emotion. Neal was saying goodbye.
“Don’t you dare Caffrey, don’t you dare, damn it!” His hands were now slick with blood, and Neal was so pale he seemed almost translucent, and their voices both choking and breaking, and so final. “You don’t get to do this, Neal!” He could barely hear his words, tinged with anger and pain and fear over the sudden roaring in his ears. Neal’s eyes fluttered close for a moment, and god if it wasn’t the longest moment Peter had ever known.
“You don’t get to do this to me now, Neal, not now, not ever, you hear!? You don’t get to leave, Neal!”
Another breath, more red seeping between lips and smeared across too-pale skin, and so much fear and anger and trepidation,
“You’re my…” Neal spluttered, voice breaking as he coughed enough crimson to stain his skin, “my best friend, Peter…”
No, god, please, not now, not Neal, not-
“You’re the only one who saw good in me…” Clearer, his voice was clearer and yet so much more broken, and god Peter’s heart was hammering so forcefully he could swear his ribs were cracking with the impact because where else could this pain be coming from?
“You’re my best friend.”
No, god no, Neal oh god, not Neal-
And then Neal closed his eyes, and his heart stopped beating beneath Peter’s hands and his breath left him and his pulse ceased to thrum, and there was more red outside his veins than in, and something twisted in Peter’s chest so agonisingly a cry he didn’t hear was torn from his lips.
Oh god.
Not Neal.
Later, Peter would learn the medics had to pry him off Neal’s body, that everyone else had heard those cries, that his best-friend had died in his arms, and that pain had been a hand clenched around his heart and before it was torn from his chest.
Later, Peter would learn the blurriness in his vision had been from the tears he’d forgotten to shed.
Later, he’d remember feeling them slipping down his skin.
***
Sometime during the car ride he recalled calling El and Mozzie, voice breaking and edged with foreboding as he spoke too few words for fear his rationality would crumble if he said more than what was absolutely necessary.
Wheels scrapping against asphalt and racing through traffic, he didn’t pay mind to the horns blaring the background or the countless traffic laws he knew he’d broken. None of that mattered at the moment.
Pushing down the rising bile at the back of his throat, forcing back the mistiness which had once more collected around the corners of his eyes, ignoring the stickiness of fingers stained with blood that wasn’t his, he knew that none of that would matter for a very, very long while.
So Peter kept driving.
As the tires screeched against the concrete with every hurried swerve and the dying rays of the sun bounced dejectedly off the windscreen, he decidedly did not think about Neal’s last words before he-
He didn’t think about the light fading from those dimming blue eyes, the ashen paleness of that skin, the red staining lips and skin and clothing. He didn’t think about the exhaustion weighed limbs or the trembling of his fingers as he fought for his calm to remain and maintained pressure on a too-far gone wound. He didn’t think about the thrumming which ceased to dance beneath his fingers and the breaths which were stolen far too early.
He wanted to be free.
He tasted salt on his tongue, and his lips felt heavy. The blurriness had returned, and he tightened his hold on the steering-wheel to the point where his knuckles had turned ashen white and the veins on his arms were alarmingly evident. His teeth bit through his bottom lip as he attempted to keep his composure; an attempt in poor futility.
Heart beating loudly in his ears, blood rushing through his veins like Neal’s hadn’t, he kept his eyes focused on the blurred motions of building and cars as he raced past.
Otherwise, he’d have seen his responsibility, his partner, his best-friend, lying still and motionless in a river of crimson as his breath was stolen from him. He’d have seen himself standing in darkness and rain over what used to be.
So Peter kept driving, and did not think about Neal fading in his arms with trembling words past through bloodied lips.
You’re my best-friend.
He wanted to be free.
So Peter kept driving.
***
The bathroom was empty when he arrived.
Having gotten to the hospital only minutes prior, Peter only waited a moment after he had been lead to the small, almost eerily white-washed waiting room before rushing to the nearest restroom.
His fingers had begun to itch by then, and his undershirt was plastered to his skin with blood that wasn’t his and sweat that was. The red had gotten under his fingernails and dashed along his knuckles, no better than the transparent tear marks dying the edges of his eyes and the slightest flesh of his cheeks. Without wait, his stained fingers reached for the nearest tap and twisted it open to full power.
Cold water splashed within a basin already dirtying, a previously clear white to porcelain tainted with red and brown from the blood he forcefully scrubbed from his hands. Leaning over the basin, he thought of naught but getting rid of all the crimson, all the crimson that wasn’t his, from his hands and beneath his fingernails, scrubbing and scrubbing beneath the powerful spray of the tap until his previously stained and pale flesh became a raw pink.
Nail marks adorned his palms when he was finally satisfied with the result, scratches from a crude attempt of washing away all that refused to be washed away.
After he was satisfied to an extent, he washed the grime and tears from his face at the corners of his eyes and along his cheekbones. The cold water provided immense and immediate relief and Peter found himself resting both elbows on the edge of the basin, head hanging low with the majority of his weight resting on the porcelain. Hair falling before his eyes, he stared downwards as the last swirls of reddish water swirled across the white, dancing along the edges before finally seeping into the drain.
He took a moment to gather himself, to relish in the coldness on his flesh and rest his weary limbs before lifting his head the slightest inch.
His eyes met his reflection in the clear mirror placed adjacent to the sink. A pair of exhausted, red-rimmed, shadow-smudged hazel orbs stared back at him, two seemingly fathomless sockets in a bed of pale flash and lips bitten through in anxiety. His hair was an absolute, unsalvageable mess, stained at the edges with an undeniable crimson and so very unruly, laying limp across his creased forehead and casting dark shadows along his eyes.
In the bright lighting of the empty bathroom, Peter could see the reflection of his raw-tinged hands and arms, garlanded by a blood-stained undershirt and trousers he would have taken off already had he another pair. The blood had already begun to dry, but simply having the crimson staining the corners of the shirt and the knees of his pants reminded him of what seemed almost a lifetime away, kneeling by Neal and attempting to halt the flow of blood from the gaping hole in his chest.
It reminded him of Neal’s goodbye, of his breathlessness and pain when his heart ceased to beat beneath Peter’s hold, and it hurt.
He’ll be okay.
A mantra, repeated and repeated and repeated in order to allow Peter to regain some measure of composure. Something echoed in the walls of his mind and whisper almost inaudibly through the prison of his dry lips which allowed him an anchor- a means of remaining rational and awake and together until he heard news of his partner.
He’ll be okay.
Because Neal had to be. The suave, smooth conman with the vulnerable side and a big heart he preferred to hide behind snark and sarcasm. The raw pain and hurt so incredibly evident to naught but Peter when Neal had been refused his well-deserved freedom over and over and over. He wanted to be free, and he had to be okay because that was the only way he could be.
Neal would come back to them, to him, and Peter would guarantee his freedom if nothing else. All his partner had to do was be okay.
The blood he’d washed off his skin and scrapped from underneath his nails was no testament to that. It didn’t matter that his breath had been wickedly thieved from him like the stuttering beat of his heart. It didn’t matter that part of Peter shattered when Neal closed his eyes a final time before the agent was pulled from his friend. It didn’t matter that every time Peter closed his eyes he saw darkness and rain and standing over the casket enveloping a life lived too short.
It didn’t matter that Peter believed something had to be wrong with his heart because the pain which threatened to collapse him was otherwise unexplainable.
Because that wasn’t how it was going to end. It couldn’t be. Neal was going to be okay.
At least, he wiped his still moist eyes with the back of a drying hand, that was what he told himself.
***
Squeak.
Peter was convinced that if Mozzie didn’t stop pacing in the next minute he would wear a hole into the shiny floor of the waiting room.
The man hadn’t stopped moving since he had arrived, presenting the previously empty room with a remarkable amount of morbid animation, because despite all his movements and antics, following the initial confrontation, Mozzie had been incredibly quiet.
Not that Peter could fault him, or was complaining. When he’d first arrived with Elizabeth to find the agent slumped over in an uncomfortable plastic hospital chair, he’d hailed a million questions Peter didn’t have the answers to. His words were awash with panic and worry and a fear Peter had long attempted to bury in his chest as he was interrogated by the other man. When all he’d received were tired, clipped sentences and tired eyes accommodating slouched shoulders, it only took him a moment to devour the sight of Peter’s bloodied clothes before undertaking complete and total silence.
That was until Peter robotically changed into the spare clothes Elizabeth had brought him, only finding the energy to place a single kiss on her forehead in thanks. He had abandoned his bloodied attire in the rubbish bin of one of the bathrooms and hoped to whoever was up there he’d never see them again.
Now, seated beside his wife- unusually quiet too, with nothing by large, damp eyes and nail crests on her palm from clenching her fists in apprehension and anxiety, the only sound which reverberated throughout the room was the echo of Mozzie’s shoes as they squeaked against the linoleum floor.
They’d only been waiting for approximately an hour, Peter knew, and yet it felt like forever and a day. The sands of time seemed to slow, grain by grain trembling through the looking glass in broken motion.
Diana and Jones had called in repeatedly, promising to come as soon as they were able. June had been contacted and was surely speeding on her way by now, having been far from the city during the incident. Peter recalled how she hadn’t asked questions, how only the slight quake of her voice revealed anything at all when he relayed to her his quiet, soft words which were so little yet said so much. In the end, he didn’t even get the chance to ask her to come.
I’ll be there.
And the agent had no doubt that she, like Diana and Jones and Hughes and so many other agents at the bureau would be, because Neal had made an impact. He’d made a difference. He’d saved lives and helped so many and Peter felt his heart shatter into another jagged piece when he thought about all the red underneath his fingernails and plastered onto his skin.
Mozzie kept pacing, the short man having retained his silence with surely a million ideas and notions all too crazed and surreal washing away all rationality and realism in his unique thought processes. Not for the first time, the agent was glad he decided to debate the situation internally. He wasn’t sure he could handle Neal’s best friend’s constant analysing of blood loss, and survival rates, and Neal’s shaky words as he faded beneath Peter’s touch like sand washed away with waves, never to return-
Peter felt himself lean against El a little more, finding strong comfort in the touching of their shoulders and the warmth of her hand over his. He didn’t consider Mozzie further and instead chose to relish in the companionship his love indulged him in. They didn’t need words, they never had. They wouldn’t now, not even when so much needed to be said.
He could feel his energy slowly seeping from him at a rate less hurried that the blood from Neal’s chest. His limbs were becoming weighed down with a heavy numbness not unlike what he’d felt earlier. He couldn’t for the life of him guess exactly what time of day it was, couldn’t focus on anything but the present and the ever audible ticking of his eternal clock as it reverberated within his ears- a constant reminder of that time that wasn’t passing quickly enough.
A thousand thoughts he barely kept at bay bounced around like a pebble hopping through angry tide, only to be controlled by his precision and sheer will. He refused to think about Neal’s earlier words to him, refused to acknowledge how they sounded far too much like goodbye.
Instead, he listened to the constant squeaking of Mozzie’s shoes in the repetitive pattern bouncing off bright linoleum, and waited for news to emerge and raise him from this perdition.
Sitting in a room with his wife, torn with worry and fear, and Neal’s best friend fighting down the strongest surges of negative emotions, all Peter could do was wait.
“You okay?” The soft words echo from beside him, ringing quietly in El’s voice. Mozzie was still moving, not an ounce of attention paid to the couple in the seat.
Peter shifted slightly, feeling the muscles in his back clench traitorously and ignoring it.
“He needs to be okay.” The only words which left his lips, barely ringing above a whisper. He felt the weight of Elizabeth’s head rest on a shoulder, hair tickling his neck and providing more comfort than any words unsaid ever could.
“He will be.” She replied, tone laced with a strange certainty even Peter hadn’t been able to find within himself.
His words had seemed unable to find themselves in that moment, because it all seemed so terribly, terribly simple- so uncoordinated and ugly, so unlike Neal. In that moment, with those soft, quiet words meant for comfort, Peter felt the breath sucked out of him as he remembered all that red.
He had his feet underneath him before he could reconsider his actions, legs rushing almost subconsciously away from the pacing and reassurances and promises. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought he heard footsteps faltering.
How could Neal be okay? Hell, how could anyone be okay? He had lost so much blood, the bullet had come so close to his heart, he, he-
Peter barely recognised he’d retraced his earlier steps, feet taking him back to the still empty restroom. He needed a moment, or two, or seven- to regain his composure. He felt his nerves fraying at the seams, felt his heart stuttering in a ribcage that was becoming too tight. God, he needed to breathe.
His elbows found that sink again- the vivid white tainted with the reddish brown that had come from beneath his fingernails and scrubbed off the flesh of his palms.
He hung his head, weight leaning against the cold porcelain once more. He couldn’t see his reflection this time. He didn’t want to see the fathomless eyes lacking all certainty and shadowed by grief. He didn’t need to remember all the blood, and the misty eyes, and the pain-
“Peter?”
A voice, soft and smooth and edged with the slightest hesitance broke him from his morbid thoughts. A voice he recognised instantly.
“El?”
“Hey.” He felt a light touch on his shoulder after the echoing of footsteps as they neared him. His wife’s touch seemed to work the knots from his muscles like magic. “How’re you doing?”
Peter just wanted to melt into her sweet touch, fall back into the blankets of their bed and lie with her as they forgot the world around them. He didn’t want to remember Neal’s stuttering breaths as they wouldn’t come. He wanted to say he was fine, he wanted to say, I’m okay honey- just taking a break.
But he couldn’t lie to El. He never could.
“I’m scared, El.”
The words left his lips before he was able to completely process them. Three short words which wrapped fingers around his heart and squeezed.
He could see the shadow of El’s pressed lips from the corner of his eyes. “I know, honey,” she replied, “so am I.”
Tension had begun to seep from his bones when her fingers found his arm, but he couldn’t just leave it there, he needed to- he needed to-
He shook his head, and his voice shook and all the despair and loss and uncertainty came back in that single moment tenfold. “What if I lose him?”
He barely heard her reply of oh Peter, before he felt the soft fabric of her shirt on his cheek as she pulled him into powerful hug, her arms curling around him and pulling him close with a hold that threatened to dissolve all the worry and trepidation.
He did not a thing more, after that, and neither did El. They walked by to their seats in unadjusted, rugged movements and realised no more could be said.
What if I lose him?
So they didn’t talk anymore after that, and the almost-silence washed over them like the too-slow trembling sands of time.
***
Hurried footsteps echoed loudly as they neared the waiting room, and Peter had to quiet his heart and quell his disappointment when he realised it wasn’t the doctor or a nurse bearing any news.
Jones and Diana arrived together, still in dirtied suits from the heist and guns holstered around their hips. The fact that their shoes had left muddied tracks across the bright floor no one paid attention to told him that they’d come as soon as they could.
So did Diana’s ponytail sinking lower and sliding down her back in a messy manner she’d never usual allow, and the uncertainty and anxiety swirling in deep rugged pools in Jones’ stare when the other agent met his eyes.
Diana was the first to say anything, once Peter and El stood up to meet the two other agents and Mozzie finally halted his repetitive pacing. He noted how the skin on her lip seemed worn, like she had been wearing it with her teeth with the same apprehension reflected in the edge of her voice.
“Any news?”
Peter felt the time ticking by even subconsciously.
He shook his head slowly, and spoke a single word, “No.”
A rush of discontent painted the irises of her eyes as they dimmed, but she nodded understandingly like she had expected this.
“Hughes will be here,” she replied after a second, as if it had just come to mind, “and guys from the bureau- once everything’s wrapped up. We could barely get away ourselves.” Peter nodded, he’d figured as much. Diana took a moment before continuing with the same, remarkably uncharacteristic hesitance, “Now what?”
Peter didn’t reply. The weight of his bones and the heaviness of his limbs kept him from doing so. Neal had been shot. Neal, who he was supposed to protect. Neal’s heart gave in beneath his fingers. Peter didn’t reply because he wasn’t quite sure how.
Now what?
“Now we wait.” Jones added instead when no one had spoken for a moment, words seeming to still Peter’s internal clock. He returned to his previous seat beside El, and Jones and Diana took the chairs by him as silence washed over the waiting room again like a heavy immoveable cloak.
Mozzie returned to pacing, and they waited.
***
When the doctor finally emerged through the long, white-washed corridor leading to the waiting room, everyone was on their feet and standing straight before him quicker than any words had a chance of passing his lips.
Hearts held in their hands, Peter and the other occupants in the room had stood still and aware and just as damningly apprehensive as one another. It had been a tremendously slow six or so hours, according to the agent’s internal clock at least, filled with cheap coffee and shifting on uncomfortable cheap plastic chairs and constant worried pacing.
And now, teeth grit, jaws clenched and eyes wide open and dry, Peter, El, Jones, Diana and Mozzie stood straight before the man whose words they knew would either lift or place the weight of the whole damn world on their shoulders.
It seemed no words need have been spoken, though. They were the only ones in the room. The doctor- an elderly gentlemen with a neat greying beard and sharp, assertive eyes assessing behind the glass of thick spectacles, smiled
The doctor smiled, and Peter felt all was right in the world again.
***
It had been an incredibly narrow miss, the doctor had told them.
The bullet had been fired at an acute angle, point-blank. With the velocity, speed and weight of the lead, it had been because of a one in a million chance that it lodged itself in the back of one of Neal’s ribs. If it had gone straight through, he would have bled out almost twice as quickly and help would not have arrived in time racing at two hundred miles an hour. If the bullet had been fired at a more diagonal angle, it would have hit Neal’s heart causing instantaneous death. If the flow of blood had been staunched to a slighter degree, Neal would have lost almost forty-two percent of his blood count, leading to hypovolemia and shock and thus the immediate shutting down of significant organs such as his heart and lungs.
Neal had flat-lined twice, once in Peter’s arms and the second on the ambulance before paramedics were able to successfully stabilise him. The doctor said they almost lost him once more on the operating table, and if they had, there wouldn’t have been a next time.
Regardless, the emergency operation required two surgeons, five theatre nurses, six hours and twenty-three minutes of intensive surgery, forty-three stitches bound to leave hell of a scar, and two full bags of transfusive blood to make up for the approximate thirty-eight percent Neal had lost.
It had been an incredibly narrow miss, Peter realised.
So narrow Jones’ strong hold barely kept him on his feet when he stumbled, leading him to sit back down on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs. A sudden dizziness had overcome him, and Peter forced himself to breathe through the storm because it was over. Neal was okay.
He barely noted Mozzie’s sudden disappearance over the intense, loud roaring in his ears and the doctor’s words echoing like a broken record in his mind.
He’s just been moved to recovery, and the surgeons believe he’ll be there until sometime tomorrow morning in order to ensure there is no significant post-operatic stress or decline. After that, he’ll be transferred to the ICU- the intensive care unit- in order to be further elaborately monitored and stabilised so chances of health deterioration are as minimised as possible. Once we understand that his organs and body are able to successfully support themselves without fault or threat of collapse, he will be moved to the south ward. You’ll be able to visit him there.
Neal was going to be okay.
*
When Peter glanced at the watch on his wrist on the drive back home, it read ten forty-nine.
He could finally see Neal in less than eighteen hours.
It had taken some measure of persuasion to get him to go back with El and shower, change, eat, attempt to sleep. There would have been no point but to further fray his nerves had he stayed in that waiting room.
Jones and Diana promised they would return as soon as Peter called them with news. The doctor whose name Peter couldn’t remember for the life of him said that they’d be able to visit the reformed man sometime around four or five in the evening the next day.
Regardless of the news that Neal had survived, not all the pressure was relieved from Peter’s chest. There still existed a knot which twisted painfully in between his ribs every time he thought of his CI, because despite everything, all he could see was red.
He knew it was illogical to believe that Neal was going to be anything other than okay, but he couldn’t help but latch onto the fact that he needed to see him alive and well so he’d finally be able to completely process it. He knew the doctor had said he was currently stable and getting better, but after the initial wave of incredible relief which removed a weight so heavy he was almost driven to his knees, he knew he needed to see the young man with his own eyes before the words he’d heard sounded like anything more than meaningless.
So he went home with El, and spent too long under blistering hot rays of the shower to wash away red only he could see. He changed into comfortable clothing and didn’t think about the bloodstains on the rich fabric of Neal’s expensive suit. He robotically swallowed down soup which turned flavourless as soon as it touched his tongue and forced it with sheer will to remain down his throat. And then, close to midnight, he lay in bed with El curled in his arms and eyes wide open and he considered everything he shouldn’t.
He hadn’t heard from Mozzie since he had vanished after the doctor’s visit, but he was sure the paranoid man would be back at the hospital as soon as he knew he could gain access to Neal. He left Diana to call Hughes and tell him to wonderful news because he wasn’t sure he could keep his voice from breaking or trembling beneath the tremendous weight of the words. Jones told everyone at the bureau for the same reason, and Peter had never been more thankful for his friends.
Now, he laid stiffly on the bed, despite its offering of warmth and comfort and attempted to swallow down all the emotions of the previous day. He pushed down the pain, the worry, the trepidation and apprehension and tragic uncertainty. He refused to think about all the red underneath his fingernails and on Neal’s skin, and allowed the doctor’s words and Elizabeth’s comfortable weight in his arms to anchor him.
Neal was going to be okay.
With that, he felt the slightest sliver of something warm slip through the prison of his eyelashes and down the side of his face. With that, he closed his eyes a final time that night and allowed the persistent weight heavy on his shoulders to lessen for a moment as he fell into a deep, exhausted sleep with a twisted relief and worry still dancing on his mind.
He could see Neal in less than seventeen hours.
***
When Peter had gotten the call from the hospital that Neal was out of the intensive care unit, he and Elizabeth drove down almost as fast as he had the previous day.
The south ward was near the back of the hospital, so that was where they entered from. Moving in, Peter desperately attempted to keep his composure as he spoke to a young receptionist and asked her for the room number.
Rushing to room ninety-three, Peter saw Mozzie already there, standing bereft of his usual tense shoulder and paranoid glare. Instead, the shorter man stood outside the open door peering in, with impassive, frozen features. Mozzie was pale, and his red-rimmed eyes were emphasised further as his lips remained parted and unmoving, as if he were seeing a devastating sight for the first time.
Peter felt his heart miss a beat.
He almost ran with El beside him and landed beside Mozzie, a hundred thoughts streaming through his mind because god, what if something’s happened? What if-
But no, nothing had. Peter landed beside Mozzie with his chest constricting and looking inside. He immediately understood his expression.
An incessant beeping drew his gaze into the room. It was the robotic, constant rhythm Peter was all too familiar with, monitoring Neal’s vitals and pulse. And it did, as the young man lay there just as still and unmoving as he had when Peter was attempting to staunch the flow of blood from the bullet in his chest.
Neal was ashen, so pale it took Peter a moment to recognise where his limbs ended and the white sheets he lay atop began. The dark of his hair and eyelashes seemed so ridiculously emphasised they bore a remarkable contrast, just as the smudged shadows beneath his closed eyes did. His lips were colourless and his palms were curled inwards as he lay on his back with thick white bandages wrapped tightly around his chest. From here, Peter could see the slightest stains of pink against the otherwise clean material.
Oh god.
He half naively expected Neal to just begin to twitch, to present some cliché sign of life. Not in his entirety did Peter think he would ever see the younger man so inanimate and still, like all the life had bled from his veins. Never again did he want to.
If it weren’t for the beeping of the hospital machines by the side, Peter could have honestly believed Neal was dead.
“Jesus.” He said, words slipping from his mouth before he could choke on his own voice.
He felt Mozzie shift beside him as he readjusted his stance.
“Yeah.” Was all he replied.
***
Peter sat at one side of Neal’s bedside, whilst Mozzie took the other.
It was mostly in silence after El moved to get coffee for the three of them, except for the other man’s quiet, smooth voice reading the first part of The Divine Comedy aloud. Peter had never read the piece of classic literature before, so he found himself lulled into a quiet trance as he listened with one ear to the reading and with the other to any movements Neal might have made.
The young man remained still and unmoving, but Peter liked to think he knew they were there, that somehow- trapped in the deep, unforgiving throes of unconsciousness, Neal could hear Mozzie’s almost nostalgic tone and the soft ruffling of pages as he went through the long poem.
“It’s his favourite, you know.” Peter hadn’t even realised Mozzie had paused in his reading. He was surprised when his companion suddenly spoke, and took a second to glance him. Neal’s friend was staring at the too-still forger with something akin to exhaustion and tension still dancing about in his gaze, not unlike what Peter had seen in his reflection that morning.
He felt a slight smile stretch his lips. “It would be, wouldn’t it? The paradoxical irony of a hero traversing through the depths of hell to reach the love of his life.” He replied, almost surprised by how much context he’d managed to gather from the poetic, olden text.
“Yeah…” Mozzie spoke, his voice edging towards something like sadness as it dipped in pitch. “You know he has three copies in his apartment? One of them is in Italian. He said there’s nothing like consuming a story in all its originality and intended meaning. No translation could suffice once he’d read it.”
Peter felt himself really smile for the first time since he scrubbed all the red from his flesh. “That sounds just like him,” he took in Neal’s prone form, and managed to keep the beeping of the machines in the picture to tell himself he was still breathing, “I didn’t know he knew Italian.”
The other man shook his head, lifting the book to his line of vision again as if in intent to continue reading. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he learnt it just to read the book.”
Yeah, Peter thought silently, that sounds like Neal.
There was a moment of silence when Peter noticed a bow to the sharp, edged curve of Mozzie’s shoulders. He hadn’t started reading again, and the agent could sense he had something to say. He was almost going to ask, what is it? But Mozzie saved him the trouble.
“He trusts you, you know.”
The words took him by surprise, but Peter didn’t let it show. He and Mozzie didn’t often speak of things like this, so he kept his voice measured and aware when he replied, all too curious as to where their conversation would go.
“I know.”
Mozzie turned to him almost immediately, and there was something painful and unfamiliar in his stare when he responded.
“I don’t think you do, Peter.” Peter was about to argue, about to say Yes, because I trust him- but held his tongue when the other man continued. “He was torn when El was kidnapped,” Peter didn’t intervene, “and he fought with his father when he learnt what he’d done.
“You know that Neal’s been searching for his biological family his entire life?” Something changed in Mozzie’s tone, something certain, “I mean sure, he could read whatever about his father or mother, but I could always tell there was this… this hope in him that one day he’d find out something Ellen didn’t tell him…” His voiced trailed and he quietened. Peter felt his heart beat faster because this wasn’t anything like he’d ever spoken about before, not with Neal, not with El, and certainly not with Mozzie.
“And then James Bennett comes back into his life, and Neal- Neal finally found his father, you know?” He paused, “He finally began to piece together his past, he finally began to find out the truth- what he’d been looking or his entire life- and you know what he does the moment you’re threatened Peter?”
Peter does, Peter knows all too well, but he didn’t say a thing because this was something Mozzie had to say. This was something he needed to hear.
“He gives it all up. You know he could have just gone away with Bennett? He could have run and no one would have ever found him again. He would have been free.” The machine continued to beep a constant rhythm which almost symbolised what Peter’s pulse wasn’t doing. “He risked prison again; he was willing to give up everything to help you. You know how much it hurt him when we ran? All those years he was with you Peter, it wasn’t because he had to be. It was because chose to stay.”
And look where that got him, a bitter voice in his mind quips. The agent shut it down because this wasn’t the time to dwell on the guilt, the omnipresent guilt he knew could consume him if he allowed it.
“Don’t take it lightly when I say he trusts you Peter. I just felt like you had to know.”
Peter didn’t know what to say, how to reply to what Mozzie had just told him. He knew Neal trusted him, hell he’d told him before. But when the other man told him, so uncharacteristically serious and exhausted, Peter felt almost overwhelmed. Because this, this was precious. Neal and Peter and their bond, it was special and god, when Neal woke up Peter was going to tell him, apologise for not being in time, inform him of the weight which resided on his shoulders for the longest time and the hours he’d spent scrubbing the red of his skin when he knew there was nothing there.
He swallowed, “Mozzie I-”
He didn’t get the chance to finish. Almost as soon as Mozzie had paused, he had stood up and placed his book on Neal’s bedside. He just looked at Peter for a moment,
“Just remember what I said, Peter.”
And with that, he left. He walked back out the door like he hadn’t been sitting with the agent for hours, waiting for El to bring back coffee. But Peter knew the other man wouldn’t be far, not at a time like this. He knew he probably needed to clear his mind and organise his thoughts just as Peter did.
And yet…
Cough.
Peter snapped from his thoughts when the sound quietly rang out. His eyes found Neal’s form, the hitching of his breath, the twitch of his fingers against the fabric of the sheets, the subconscious swallowing as he attempting to moisten his dry throat.
Peter was up in moments. He immediately rang for a nurse and placed his hand over Neal’s own frozen one, almost taken aback by the sheer coldness of his skin.
He’s okay. He’s okay.
The younger man took a moment to regain his bearings before shifting, and his dark lashes fluttered open against pale flesh to reveal icy blue eyes. Neal seemed to catalogue his predicament for a moment before he spoke, tone and movements still ragged and laden with uncertainty,
“P’ter…” His voice was hoarse like he’d been screaming for hours previous and immediately Peter had moved to lean over the side and pick up the glass of iced water and straw which had been left.
“Hey there, buddy, don’t talk- just give me a minute.” He scrambled for the remote controlling the electronic bed. “You okay to sit up?”
Neal closed his eyes before opening them again, orbs becoming immediately more aware and knowing. The younger man nodded and rolled his shoulders as he worked out the tension from his bones. “Yeah,” he replied shallowly, “I’m good…”
Peter pressed the required buttons to raise the bed slightly and bend it so that Neal was sitting up without any pressure applied onto his chest. When he finished, he immediately placed the remote back to its previous location and leaned over Neal to hand him the water.
“You in any pain?” The doctor had said they’d hyped Neal up with powerful numbing agent and sedatives to take the edge off. The pain would come eventually, it just wouldn’t be immediate and could once more be warded off with Neal’s prescribed medication.
Neal shook his head as Peter had expected, but the younger man’s hands seemed to tremble immeasurably, and Peter knew if he let Neal hold that cup by himself all the water would be spilt before it reached his pale lips. So instead, he handed him the cup and securely placed his own hands atop Neal’s as the younger man took short shallow sips.
Almost immediately, a certain relief came upon Neal and colour seemed to seep slowly back into his skin like blood returning to his veins. When he finished drinking, slowly and with pauses as instructed by Peter, the agent returned to cup to the table and Neal leant back with a sigh, seeming to almost melt into the pillow his friend had placed comfortably behind him.
“Hey.” Neal said simply, voice much clearer.
Peter had to find his voice before replying.
“Hey.” He answered, and the biggest smile stretched his cheeks. “Good to have you back, Neal.”
Neal didn’t waste a moment. “Did I go somewhere?” There, Peter could spot the cheekiness and the sly tone from miles away. Neal was okay.
“For a while, yeah.” A sober mood settled over his words, but it didn’t deter the older man. “But you’re back now. Just…” Peter sank back into his previously emptied chair, and took hold of Neal’s cold hand in an attempt to warm it. “Don’t go doing that again.”
Neal offered a slight, but true smile filled with relief and hope and all things wonderful. He took a glance at the bedside and saw the translated version of The Divine Comedy. “Mozzie was here?”
Peter nodded with a smile. “Still is. Wouldn’t leave your bedside. El too, and Jones, Diana, Hughes, June and guys from the bureau will be coming by when the doc says you’re allowed to have more visitors.”
Something in Neal’s eyes seemed to warm, and this time, his look was as sincere as Peter had ever seen.
“You missed me…” Humour crawled into his words, and the remaining weight began to dissipate off Peter’s shoulders at a speed so rapid the corners of his eyes had begun to blur. When he replied, his words were filled with more promises than his voice could ever possibly portray say...
“Yeah, Neal. I missed you.” I’m sorry, I’m glad you’re back, don’t scare me like that again, if it’s the last thing I do I’ll make sure you’re free.
“I know.” And Peter relished in the life that seemed to seep into his orbs. The vivid, bright life he hadn’t seen since his hands were dyed red with Neal’s blood was coming back.
He was okay.
When their eyes met, everything they couldn’t verbally say was there. Everything precious that would be lost in translation was there. Everything that was anything between them didn’t need to be said. His relationship with Neal, his partner, his best-friend, his family, it was immeasurable with words, beyond explanation. So he tightened his hand over Neal’s and told him everything he never could.
“You’re going to be free Neal. I’ll make sure of it, if it’s the last thing I ever do.”
He was serious, and he needed his friend to know. But Neal didn’t answer how he’d expected. There was no disappointment or regret in his voice or eyes his motions.
When he spoke, Peter’s world stilled like the sands of time had the night previous, like the squeak of Mozzie’s shoes against linoleum hadn’t, like the blood flowing from Neal’s chest wouldn’t.
When Neal replied with warm eyes and a smile on his lips and colour returning to his cheeks, Peter finally felt everything come together.
“I’m already free, Peter.”
Neal was okay, and the world kept spinning.
***
Fin.