White Collar Fic - The Pavement Cracks
Dec. 15th, 2012 12:20 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: The Pavement Cracks
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, Mozzie, Diana Berrigan, Clinton Jones, Reese Hughes (implied Peter/Elizabeth/Neal)
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~1400
Summary: In the hours that follow a freak accident, Peter fears that something so terribly precious to him will be lost forever.
A/N: The for Day Seven (the next to last) of my Fic-Can-Ukah fics, fordmk0064, who picked the prompt, Something Precious We Lost – Peter/Neal. Lots of angst and hurt/comfort. And it's still December 14th somewhere, so technically I am not late.
__________________
It started at as an ordinary day, one day in a long stretch of exceedingly, surprisingly ordinary days. Not that Peter had completely dropped his guard, because when Neal was involved, chaos was certain to follow. Still, though, he wasn’t expecting things to end up like, with Neal's blood on his hands and something so terribly precious slipping away.
“Peter, the paramedics are here.” Diana tried to pull him away, but he couldn’t leave Neal, not like this.
“Sir – you’ll have to move.” Someone pulled him to his feet and pushed him aside. He stood there, as close as possible, while the EMTs worked on Neal. Vitals were checked, then his pupils, and but from this distance, Peter couldn’t see if they were unevenly dilated. A brace was affixed with blocks to keep Neal’s head from moving. A back board was carefully eased under him. A myriad other precautions were taken and the medics cleared Neal for transport.
He wanted to ride with him, he couldn’t bear the thought of having to follow. But Peter knew that was impossible – he’d be too much in the way and Neal’s condition was precarious.
“Come on.” Diana tugged at his coat. “I’ll put the bubble on and we'll be just a few seconds behind the ambulance.”
He let Diana put him into her car. He didn't see the traffic in front of him, but Neal running down a fleeing suspect. He should have known better – that wasn’t his job. He wasn’t an FBI agent and he wasn’t Superman. Neal was - damn it is – a civilian specialist with the Bureau. He had no business chasing after anyone, especially not in imported and handmade Italian leather shoes.
The ambulance took off and Peter saw Neal go down, slipping on a patch of ice. He saw him hit the pavement, the back of his head making contact before the rest of his body. The sirens wailed and Peter kept hearing the thud-thud of bone hitting pavement. The flashing red lights was Neal’s blood that pooled onto the sidewalk, steam obscenely rising from it.
Lennox Hill was ten minutes crosstown, seven and a half as the ambulance cut through traffic. Diana drove aggressively, riding the emergency vehicle’s bumper until they pulled into the hospital’s emergency bay. The car barely stopped before Peter was out, watching as Neal was off-loaded. Once the handoff was made, he approached the lead EMT.
“How is he?”
The woman looked grim. “His vital’s are thready.”
He remembered enough of his basic first aid training to ask, “Are - are his pupils reactive?”
She nodded, “Sluggish, though. But he’s breathing on his own. What a freak accident, to slip on a sidewalk like that.” The crew called to her and she left Peter standing there. He didn’t move - paralyzed in his own way.
“Boss?”
He shook himself out of his daze. “Di - yeah?”
“They need you inside - Neal’s medical history. Stuff like that.” Once again, he let her maneuver him around, presenting him to the person who need to complete the intake. The questions were routine, answers he knew by heart. He’d done this before - Neal had been grazed by a stray bullet downtown, he sprained his ankle a year ago. Nothing serious like this. Peter could remember thinking how Neal must have been born under one damn lucky star. In all the years he’d known him, the man had never been seriously ill or (thankfully) injured, but that all changed now as he signed the form giving the hospital consent to perform surgery.
Peter froze at her last question, “Do you know if Mr. Caffrey has an advanced directive?”
Unlike every other time, the answer to this question mattered. “Yes, he does.”
She asked if he could get a copy for his file, given the nature of Neal’s injury. They completed the rest of the intake and the admin told him that someone would come out to speak with him, and to take a seat.
Diana was in the waiting room. Clinton arrived. “I’ve called Elizabeth and she said she’d reach out to Mozzie. She’ll be here soon.”
He felt like he should be doing something, not just sitting around waiting. Within the hour, Hughes and half the office were in the waiting room. His team clustered around him, giving what comfort they could. Peter took some small comfort in that. They all cared about Neal, he was one of them now.
Elizabeth came in, Moz on her heels. And still they waited.
Diana handed him a cup of the world’s worst coffee, worse than the swill at the office by an order of magnitude. And they waited some more.
Six hours later, as the last of the daylight disappeared behind the skyscrapers, someone called out for “Agent Peter Burke.” He looked up as a middle-aged man in clean surgical scrubs and a white coat approached.
“You have news about Neal - Neal Caffrey?”
He nodded, introduced himself as one of the neurosurgeons who operated on Neal. The man drew Peter off - away from everyone - to talk.
“How is he?”
“Mr. Caffrey’s condition is critical and his progress over the next seventy-two hours will be very closely watched.”
That told Peter nothing. “How much damage? Brain damage?”
“It’s too early to tell. Mr. Caffrey is responding to sensory input - he isn’t paralyzed. But until he’s conscious, we won’t know the extent of his injuries. There was significant trauma from the impact as well as damage from the secondary impact. We repaired the damaged blood vessels and that should minimize the swelling and the likelihood of additional damage.” The doctor continued, but Peter barely followed as the explanation become more clinical.
The doctor paused for a breath and Peter jumped in with a simple question. “Is he in a coma?”
Of course the answer wasn’t as simple. “He’s being kept in deep sedation and on a ventilator to regulate his oxygen intake. We’ve placed a catheter into a ventricle of the brain, which will allow us to monitor the intercranial pressure and enable excess cerebrospinal fluid to drain, reducing the pressure in his skull. This is critical to prevent on-going damage.”
“How long will you keep Neal under?”
“Like I said, we’re monitoring him carefully. If we don’t need to operate again, we will start bringing him out of sedation as soon as we can. It could be tonight or it could be three days - it all depends on the patient.” The man gave him a grim smile. “Mr. Caffrey survived surgery, he isn’t paralyzed. He’s young, healthy and in the best possible care.”
“Okay, okay. When can I see him?”
“A few hours, I suggest you go home and get a few hours rest. It will be a while before you can see him - the nurses on the neurosurgical ward can give you a better idea.” The doctor pulled a pad out and wrote down a number. “Call before coming back, for your sake.”
Peter couldn’t think of anything else to ask, and the doctor left. Peter went back to the waiting room and briefed everyone the best he could. Most of his team peeled off, back to the office, home; Hughes, Diana and Clinton stayed until he told them that he was going to go home, too.
Suddenly, it was just him and Elizabeth and Moz, who’d been a silent rock all these long hours.
Elizabeth took his hand. “Do you want to stay?”
Part of him feared that if he left, something terrible would happen. It was irrational, but this was Neal - as much a part of him as the woman whose hand held his. Peter didn’t really think that his presence would prevent anything, but he couldn’t bear the thought of not being here if something terrible did happen.
“Yeah - I do. Please?” He really wasn’t asking permission and Elizabeth knew that.
“Of course we’ll stay.” She looked over at Moz.
“I’m not going anywhere either.” There was none of Mozzie’s usual belligerence, and Peter found himself grateful for the man’s presence.
They found a trio of lounge chairs in the main waiting room and Peter called up to the recovery ward to ask them to contact him once Neal could have visitors. They settled down for the long wait, taking comfort in each other and in the hope that Neal was still alive. That this was a vigil and not a wake.
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, Mozzie, Diana Berrigan, Clinton Jones, Reese Hughes (implied Peter/Elizabeth/Neal)
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~1400
Summary: In the hours that follow a freak accident, Peter fears that something so terribly precious to him will be lost forever.
A/N: The for Day Seven (the next to last) of my Fic-Can-Ukah fics, for
dmk0064, who picked the prompt, Something Precious We Lost – Peter/Neal. Lots of angst and hurt/comfort. And it's still December 14th somewhere, so technically I am not late.It started at as an ordinary day, one day in a long stretch of exceedingly, surprisingly ordinary days. Not that Peter had completely dropped his guard, because when Neal was involved, chaos was certain to follow. Still, though, he wasn’t expecting things to end up like, with Neal's blood on his hands and something so terribly precious slipping away.
“Peter, the paramedics are here.” Diana tried to pull him away, but he couldn’t leave Neal, not like this.
“Sir – you’ll have to move.” Someone pulled him to his feet and pushed him aside. He stood there, as close as possible, while the EMTs worked on Neal. Vitals were checked, then his pupils, and but from this distance, Peter couldn’t see if they were unevenly dilated. A brace was affixed with blocks to keep Neal’s head from moving. A back board was carefully eased under him. A myriad other precautions were taken and the medics cleared Neal for transport.
He wanted to ride with him, he couldn’t bear the thought of having to follow. But Peter knew that was impossible – he’d be too much in the way and Neal’s condition was precarious.
“Come on.” Diana tugged at his coat. “I’ll put the bubble on and we'll be just a few seconds behind the ambulance.”
He let Diana put him into her car. He didn't see the traffic in front of him, but Neal running down a fleeing suspect. He should have known better – that wasn’t his job. He wasn’t an FBI agent and he wasn’t Superman. Neal was - damn it is – a civilian specialist with the Bureau. He had no business chasing after anyone, especially not in imported and handmade Italian leather shoes.
The ambulance took off and Peter saw Neal go down, slipping on a patch of ice. He saw him hit the pavement, the back of his head making contact before the rest of his body. The sirens wailed and Peter kept hearing the thud-thud of bone hitting pavement. The flashing red lights was Neal’s blood that pooled onto the sidewalk, steam obscenely rising from it.
Lennox Hill was ten minutes crosstown, seven and a half as the ambulance cut through traffic. Diana drove aggressively, riding the emergency vehicle’s bumper until they pulled into the hospital’s emergency bay. The car barely stopped before Peter was out, watching as Neal was off-loaded. Once the handoff was made, he approached the lead EMT.
“How is he?”
The woman looked grim. “His vital’s are thready.”
He remembered enough of his basic first aid training to ask, “Are - are his pupils reactive?”
She nodded, “Sluggish, though. But he’s breathing on his own. What a freak accident, to slip on a sidewalk like that.” The crew called to her and she left Peter standing there. He didn’t move - paralyzed in his own way.
“Boss?”
He shook himself out of his daze. “Di - yeah?”
“They need you inside - Neal’s medical history. Stuff like that.” Once again, he let her maneuver him around, presenting him to the person who need to complete the intake. The questions were routine, answers he knew by heart. He’d done this before - Neal had been grazed by a stray bullet downtown, he sprained his ankle a year ago. Nothing serious like this. Peter could remember thinking how Neal must have been born under one damn lucky star. In all the years he’d known him, the man had never been seriously ill or (thankfully) injured, but that all changed now as he signed the form giving the hospital consent to perform surgery.
Peter froze at her last question, “Do you know if Mr. Caffrey has an advanced directive?”
Unlike every other time, the answer to this question mattered. “Yes, he does.”
She asked if he could get a copy for his file, given the nature of Neal’s injury. They completed the rest of the intake and the admin told him that someone would come out to speak with him, and to take a seat.
Diana was in the waiting room. Clinton arrived. “I’ve called Elizabeth and she said she’d reach out to Mozzie. She’ll be here soon.”
He felt like he should be doing something, not just sitting around waiting. Within the hour, Hughes and half the office were in the waiting room. His team clustered around him, giving what comfort they could. Peter took some small comfort in that. They all cared about Neal, he was one of them now.
Elizabeth came in, Moz on her heels. And still they waited.
Diana handed him a cup of the world’s worst coffee, worse than the swill at the office by an order of magnitude. And they waited some more.
Six hours later, as the last of the daylight disappeared behind the skyscrapers, someone called out for “Agent Peter Burke.” He looked up as a middle-aged man in clean surgical scrubs and a white coat approached.
“You have news about Neal - Neal Caffrey?”
He nodded, introduced himself as one of the neurosurgeons who operated on Neal. The man drew Peter off - away from everyone - to talk.
“How is he?”
“Mr. Caffrey’s condition is critical and his progress over the next seventy-two hours will be very closely watched.”
That told Peter nothing. “How much damage? Brain damage?”
“It’s too early to tell. Mr. Caffrey is responding to sensory input - he isn’t paralyzed. But until he’s conscious, we won’t know the extent of his injuries. There was significant trauma from the impact as well as damage from the secondary impact. We repaired the damaged blood vessels and that should minimize the swelling and the likelihood of additional damage.” The doctor continued, but Peter barely followed as the explanation become more clinical.
The doctor paused for a breath and Peter jumped in with a simple question. “Is he in a coma?”
Of course the answer wasn’t as simple. “He’s being kept in deep sedation and on a ventilator to regulate his oxygen intake. We’ve placed a catheter into a ventricle of the brain, which will allow us to monitor the intercranial pressure and enable excess cerebrospinal fluid to drain, reducing the pressure in his skull. This is critical to prevent on-going damage.”
“How long will you keep Neal under?”
“Like I said, we’re monitoring him carefully. If we don’t need to operate again, we will start bringing him out of sedation as soon as we can. It could be tonight or it could be three days - it all depends on the patient.” The man gave him a grim smile. “Mr. Caffrey survived surgery, he isn’t paralyzed. He’s young, healthy and in the best possible care.”
“Okay, okay. When can I see him?”
“A few hours, I suggest you go home and get a few hours rest. It will be a while before you can see him - the nurses on the neurosurgical ward can give you a better idea.” The doctor pulled a pad out and wrote down a number. “Call before coming back, for your sake.”
Peter couldn’t think of anything else to ask, and the doctor left. Peter went back to the waiting room and briefed everyone the best he could. Most of his team peeled off, back to the office, home; Hughes, Diana and Clinton stayed until he told them that he was going to go home, too.
Suddenly, it was just him and Elizabeth and Moz, who’d been a silent rock all these long hours.
Elizabeth took his hand. “Do you want to stay?”
Part of him feared that if he left, something terrible would happen. It was irrational, but this was Neal - as much a part of him as the woman whose hand held his. Peter didn’t really think that his presence would prevent anything, but he couldn’t bear the thought of not being here if something terrible did happen.
“Yeah - I do. Please?” He really wasn’t asking permission and Elizabeth knew that.
“Of course we’ll stay.” She looked over at Moz.
“I’m not going anywhere either.” There was none of Mozzie’s usual belligerence, and Peter found himself grateful for the man’s presence.
They found a trio of lounge chairs in the main waiting room and Peter called up to the recovery ward to ask them to contact him once Neal could have visitors. They settled down for the long wait, taking comfort in each other and in the hope that Neal was still alive. That this was a vigil and not a wake.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-12-15 08:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-22 12:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-15 12:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-27 03:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-15 12:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-27 03:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-15 01:51 pm (UTC)When Neal wakes up, I hope Peter remembers to tell him that everybody, even Hughes, came to the hospital. They're his family.
no subject
Date: 2012-12-27 03:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-15 03:50 pm (UTC)Neeeeeal.
Peeeeeter.
Poor babies.
Beautifully written.
no subject
Date: 2012-12-27 03:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-15 08:13 pm (UTC)Awww, poor Neal... and poor Peter, shocked, numb, unable to leave Neal because it was simply not happening, couldn't be happening... awww. My favorite part has to be the trip to hospital when everything reminded Peter of that moment when it happened.
\o/
no subject
Date: 2012-12-27 03:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-15 08:33 pm (UTC)*hits F5 key repeatedly*
Where's the rest?! You forgot to post the "c" part of this awesome h/c! D:
*smishes them all*
no subject
Date: 2012-12-27 04:00 pm (UTC)I don't think they're going to be a "comfort" part to this one, alas.
But there are other stories to be told, always!
no subject
Date: 2013-11-29 10:19 pm (UTC)So vivid I started to reconsider my following winter's approach and walking-the-icy-streets strategy. Because seriously, I was like slipping on ice for like 70 times last winter but miraculously never fell (and I didn't add my clumsy trippings year-long)
Very spectacular story. *applause*