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elrhiarhodanTitle: Even the Stars Are Not Safe in Heaven - Part I
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandoms: White Collar; L&O: SVU
Rating: R (for off-camera violence)
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Peter/Elizabeth, Neal Caffrey. Also, Detective Olivia Benson, Detective John Munch
Spoilers: S3.10 – Countdown
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Off camera rape and assault, allusion to prior rape and assault. Physical and emotional hurt/comfort. Gen/Friendship, reconciliation.
Word Count: ~21,000 (Complete). This part, ~9000. Parts II and III will be published on Tuesday, December 6 and Wednesday, December 7.
Summary: In the two years following Elizabeth Burke’s kidnapping and her safe recovery, Peter has cut Neal out of his life, unwilling to forgive his part in Elizabeth’s trauma or the betrayal of their own partnership. The story begins with Neal’s successful completion of his work-release, and he says goodbye to Peter. It is a moment of finality. But time passes, some wounds heal and tragedy brings them back together.
A/N: Beta and cheerleading credit –jrosemary. And many, many thanks to my friend rabidchild67 who kept me sane, gave me the best advice and listened when I was practically incoherent. Title is from D.H. Lawrence’s ”In a Boat”. Fills “Rape” square on my Angst Bingo card.
And a much, much belated fill forpenguingal’s very generous bid from the Queensland Flood Relief Auction last (ahem) January. She had requested physical hurt/comfort for Peter, Elizabeth and Neal. Darling, I hope this meets your expectations.
__________________
“I guess this is goodbye.” Neal stood in his doorway, Janus in a vintage suit and trilby.
“Hmmm.” Peter supposed he should shake Neal’s hand, wish him well, but he didn’t. Truth was, he couldn’t wait for this moment. Once, he thought that the ending would come with a big party, congratulations and well-wishes from the FBI staff at all levels. Once, he thought that he’d miss Neal like an amputated limb. Or that his leaving would leave an unfillable hole in his heart.
That was a long time ago, before the darkest hours of his life. And if his heart was aching, the thought of Elizabeth still suffering created another, larger ache.
He suffered Neal’s presence for these last two years; appreciating his contributions, but almost (but not quite) hating the sight of him.
A deal was a deal, though. Since he couldn’t prove Neal’s illegal activities, he had no legitimate reason to send him back to prison. And as Hughes insisted, Neal was too important an asset to transfer to another office. So Peter let Diana or Clinton manage Neal’s day-to-day activities, acted as if he didn’t exist when he didn’t have to interact with him, and it worked out well for all concerned.
Well, or well enough.
He opened a file, pretending that Neal wasn’t standing there.
“Take care of yourself, Peter.”
“You, too.” He looked up at last. This was it. It was over and done.
Neal lingered for a moment, his eyes searching. He seemed about to say something else but didn’t. He just turned and walked away. Peter tracked his progress downstairs, out the door and into the elevator. The office was quiet and he heard the doors slide shut, a quiet susurration of finality.
“That’s the last of it.” Peter all but dropped the final box on the living room floor.
Three years ago, after watching El avoid her own home like it was a house of horrors, and maybe to her, it was, Peter had most of their stuff put it into storage and moved the two of them into a high security condominium in Hoboken, New Jersey. Their house, in the ever desirable Fort Greene neighborhood, was rented out to a French diplomat and his family.
The place in Hoboken was more like a safe house than a home, but it was convenient to lower Manhattan and Elizabeth seemed to do okay there. She had needed a long time to recover from the kidnapping. They’d been through therapy, together and separately. He held her as she woke in the middle of the night; his heart broke from the pain and terror in her screams. His wife, once so fearless, so vital, had become a shadow of her former self.
But over the last year, Peter could see that El was getting better, slowly but steadily. When their tenant’s posting was up, Peter wanted to discuss their options. There was no shortage of potential renters who could more than cover the mortgage and there were always offers to buy the place. On a Sunday morning in June, almost three years after the kidnapping, Peter sat down with her for a frank discussion.
Elizabeth bit her lip. “What do you want to do?”
“Do you want to sell it?” He took her hands in his; they felt like frail little birds. “We’ve had several offers.” Peter told her. “We could retire on the one that we just got.” The broker that had handled the rental was excited to tell them that someone was willing to pay $2.3 million for the house. “Whatever you want to do is fine with me, hon.”
El closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She pulled her hands free, clenching them into fists. “I want to move back there. I want to go … home.”
“El?”
“Peter – I am sick and tired of living like I’m under siege. I am sick and tired of being afraid all of the time. What happened, happened. I’m safe, you’re safe. It’s done. Let’s go home.”
He hugged her tight and hoped that this would be the turning point.
And it was. They didn’t move everything back at first – just the basics. Peter held his breath, watching Elizabeth, waiting to see how she handled being back. To his surprise and utter delight, she blossomed, and if she wasn’t quite her old self again, well – neither was he.
One of the happiest moments in recent memory was when El commanded him to get all their things out of storage. Today was the day that he retrieved the last of their personal belongings. Most of it had been packed by professional movers and it was almost like a scavenger hunt – finding pots and pans mixed in with linens and the occasional canned goods. This final carton was simply labeled “stuff,” as if the packers ran out of appropriately descriptive nouns.
Peter opened it and found, to his chagrin, that it really was just “stuff.” Mostly the contents of the kitchen junk drawer, plus a bunch of faded and stained towels that he had used for cleaning up after working in the yard.
And a framed photograph.
His heart stopped. He could remember that day, that moment as if it just happened. Elizabeth grabbing her camera, telling them to pose like they were heading out to the prom. Nor could he forget Kramer’s concern that he was getting too close to Neal.
Kramer had only partially been right. He had been already way more than too close.
Peter didn’t want to think about Neal and betrayals and all that he lost and nearly lost, it still hurt too damn much. So he did his best to compartmentalize his feelings and put away those dreams. But Neal had been popping up in his thoughts with increasing frequency of late. It had been easier to sustain the anger when Neal was still around; when he’d see Elizabeth staring at something – nothing, dread chasing the happiness from her without a word, and be able to blame Neal for her pain and unhappiness.
Things were different now. He would run into a snag with some tedious fraud and look up, expecting Neal to be sitting across from him, a smile on his face and the solution on his lips. He found himself missing Neal in a million small ways, as if his last two years with the Bureau had never happened. And then he’d ruthlessly try to cut out those thoughts, to try to forget everything, the good and the bad.
Peter sat on the floor, holding the picture, lost in memories, long enough for El to notice.
“What have you got there?” She came over and he shoved the picture back into the box. But not fast enough. El grabbed it from him.
“Hon, no.” He reached for it, to throw it away, but short of tackling her to the floor, he couldn’t get the picture out of her hands.
El looked at the photo and smiled. “You two – you were both so handsome in your tuxedos – about to go out on a prom date. Although I could have done without the slicked-back hair.” She set the picture back in its former place of honor on the bookcase.
Peter took the frame and started to pry the picture out of it – he didn’t want it there, a constant reminder of everything they’d lost, all the pain they both suffered, but El grabbed it out of his hands. “What are you doing?”
“You really want this here – him staring at you?” I don’t want to see us – together like that.
“Why not?”
“Why not? How can you ask that – if it wasn’t for Neal, you never would have been …” After so long, he still had trouble with the word.
“Kidnapped. And if it wasn’t for Neal, I’d be dead. Don’t ever forget that, Peter. Ever.”
He had nothing to say to that. It was the bare truth. Neal’s actions and inactions may have precipitated what happened to Elizabeth, but there was no denying that without Neal, Keller would have killed her.
She put the picture back where he had taken it from. “If you don’t want it there, I’ll find another place for it, but you’re not throwing it out.”
El stood there, hands on her hips. A part of him wanted to applaud and cheer – he’d not seen this fighting spark in her for a long time.
“You still haven’t forgiven him – after so long?” She asked, sadness clouding her tone.
“How could I, hon? How could you?”
“Maybe because he wasn’t really to blame and maybe it’s being back here, realizing that all my old ghosts are just that, ghosts. They can’t hurt me unless I let them.”
Peter hugged her to him. “I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
“For not being as wise as you, as loving.”
She rested her head against his shoulder. “I know he hurt you too – but it’s time to put the anger away. Can you? For my sake? More importantly – for yours.”
Peter nodded, pressing a kiss onto her forehead. He could do that. And if he told himself that he never wanted to see Neal again, well, it wouldn’t be the first time he told himself a lie, either.
“I’ll be home in a little while, hon. Just some things to finish up here.”
“See you when you get here. Love you.”
“Love you too.” Peter hung up and smiled.
Home.
That was a good word these days. It once again meant that bright and airy place on DeKalb Avenue, with El and Satchmo and now a new golden retriever puppy, too. A six-month old bundle of energy that brought them so much joy, even as she peed and chewed on everything in reach. Peter got to name her, and the whole family love and approved of Cleo.
It was a little after five on a Friday evening in early December; if the traffic gods were smiling at him, he’d be home in time for all of them to take a walk before dinner and admire the holiday decorations in the neighborhood.
“Boss?” Diana poked her head into his office.
From the look on her face, it seemed like his plans were about to be scuttled. “What’s up?”
“There are two detectives here to see you.”
“NYPD?”
“Yeah.”
“Did they say what they wanted?”
She shook her head. “No. I’ve put them in the conference room.”
Peter leaned over and saw them through the connecting door. “Okay – thanks.” He couldn’t begin to imagine what the NYPD would want with him.
“Do you want me to go in there with you?”
He smiled. “Di – I think I can handle the cops.” Unlike many of his fellow agents, Peter didn’t have an instinctive contempt for the locals. They had a job to do, which was often more difficult and harrowing that his. He went into the conference room, more curious than concerned.
“Peter Burke, what can I do for you?” He held out his hand, first to the female detective, then the male.
“Detective Olivia Benson, my partner, Detective John Munch. Special Victims Unit.”
“Special Victims?” Sex crimes. The sudden rush of fear-induced adrenalin made him nauseous. It couldn’t be El, he’d just gotten off the phone with her and she was fine. “Who?”
“A John Doe was brought into the emergency room at Columbia Presbyterian around one am this morning. A wallet was found in a garbage can near the vic, the only thing left in it was a business card. Your card.” Detective Munch handed an evidence bag over to him.
It was his card, well worn, the edged frayed. From the faint hint of grime on the white card stock, it looked as if it had been taken out and put back many times. The raised lettering was worn too, like someone had rubbed it over and over.
“Who?” Peter didn’t want to ask.
“We’re waiting for results from his fingerprints to ID him, but we were hoping you’d recognize him.” Benson reached into a file and pulled out a photograph.
“Do you know this person?”
The picture was of a man in his mid-to-late thirties, dark hair, bruises on his cheeks, cuts on his forehead and nose, more bruises around his mouth and throat. Peter closed his eyes and handed Benson back the photograph. He reached behind him and found a chair, sitting down before he collapsed.
“Yes. His name is Neal Caffrey.” He breathed once, twice. “What happened to him?”
The detectives sat down too. Benson started to outline Neal’s injuries. “The victim – excuse me – Mr. Caffrey, was found unconscious and badly injured during a routine sector patrol. His clothing was disordered …”
“Disordered?” Was that his voice, so harsh?
Benson sighed. “His pants had been ripped down, his jacket and shirt torn.” She gave him a dispassionate look. “We’re still waiting for the results from the rape kit, but there was tearing and bleeding that indicate sexual trauma.”
No. Please god. No. “Where was he found?”
“In a playground near Fort Tryon Park, by the Cloisters.”
“Neal loves the Cloisters.” That was the only thing he could think to say.
Munch asked, “Agent Burke, can you tell us how you know the vic. Excuse me, Neal – Mr. Caffrey?”
He shook himself out of his reverie. “He was –” What? My former partner? My best friend? My worst enemy?. “My CI – but I haven’t seen or heard from him in over a year.”
That got the detective to raise an eyebrow. “You seem awfully upset – for someone who was just a snitch.”
Peter gave him a bitter look. “Neal wasn’t a snitch. He was an embedded consultant, part of my unit for several years.”
“That’s unusual.” Both detectives seemed like they wanted to pounce on him about that.
“It was, but I really can’t discuss Neal’s work here.”
They made notes and Peter had a feeling that they’d like to revisit this.
“Other than the fact that Mr. Caffrey likes the Cloisters, can you think of any reason why he’d be hanging around a playground in Fort Washington around midnight?”
Peter shook his head. “I have no idea. He lived – maybe still lives – on Riverside Drive, at 79th Street. What’s that – a more than hundred blocks south from where he was found?”
“Yeah. Agent Burke, we have to ask, did Mr. Caffrey have any habits that would send him out at night??”
“What sort of habits are you talking about?” He didn’t like the tone or the question.
“Drugs.” Munch said.
“Absolutely not.” Peter was furious. “Why are you treating this like this is Neal’s fault?”
“We’re not, Agent Burke. We just are trying to figure out what happened to him. If we knew why he was there, we may be able to find a suspect.” Benson tried to smooth the waves; she was clearly the more empathetic of the two detectives. “What else can you tell us about Neal?”
“Before I tell you anything, I want to know his condition.”
Detective Munch gave a brutal assessment. “He took a severe beating, in addition to the sexual assault. They needed to do emergency surgery to remove his spleen and re-inflate a punctured lung. It looks like he fought back hard. His left hand has several broken bones. He also has a severe head injury, and may need surgery to relieve the inter-cranial pressure. He’s lost a lot of blood and his condition is listed as critical. ”
Critical. The urgent need to get to Neal propelled him out of the chair. Peter felt himself shake and the detectives’ voices were buzzing in his head.
“Agent Burke – Agent Burke, please – what else can you tell us?” Munch tried to stop him, but he shook him off.
“Look – I’ve got to get to the hospital. Get out of my way.” He went to the balcony and called for Jones and Diana, who came running. He closed the office door, shutting the detectives out.
He was succinct. “Neal’s been hurt. I’ve got to get to the hospital. Can one of you finish answering the detectives’ questions? I’d rather that they get information from us, rather than whatever shows up in ViCAP.” In the back of his mind, Peter realized that his behavior was extraordinarily unprofessional. He didn’t care.
This was Neal and he was hurt. All the anger, the bitterness he had been clinging to for so long just washed away.
Diana and Clinton went to deal with the detectives and Peter bolted out of the office. The elevator took too long and he ended up running down the twenty-one flights stairs to the garage. He put the bubble on the roof and pulled out of the Federal Building, zipping in and out of traffic, blowing through lights to get to the West Side Highway. It was the middle of rush hour and Peter recklessly pushed through, riding the shoulder, cutting across lanes, uncaring of his own safety or anyone else’s. The need to get to Neal was an unshakable imperative. He couldn’t stop; even a second’s delay and it could just be too late.
Peter had been to Columbia Pres enough to know how to get access to the ER as law enforcement. The badge and bubble light got him through the gate and direct access to the administrative desk. But as he was about to demand the status of Neal Caffrey he faltered, just for a moment. Not Neal Caffrey, a John Doe sexual assault.
The attendant, an old man in a bright red jacket was far more interested in his game of solitaire than answering questions. Peter impatiently tapped his badge on the desk.
“Oh, huh...what can I help you with?”
“A crime victim was admitted last night as a John Doe; I was told he was taken into surgery before he could be identified. I have reason to believe he’s … a member of my team.” So he lied, a little.
The man blinked at him.
“If you can’t help me, I’m going to tear this hospital apart until I find someone who can.” Peter kept his voice low, but his tone was vicious.
The old man blinked again. “I think you’ll have to talk with Security, sir.”
That answer didn’t make any sense and he didn’t hesitate to say so. His voice must have carried because a security guard came over, hand on his gun.
“Sir, please step away from the desk.”
The urgency riding Peter doubled and he was ready to take out own his gun and shoot the rent-a-cop. And then thought better of it. “I am here to identify a John Doe who was brought in last night – I’m told that he needed surgery.” He repeated his request for information and all but shoved his badge in the man’s face.
“Sir. Please calm down.”
“I’ll calm down when you tell me where I can find my agent.” Another lie, and who gave a fuck?
The guard looked at him, his badge and the gun clearly visible in the shoulder rig under his jacket. “Okay – you’ll need to go up to the surgical floor – take those elevators –” He pointed to a bank of lifts twenty feet to his left. “Go to the seventh floor, make a right and the surgical desk is through a set of sliding glass doors. Someone there should be able to help you.”
“Thank you.” Peter rushed to the elevators and waited impatiently for a car to arrive. One finally did and the trip to seven was painfully slow. At least the guard’s direction was accurate. He just hoped the staff at the surgical desk were more cooperative and intelligent than the geezer downstairs.
A harried woman with tired eyes and a stethoscope draped around her neck looked up as he approached.
Peter took a deep breath, tried to control his emotions and once more flashed his badge. “I was told a John Doe was brought in last night, he needed surgery.”
The woman, Sonia Lavalle, R.N., according to her name tag, gave him a slightly disgusted look. “This is Columbia Presbyterian, sir. We get dozens of JDs needing surgery every night. Can you be more specific?”
“Male, mid-to-late thirties, Caucasian, slim build. He was stabbed and beaten, there were head injuries, too.” Peter swallowed. “He was also sexually assaulted.”
Sonia nodded. “Okay – I know the case.” She pulled out a chart. “You say you can identify him? What is the patient’s name?”
“Neal – Neal Caffrey.”
She made the appropriate notes in the chart. “And your name?”
“Special Agent Peter Burke, FBI.”
“Your relationship to the patient?”
Peter gritted his teeth – this was the hard part and he lied like a rug. “I’m his legal next of kin.” And still another lie. “He’s also part of my team.” He willed the woman to understand, to not demand proof.
She gave him a look, probably more willing to cooperate because of the badge than anything he told her. “Okay. Come with me.”
Sonia handed him a surgical mask and a package with a sterile gown, gloves, head covering and booties. Suitably protected, he followed her as they passed through a set of glass doors and she swiped a card to access the recovery ward. Almost all of the beds were occupied, but he didn’t see anyone who looked like Neal. Sonia kept walking, to a series of glass-walled rooms, stopping at one with a patient hooked up to a half a dozen monitors.
Between the bandages on his head, the intubation covering his mouth and the facial bruising, Peter almost didn’t recognize him. It was those eyelashes – ridiculous butterfly wings resting on cheekbones violated by some inhuman animal.
“Can I go in?”
“Just for a minute.”
Another swipe of the security card. The door buzzed and Peter entered. He reached out to touch Neal – just a single finger on a small patch of undamaged flesh.
“This is your colleague?”
“Yes.” He swallowed hard. “It’s Neal.”
“I can’t let you stay, I’m sorry.” Sonia pulled him out of the room and he trailed her as they left the post-op ward. “We’re going to need some details about him; will you be able to provide them?”
“Whatever you need.”
As Peter was giving the nurse Neal’s information, his cell phone rang. It was El. The nurse nodded at him and pointed Peter to a small waiting area where he could talk in private.
“Hon? I thought you were on your way home. Did you get waylaid by stray mortgage fraud claims?” Her voice was filled with laughter – that was an old, old joke.
Peter closed his eyes. He couldn’t believe he never called her – not even a thought to do so in his mad ride uptown. “I’m sorry, hon.”
The humor disappeared. “What happened, Peter?”
He paused, unable to speak as the words and a sick pain crowded his mouth.
“Honey?”
“It’s Neal. He was assaulted last night.”
“Oh my god – is he okay?”
“No – it’s bad. He was brought in as a John Doe – the cops found my card in his wallet. I rushed to the hospital. I’m sorry – I should have called you. Let you know where I was. You shouldn’t have had to worry.” Guilt compounded his agony.
“Peter! I’m fine. You don’t have to coddle me – not anymore. Now, tell me – what hospital?”
He told her, but insisted that she was not to come, not now. “Neal is in isolation in ICU, you won’t be allowed to see him.” What Peter didn’t tell Elizabeth was what Neal had been through. Not over the phone. Not yet. Sonia came into the waiting room and mouthed something at him.
“Hon – look, I need to talk with his doctors. I’ll have to call you back, okay?”
“Certainly – do what you need to do, let me know what’s going on when you can.”
A man in scrubs and a cap was standing at the desk making notes in a chart. He looked up as Peter approached. “Lavalle tells me that you identified one of our John Does.” His tone was brusque.
“Yes – did you operate on him?”
The doctor turned his back on Peter, signed off on some other papers, and flipped through a couple of charts before answering. “Yes.”
“And?” Peter was not unfamiliar with this god-complex behavior, but he had no patience for it now.
“The patient came through surgery. He’s in critical but stable condition. We’re watching the head injury – that may present complications. We can’t rule out additional surgery if he continues to bleed into his brain. He’s being closely monitored and Neurosurgery has been consulted.”
Peter swallowed. “When will you know?”
The doctor checked the chart. “He’s had several CT scans already and the inter-cranial bleed hasn’t yet stabilized. If the pressure doesn’t reduce itself within the next few hours, we’re going to have to get him back into surgery.”
He had to ask. “What about brain damage?”
“Hard to say at this point. Based on the location of the bleed, it’s unlikely that the patient’s sight will be affected, but you’ll get a better response from Neuro.” The surgeon looked at him. “Any more questions?”
“No – not now.”
“I understand he’s an FBI agent.”
As if that were relevant to Neal’s treatment or his injuries. “No, but Neal’s a member of my team.” Peter offered no further explanation. Best to keep the lies to a minimum.
“Ah, okay. Well – he’s a young man, in apparent good health. If he makes it through the next twenty-four hours, he should be okay.”
Okay, except for everything that happened. “Thank you.” There was nothing more to say.
He should call El back. He should go see June – he didn’t even know if Neal was living there anymore.
But not Mozzie.
The last person he ever wanted to see again. If Neal was the catalyst for what happened to his wife, Moz was the architect of the destruction of his dreams. He knew, through carefully placed inquiries, that the two men had never patched up their differences, and as irrational as it was, he was furious at Moz for Neal’s sake. He had once considered, in that fit of long simmering anger, issuing a BOLO on him, if just to make his life difficult.
He called El, filled her in on what the surgeon told her, reiterated that she shouldn’t come to the hospital and promised to let her know if anything changed.
Sitting in the dreadful little waiting room, with its decades-old magazines, dust-clogged plastic trees and posters warning about post-op infections and protection against blood-borne diseases, Peter started to cry.
Not just for Neal, but for himself. It was so easy to hate Neal for what he did, for all the betrayals, all the wrong choices. It was so easy to cling to that hate because forgiveness meant examining his own complicity.
I’ve had your back since Day One, and any time something goes wrong, I’m the first person you blame.
There had been a lot of truth in that mock fight – oh, not about the hats, and certainly not about Elizabeth getting lonely. But he had never let go of the idea that Neal was never going to change. Because you’re a con. It’s who you are, it’s all you’ll ever be.
At the time, he hadn’t really thought he meant those words. But deep down, he must have. Wasn’t that why he pounced on Neal when he found the scrap of painting after the warehouse exploded? Wasn’t that why he nursed his righteous anger and pushed Neal away every time they seemed to get back to normal? Why he couldn’t even shake Neal’s hand when, against all odds, he completed his work release and came to say goodbye?
What if he hadn’t flown off the handle that day? What if he hadn’t made it impossible for the two of them to just talk? Would this terrifying future, that horrible past, have been different?
He leaned his head back against the wall and the tears flowed unchecked.
“Peter?”
He looked up, blinking, as someone called his name. It was Diana. He hadn’t heard her come in and sit down next to him.
“You okay?”
He pulled a handkerchief out and wiped his face. “Yeah – no. Not really. What are you doing here?” He carefully refolded the square – it gave him something to focus on. “Sorry – stupid question.”
“That’s okay. How is he?”
“Not good, Di.”
“The detectives told us what happened to him.”
The thought of that on top of everything else nearly set him off again. He tried to focus on procedure – on something, anything else but that. “I’m sorry I just ran. I shouldn’t have left it to you and Clinton.”
Diana actually took his hand and patted it. “We understand.”
“Did you talk with the detectives – did you tell them about Neal? The good stuff?” Not how he lied and cheated and made a mockery out of our trust.
“Yes – the good stuff. Just the good stuff.” Diana gave him a gentle smile. “They’re here now. There are some questions that you’re probably the best one to answer. Can you?”
He let out a shuddering sigh. “Yeah. Okay.” Peter felt like an old man when he got up, the adrenalin that propelled him here was had washed out like the tide.
Munch and Benson were talking quietly with Clinton by the desk. The nurse, Lavalle, was gone and a younger man, in startling purple scrubs had taken her place. The detectives looked up at his approach.
“I’m sorry – about before.”
Munch nodded. “It’s okay – your agents filled us in on Mr. Caffrey. A rather intriguing individual.”
Peter had to smile. Intriguing. Neal would like that.
“We have a few more questions – can we talk?” Benson led them back towards the waiting room he just vacated.
“Do you have any idea who did this?” Peter had to ask.
“The park where Mr. Caffrey was found has recently seen an uptick in violent crime. It’s a quiet area, late at night – but it’s not too far from Washington Heights.” Munch answered.
“We know do why he was there, though. I ran his name through the DMV – he has a car registered in his name and at an address on Fort Washington Avenue and 189th. It seems that he had moved into that neighborhood about three months ago. We found the car on Cabrini. He probably had parked and was cutting through the playground when he was jumped. CSU found a set of car keys that belong to that vehicle.”
“So this was random bad luck?”
“Seems that way.” Benson answered. “I’m guessing that he had credit cards – we’ll have to get the numbers and run them. Maybe the perp was dumb enough to use them.”
“Visa –” Peter rattled off the bank, the numbers and expiration date. “He’s got a MasterCard and an American Express in his name. A few cards in other names, too.”
“You memorized his credit card numbers?”
“He has credit cards in other names?
Benson and Munch spoke over each other.
Peter instantly regretted mentioning that. “It was a thing – he went undercover frequently. I needed to check Neal’s expenditures – it was easier that asking him for the statements each month. He paid all his bills, it wasn’t identity theft.” Peter added needlessly.
Benson raised an eyebrow and handed him her notebook and pen. “Would you write down the numbers?”
He did, but he’d run them himself. Not that he didn’t trust the NYPD, but this was Neal.
The wait was endless. After he finished with Munch and Benson, he gave into Diana and Clinton’s urgings and went home.
In halting tones, he told El what had happened and she held him as he wept. “He was almost unrecognizable, El. That bastard beat him.” He raped him.
The dogs, sensing his distress, curled up next to him, little Cleo climbing up Satchmo’s back to reach his lap and Peter let her lick his tears away.
A few hours later he was back at the hospital – this time El wouldn’t let him go without her. Neal had to go into surgery again, the pressure from the inter-cranial bleed was too great and they had to operate.
One hour, then two. A third hour and Peter was beyond restless. Elizabeth held his hand, but he couldn’t stay still. He paced the length of the waiting room and resisted asking the nursing staff yet again if there was any news.
“Hon, sit down.” El patted the seat next to her. “You won’t do him any good if you wear yourself out.”
Peter thought that it was long past the time that he could have done Neal any good. He sat down anyway. The hard plastic chair was unreasonably uncomfortable and he shifted with the agitation he couldn’t contain.
“You think it’s your fault that this happened.” El said quietly. It wasn’t a question.
Peter stilled.
“It’s not, you know. There was nothing you did or didn’t do that could have changed this course of events. Neal wasn’t committing a crime – he was going home. It’s not for you to say that he shouldn’t have taken an apartment in a neighborhood within walking distance of a favorite museum. Or that he shouldn’t have been out after midnight or parked his car on the street or cut through a playground. It’s not your fault.” El was panting a little from the force of her words, squeezing his hand hard enough to leave bruises.
“Hon…”
“Just as it wasn’t Neal fault for what happened to me.”
He started to argue that point. “That’s not true, if he hadn’t lied –”
“No, Peter. What ever Neal did or didn’t do had nothing to do with Matthew Keller kidnapping me. Nothing.” Her voice was fierce, as if she was trying to change his mind by the force of her will alone.
“I wish I could believe that.”
“You have to. It’s the only way you can go forward.”
Intellectually, he knew that. Emotionally, he still felt like a child who broke his favorite toy in a fit of anger and was sitting heartbroken amongst the shattered pieces.
Another hour passed, the clock on the wall ticking down the moments of his life. He dozed, anxiety chasing anguish through restless dreams until Elizabeth shook him awake. A doctor – the neurosurgeon – was waiting to talk to them.
“How is he?” That was all Peter wanted to know.
“Stable. We were able to isolate the bleeding and repair the blood vessels. Mr. Caffrey will remain in a medically induced coma for another day or so, until the peripheral swelling is reduced.”
“Will he be all right? Was there any brain damage?”
The surgeon scrubbed at his eyes and put his glasses back on; Peter was uncomfortably reminded of Mozzie. “It’s hard to say, but I am cautiously optimistic that in time, Mr. Caffrey will make a full recovery. Given the rest of his injuries, he’ll need extensive rehabilitation.” He looked at them with some compassion. “You should go home – get some rest. There is nothing you can do for him tonight.”
“We can’t see him?”
“No – not for another few hours. Go home.”
El dragged him out of the hospital. “You need to sleep for a few hours. You’ll do him no good if you collapse.”
Peter let himself be lead. There were things he was going to have to handle – if just for his own peace of mind.
Sleep didn’t come easy, and Peter’s dreams were again filled with dread and unseen horrors. He slipped out of bed hours before dawn, let the dogs out and retrieved his file on Neal; the one that he dumped in the darkest corner of the basement when he took everything out of storage. He had thought about shredding it, burning it or simply tossing it in the trash, but he couldn't. So it sat in the basement, getting a little moldy as the seasons passed.
He set out each of the birthday cards; simple, hand-drawn things on cheap paper. “Happy Birthday, Agent Burke!” Please don’t forget about me. The copy of Neal’s original contract, a photocopy of his ID, old case notes about James Bonds and the Atlantic Partners forgeries. But those weren’t the papers he needed.
Early in the first year of their partnership, Peter had realized that Neal had no safety net, no insurance and no one to look after him. He argued with Hughes and the Administrators Office that Neal needed basic healthcare coverage. Since he would have been entitled to it during his incarceration, he should have the same while working for the Bureau. It was bad enough they weren’t paying him a living wage or anything beyond the housing stipend.
Hughes agreed and persuaded the Administrator to add Neal to the rolls. As part of the documentation, Neal had to provide contacts and a healthcare proxy. Peter had been the natural choice. Flipping through the few remaining documents, he found what he needed – the signed and notarized forms giving Peter Burke the right to make healthcare decisions for Neal Caffrey. Peter had taken his responsibilities seriously, and had another document drawn up.
“What’s this?” Neal had tossed the paper at him, slightly perturbed. “A living will?”
“An advanced directive.” Peter gave it back. “It gives your designee the right to make end of life decisions –”
“In case I can’t. I’m not signing this.”
“Neal – you’re not immortal. You’re not invincible.”
“Do you have one?”
He had just raised an eyebrow as a response.
“But of course you do – El’s the one who gets to pull the plug.”
“It’s not about pulling the plug or turning off life support. It’s about being responsible, about looking towards a future that may not be about cappuccino in the clouds.”
Something in Peter’s tone must have convinced Neal; he grabbed the pen and signed the form. Peter had hoped he’d never have to use it.
He still hoped.
He gathered up the papers, carefully putting them away. He’d have to do something about the dampness that had settled through everything, though.
He was just finishing his third cup of coffee when El came down. “Have you heard anything?”
Peter let out a shuddering sigh. “I’ve called a few times. Neal’s condition is unchanged. Critical but stable. He’s still in ICU, but they are going to move him to a Neuro ward this afternoon.
“That’s good news.” Her tone was guarded.
“Yeah. They said I’ll be able to see him for a few minutes this morning, and once he’s in the new unit, I can spend the day.”
“We can spend the day.” El corrected him.
Peter didn’t argue with her. He went up and took a quick shower and dressed. They took the dogs for a short walk and while he set out fresh water, El pulled out a few books.
“Hon?”
“They say that reading to a comatose patient helps. Which do you think Neal would prefer, Washington Irving’s Sketch Book or The Carpetbaggers by Harold Robbins.
Peter blinked at El’s attempt at levity, then smiled. “Do we even have a copy of The Carpetbaggers?”
She handed him the Washington Irving and dumped Peter’s ancient copy of Irving Stone’s The Agony and the Ecstasy on top of that for good measure.
By the time they got to the hospital, Neal had been transferred out of ICU and they got lost trying to find the tiny Neuro step-down ward, which was behind a series of security checkpoints and a locked access door.
It was still terrifying to see him. Neal was still on a ventilator, and would remain so until he was brought out of the medically induced coma. The bruising on his face and throat was even more livid; time had elevated the discoloration. The contrast of the dark splotches against the stark white bandage on his head was frightening.
El leaned into him, he could feel her shudders. “He’ll be all right, won’t he?”
Peter held her, rubbing his cheek against her head. “He will, he has to be.”
He sat down in one of the chairs, El next to him. The machines gave a soothing, steady beat; the whoosh of the ventilator and pinging monitors seemed to match his own heartbeat. Peter opened the copy of Washington Irving’s Sketch-Book and started to read.
He felt El smile at the words, and continued. The hours passed, his throat got scratchy and El took over when he went in search of a drink. He came back and found El standing outside Neal’s room. The attending – the same neurosurgeon who had operated on Neal – and a small cadre of residents were discussing his case and Peter listened with care.
Most of it was incomprehensible medical jargon presented in clinical tones, but it raised Peter’s hackles to hear them discuss Neal as if he were nothing more than a piece of meat. One of the residents, though, seemed to find his condition amusing, commenting in a loud voice. “Maybe if he just relaxed and enjoyed it, he wouldn’t have gotten his head bashed in.”
Peter didn’t hear the reprimand issued by the surgeon or the other residents’ reaction to this punk’s attempt at humor as he grabbed him by the collar of his white coat and shook him against the glass wall. “You think you’re funny, you little shit? You think that it’s funny that a man, a fellow human being, gets beaten and raped and left for dead on his way home? You think?” The glass rattled ominously as he punctuated each word with another shake. No one interfered.
“I’m – I’m sorry. I didn’t think.” The resident couldn’t meet his eyes and the floor staff gathered around to watch.
Peter let him go. “I don’t want this shit head near him again.”
The attending stepped in, “Don’t worry, Dr. Sullivan’s participation in this program is at an end. And you have my apologies on his behalf, Agent Burke.”
The resident blanched at his title and Peter glared at him, hoping he’d wet himself. The rest of the residents and the attending filed out.
Peter stood there, appalled at himself. Elizabeth kissed and whispered, “My hero.”
The rest of the afternoon passed quietly, they took turns reading to Neal, switching between the two books until El told him she needed to go.
“Cleo’s probably in a state by now – if she hasn’t already flooded the newspapers. Call me and I’ll come to pick you up.”
Peter shook his head. “Not necessary, hon. There’s a subway stop just a few blocks from here, I’ll get home quicker than you coming all the way back.”
“I want you to come home tonight – understand?”
Elizabeth must have read his mind, he had been thinking about spending the night. “Okay – I promise, I’ll come home when they kick me out.”
She kissed him again, gave him a searching look and left. Peter leaned back and rubbed his eyes. He’d sit here for a while; he’d give his voice a rest, his eyes a rest. The even, repetitive tones of the monitors were better than a sleeping pill, and he dropped off into an exhausted sleep. Biological imperative took over, and the dreams came.
He was laying out the facts of life to Neal – as they related political motivations that sent an Interpol agent illegally undercover.
“A half a million dollars. That's the price of a dead FBI agent. You really think you can believe everything she tells you? We either take down Lao now, or our partnership comes to an end.”
There was a sudden look of delight in Neal’s eyes, he all but gasped like a boy on Christmas morning. “We’re partners?”
And in the way that dreams both mimic and distort memory, the end of that conversation changed.
Peter woke up with a start, gasping as the tears clogged his throat. He looked at his watch; he’d been sleeping for more than an hour. It was close to four PM and the early December day was drawing to an end.
An aide popped her head into the room and gestured for him to step out.
“We’ve got to do some work on Neal – do you mind if we call him that?” She plowed on, insanely chipper. “Why don’t you go get a bite to eat and come back in about an hour – we can let you stay until eight, if you’d like.”
“Work? What are you going to do to him?”
“Oh, give him a sponge bath, change the bandages, check that all his tubes are right, probably change out the cath, you know – all the little humiliations.” She grinned, taking some of the sting out of her words. “Your brother will be fine.”
“Neal’s not my brother – he’s my friend.”
If anything, the aide’s smile got brighter. “You’re a good friend – a really good one, to sit with him like that – to read to him. Saw how you took down that pompous snot before. No one ever listens when we aides complained about him playing grab ass.”
“Well, you’re welcome.” Peter couldn’t think of anything else to say. He felt like a fraud – he wasn’t a good friend. This felt an act of expiation for all the times he let Neal down.
The aide pointed him in the direction of the cafeteria, and promised again that she’d take good care of Neal.
Peter had no intention of eating – the food smelled revolting, but the coffee was surprisingly decent. He called Elizabeth and updated her, saw that both Clinton and Diana left text messages inquiring about Neal, and there was a voice mail from Detective Munch, asking him to call back as soon as he could.
“How’s he doing?”
“They had to operate again, last night.” Peter explained. “But he’s doing okay now, according to the doctors. They moved him out of ICU this morning. He’s still in a medically induced coma, though.”
“Hmmm – so we won’t be able to talk to him for another few days, I guess.”
“At least. Were you able to track any usage on Neal’s credit cards?”
“Actually – that’s why I called. Someone went to town on them – we caught a skel red-handed, he’s got a list of priors as long as my arm, including assault and male-on-male sexual battery. Even better news is that the punk’s DNA is in the database.”
“Is it a match?” Peter held his breath.
“Too soon to know – it’ll take a week before the results are in. Of course, if your boy could ID the doer, it would so much easier.”
Your boy.
“Until he’s awake, we won’t be able to ask. Can you hold him for that long?”
“Don’t worry about that – we’ve got him on the stolen credit cards and his fingerprints are on Mr. Caffrey’s wallet. Given his priors, he’ll be charged and held, the DA will get remand.”
The talked for a few minutes more and just as he was about to hang up, something occurred to Peter. “Listen, did your ERT happen to find a hat in the playground?”
“ERT? Oh, you mean CSU. What type of hat?”
“Men’s – a fedora or trilby. Beaver felt, probably black or dark gray. Neal wore – wears – vintage hats.”
“Hold on, let me check.”
Peter could hear the detective flipping through his notepad.
“No – we didn’t. But maybe our doer took it as a trophy. I’ll have his apartment checked.”
He closed his eyes, trying to remember the tag he’d probably seen a hundred times. “Look for something old, from Dobbs Fifth Avenue, Size 8.”
There was the sound of a pen scratching in the background. “Why am I not surprised that you remember that, Agent Burke? What’s going to happen when your brain gets full?”
Peter chuckled. “I’ll let you know. Call me if you have any more information.”
“Will do – and my best to Mr. Caffrey. Let us know when he’d up and ready to talk.”
Peter got back to Neal’s room just as the aide and a nurse were finishing up with him. He settled back into the chair and picked up one of the books. This time it was the fictional biography of Michelangelo and started to read to Neal again. He lost track of time, and El called, telling him that he needed to be at the front of the hospital no later than eight-fifteen. She’d be there with the dogs, and if he didn’t want Cleo to pee on the leather seat, he’d be there on time.
The next day followed the same routine, except that El had an event to manage so Peter was by himself. Instead of reading, he started talking, trying to explain.
“We’ve moved back to Brooklyn; I though Elizabeth would never want to go back there, but she was the one who suggested it. I cosseted her, wrapped in cotton, protected her like she was the Hope Diamond. I forgot that the Hope Diamond is a diamond – the hardest, most durable gem of all. I was so afraid of her being afraid that I wasn’t letting her heal.
“She insists that it wasn’t your fault – what happened.” He paused, searching for the words. “That your choices were not the reason why she was kidnapped. That would be like blaming that iceberg for being in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean when the Titanic hit it.” He sighed, exasperated with himself. “I don’t even think I’m making any sense.”
“What I’m trying to say is – I’m sorry. I’m as much to blame as anyone. I hope – I hope you’ll be able to understand that. And I’ve missed you, I’ve tried not to – but I do. It’s there, all the time. You’re standing at my shoulder, a ghost of my lost contentment. I see you out of the corner of my eye, but you’re never really there, are you?”
The only answer he got was the still-steady beat of the monitors. He had to stop this maudlin train of thought.
“Not much else has changed – Hughes is retiring, I’m up for his slot. My clearance rate is down a little – ninety-two percent these days. I guess I’m slipping a bit, without you.”
Peter rambled on, telling Neal about a string of new cases – a very talented thief who was targeting private erotica collections. “Some of that stuff – it would make you go blind.”
“We have a new puppy, by the way. Not that there’s anything wrong with Satchmo – she keeps him young. And he’s patient. Cleo – that’s her name – has a thing for his tail. She chases it. Reminds me a bit of you and me – when he lets her catch it, she doesn’t quite know what to do.
“She was part of a litter from a rescue. Do you know about the Amish and how they run those terrible puppy mills? Well, El did a fundraiser for a Golden Retriever rescue operation in Pennsylvania, and she waived her fee in exchange for one of the pups. She’s the sweetest little girl and has us all wrapped around her paws.”
Peter talked until he had no more words, and then read to Neal until his voice gave out. It was Sunday and there were no grand rounds, but an attending – not Neal’s surgeon – stopped by to check on him.
This doctor, a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes, checked the chart, made some notes and fiddled with some of the leads, and made more notes.
“When will he be able to wake up?” Peter asked.
The doctor wasn’t particularly forthcoming. “When the swelling goes down.”
“Should it take so long?”
“It takes as long as it has to. He’s doing fine.”
Peter’s bullshit meter was heading into the red zone.
She must have seen something on his face and gave him a better answer. “He’ll go down for a CT scan tonight – if the results are positive, we’ll start bringing him out of the coma.”
“Okay – okay. I’d like to be here when that happens.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible – he’ll need to be extubated first, then there are other protocols that need to be followed. We’ll let you know when you can come back.”
Peter sat with Neal through the night, reading and talking. He was beginning to hate the sound of his own voice.
“I miss you.”
Three simple words. “I can’t wait for you to wake up – I can’t wait to hear your voice. And I am dreading it too – will you remember what happened to you? Will I need to explain? Will you be all right?”
And the hardest question of all. “Will you forgive me?”
Go to Part II
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandoms: White Collar; L&O: SVU
Rating: R (for off-camera violence)
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Peter/Elizabeth, Neal Caffrey. Also, Detective Olivia Benson, Detective John Munch
Spoilers: S3.10 – Countdown
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Off camera rape and assault, allusion to prior rape and assault. Physical and emotional hurt/comfort. Gen/Friendship, reconciliation.
Word Count: ~21,000 (Complete). This part, ~9000. Parts II and III will be published on Tuesday, December 6 and Wednesday, December 7.
Summary: In the two years following Elizabeth Burke’s kidnapping and her safe recovery, Peter has cut Neal out of his life, unwilling to forgive his part in Elizabeth’s trauma or the betrayal of their own partnership. The story begins with Neal’s successful completion of his work-release, and he says goodbye to Peter. It is a moment of finality. But time passes, some wounds heal and tragedy brings them back together.
A/N: Beta and cheerleading credit –
jrosemary. And many, many thanks to my friend rabidchild67 who kept me sane, gave me the best advice and listened when I was practically incoherent. Title is from D.H. Lawrence’s ”In a Boat”. Fills “Rape” square on my Angst Bingo card.And a much, much belated fill for
penguingal’s very generous bid from the Queensland Flood Relief Auction last (ahem) January. She had requested physical hurt/comfort for Peter, Elizabeth and Neal. Darling, I hope this meets your expectations.“I guess this is goodbye.” Neal stood in his doorway, Janus in a vintage suit and trilby.
“Hmmm.” Peter supposed he should shake Neal’s hand, wish him well, but he didn’t. Truth was, he couldn’t wait for this moment. Once, he thought that the ending would come with a big party, congratulations and well-wishes from the FBI staff at all levels. Once, he thought that he’d miss Neal like an amputated limb. Or that his leaving would leave an unfillable hole in his heart.
That was a long time ago, before the darkest hours of his life. And if his heart was aching, the thought of Elizabeth still suffering created another, larger ache.
He suffered Neal’s presence for these last two years; appreciating his contributions, but almost (but not quite) hating the sight of him.
A deal was a deal, though. Since he couldn’t prove Neal’s illegal activities, he had no legitimate reason to send him back to prison. And as Hughes insisted, Neal was too important an asset to transfer to another office. So Peter let Diana or Clinton manage Neal’s day-to-day activities, acted as if he didn’t exist when he didn’t have to interact with him, and it worked out well for all concerned.
Well, or well enough.
He opened a file, pretending that Neal wasn’t standing there.
“Take care of yourself, Peter.”
“You, too.” He looked up at last. This was it. It was over and done.
Neal lingered for a moment, his eyes searching. He seemed about to say something else but didn’t. He just turned and walked away. Peter tracked his progress downstairs, out the door and into the elevator. The office was quiet and he heard the doors slide shut, a quiet susurration of finality.
“That’s the last of it.” Peter all but dropped the final box on the living room floor.
Three years ago, after watching El avoid her own home like it was a house of horrors, and maybe to her, it was, Peter had most of their stuff put it into storage and moved the two of them into a high security condominium in Hoboken, New Jersey. Their house, in the ever desirable Fort Greene neighborhood, was rented out to a French diplomat and his family.
The place in Hoboken was more like a safe house than a home, but it was convenient to lower Manhattan and Elizabeth seemed to do okay there. She had needed a long time to recover from the kidnapping. They’d been through therapy, together and separately. He held her as she woke in the middle of the night; his heart broke from the pain and terror in her screams. His wife, once so fearless, so vital, had become a shadow of her former self.
But over the last year, Peter could see that El was getting better, slowly but steadily. When their tenant’s posting was up, Peter wanted to discuss their options. There was no shortage of potential renters who could more than cover the mortgage and there were always offers to buy the place. On a Sunday morning in June, almost three years after the kidnapping, Peter sat down with her for a frank discussion.
Elizabeth bit her lip. “What do you want to do?”
“Do you want to sell it?” He took her hands in his; they felt like frail little birds. “We’ve had several offers.” Peter told her. “We could retire on the one that we just got.” The broker that had handled the rental was excited to tell them that someone was willing to pay $2.3 million for the house. “Whatever you want to do is fine with me, hon.”
El closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She pulled her hands free, clenching them into fists. “I want to move back there. I want to go … home.”
“El?”
“Peter – I am sick and tired of living like I’m under siege. I am sick and tired of being afraid all of the time. What happened, happened. I’m safe, you’re safe. It’s done. Let’s go home.”
He hugged her tight and hoped that this would be the turning point.
And it was. They didn’t move everything back at first – just the basics. Peter held his breath, watching Elizabeth, waiting to see how she handled being back. To his surprise and utter delight, she blossomed, and if she wasn’t quite her old self again, well – neither was he.
One of the happiest moments in recent memory was when El commanded him to get all their things out of storage. Today was the day that he retrieved the last of their personal belongings. Most of it had been packed by professional movers and it was almost like a scavenger hunt – finding pots and pans mixed in with linens and the occasional canned goods. This final carton was simply labeled “stuff,” as if the packers ran out of appropriately descriptive nouns.
Peter opened it and found, to his chagrin, that it really was just “stuff.” Mostly the contents of the kitchen junk drawer, plus a bunch of faded and stained towels that he had used for cleaning up after working in the yard.
And a framed photograph.
His heart stopped. He could remember that day, that moment as if it just happened. Elizabeth grabbing her camera, telling them to pose like they were heading out to the prom. Nor could he forget Kramer’s concern that he was getting too close to Neal.
Kramer had only partially been right. He had been already way more than too close.
Peter didn’t want to think about Neal and betrayals and all that he lost and nearly lost, it still hurt too damn much. So he did his best to compartmentalize his feelings and put away those dreams. But Neal had been popping up in his thoughts with increasing frequency of late. It had been easier to sustain the anger when Neal was still around; when he’d see Elizabeth staring at something – nothing, dread chasing the happiness from her without a word, and be able to blame Neal for her pain and unhappiness.
Things were different now. He would run into a snag with some tedious fraud and look up, expecting Neal to be sitting across from him, a smile on his face and the solution on his lips. He found himself missing Neal in a million small ways, as if his last two years with the Bureau had never happened. And then he’d ruthlessly try to cut out those thoughts, to try to forget everything, the good and the bad.
Peter sat on the floor, holding the picture, lost in memories, long enough for El to notice.
“What have you got there?” She came over and he shoved the picture back into the box. But not fast enough. El grabbed it from him.
“Hon, no.” He reached for it, to throw it away, but short of tackling her to the floor, he couldn’t get the picture out of her hands.
El looked at the photo and smiled. “You two – you were both so handsome in your tuxedos – about to go out on a prom date. Although I could have done without the slicked-back hair.” She set the picture back in its former place of honor on the bookcase.
Peter took the frame and started to pry the picture out of it – he didn’t want it there, a constant reminder of everything they’d lost, all the pain they both suffered, but El grabbed it out of his hands. “What are you doing?”
“You really want this here – him staring at you?” I don’t want to see us – together like that.
“Why not?”
“Why not? How can you ask that – if it wasn’t for Neal, you never would have been …” After so long, he still had trouble with the word.
“Kidnapped. And if it wasn’t for Neal, I’d be dead. Don’t ever forget that, Peter. Ever.”
He had nothing to say to that. It was the bare truth. Neal’s actions and inactions may have precipitated what happened to Elizabeth, but there was no denying that without Neal, Keller would have killed her.
She put the picture back where he had taken it from. “If you don’t want it there, I’ll find another place for it, but you’re not throwing it out.”
El stood there, hands on her hips. A part of him wanted to applaud and cheer – he’d not seen this fighting spark in her for a long time.
“You still haven’t forgiven him – after so long?” She asked, sadness clouding her tone.
“How could I, hon? How could you?”
“Maybe because he wasn’t really to blame and maybe it’s being back here, realizing that all my old ghosts are just that, ghosts. They can’t hurt me unless I let them.”
Peter hugged her to him. “I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
“For not being as wise as you, as loving.”
She rested her head against his shoulder. “I know he hurt you too – but it’s time to put the anger away. Can you? For my sake? More importantly – for yours.”
Peter nodded, pressing a kiss onto her forehead. He could do that. And if he told himself that he never wanted to see Neal again, well, it wouldn’t be the first time he told himself a lie, either.
“I’ll be home in a little while, hon. Just some things to finish up here.”
“See you when you get here. Love you.”
“Love you too.” Peter hung up and smiled.
Home.
That was a good word these days. It once again meant that bright and airy place on DeKalb Avenue, with El and Satchmo and now a new golden retriever puppy, too. A six-month old bundle of energy that brought them so much joy, even as she peed and chewed on everything in reach. Peter got to name her, and the whole family love and approved of Cleo.
It was a little after five on a Friday evening in early December; if the traffic gods were smiling at him, he’d be home in time for all of them to take a walk before dinner and admire the holiday decorations in the neighborhood.
“Boss?” Diana poked her head into his office.
From the look on her face, it seemed like his plans were about to be scuttled. “What’s up?”
“There are two detectives here to see you.”
“NYPD?”
“Yeah.”
“Did they say what they wanted?”
She shook her head. “No. I’ve put them in the conference room.”
Peter leaned over and saw them through the connecting door. “Okay – thanks.” He couldn’t begin to imagine what the NYPD would want with him.
“Do you want me to go in there with you?”
He smiled. “Di – I think I can handle the cops.” Unlike many of his fellow agents, Peter didn’t have an instinctive contempt for the locals. They had a job to do, which was often more difficult and harrowing that his. He went into the conference room, more curious than concerned.
“Peter Burke, what can I do for you?” He held out his hand, first to the female detective, then the male.
“Detective Olivia Benson, my partner, Detective John Munch. Special Victims Unit.”
“Special Victims?” Sex crimes. The sudden rush of fear-induced adrenalin made him nauseous. It couldn’t be El, he’d just gotten off the phone with her and she was fine. “Who?”
“A John Doe was brought into the emergency room at Columbia Presbyterian around one am this morning. A wallet was found in a garbage can near the vic, the only thing left in it was a business card. Your card.” Detective Munch handed an evidence bag over to him.
It was his card, well worn, the edged frayed. From the faint hint of grime on the white card stock, it looked as if it had been taken out and put back many times. The raised lettering was worn too, like someone had rubbed it over and over.
“Who?” Peter didn’t want to ask.
“We’re waiting for results from his fingerprints to ID him, but we were hoping you’d recognize him.” Benson reached into a file and pulled out a photograph.
“Do you know this person?”
The picture was of a man in his mid-to-late thirties, dark hair, bruises on his cheeks, cuts on his forehead and nose, more bruises around his mouth and throat. Peter closed his eyes and handed Benson back the photograph. He reached behind him and found a chair, sitting down before he collapsed.
“Yes. His name is Neal Caffrey.” He breathed once, twice. “What happened to him?”
The detectives sat down too. Benson started to outline Neal’s injuries. “The victim – excuse me – Mr. Caffrey, was found unconscious and badly injured during a routine sector patrol. His clothing was disordered …”
“Disordered?” Was that his voice, so harsh?
Benson sighed. “His pants had been ripped down, his jacket and shirt torn.” She gave him a dispassionate look. “We’re still waiting for the results from the rape kit, but there was tearing and bleeding that indicate sexual trauma.”
No. Please god. No. “Where was he found?”
“In a playground near Fort Tryon Park, by the Cloisters.”
“Neal loves the Cloisters.” That was the only thing he could think to say.
Munch asked, “Agent Burke, can you tell us how you know the vic. Excuse me, Neal – Mr. Caffrey?”
He shook himself out of his reverie. “He was –” What? My former partner? My best friend? My worst enemy?. “My CI – but I haven’t seen or heard from him in over a year.”
That got the detective to raise an eyebrow. “You seem awfully upset – for someone who was just a snitch.”
Peter gave him a bitter look. “Neal wasn’t a snitch. He was an embedded consultant, part of my unit for several years.”
“That’s unusual.” Both detectives seemed like they wanted to pounce on him about that.
“It was, but I really can’t discuss Neal’s work here.”
They made notes and Peter had a feeling that they’d like to revisit this.
“Other than the fact that Mr. Caffrey likes the Cloisters, can you think of any reason why he’d be hanging around a playground in Fort Washington around midnight?”
Peter shook his head. “I have no idea. He lived – maybe still lives – on Riverside Drive, at 79th Street. What’s that – a more than hundred blocks south from where he was found?”
“Yeah. Agent Burke, we have to ask, did Mr. Caffrey have any habits that would send him out at night??”
“What sort of habits are you talking about?” He didn’t like the tone or the question.
“Drugs.” Munch said.
“Absolutely not.” Peter was furious. “Why are you treating this like this is Neal’s fault?”
“We’re not, Agent Burke. We just are trying to figure out what happened to him. If we knew why he was there, we may be able to find a suspect.” Benson tried to smooth the waves; she was clearly the more empathetic of the two detectives. “What else can you tell us about Neal?”
“Before I tell you anything, I want to know his condition.”
Detective Munch gave a brutal assessment. “He took a severe beating, in addition to the sexual assault. They needed to do emergency surgery to remove his spleen and re-inflate a punctured lung. It looks like he fought back hard. His left hand has several broken bones. He also has a severe head injury, and may need surgery to relieve the inter-cranial pressure. He’s lost a lot of blood and his condition is listed as critical. ”
Critical. The urgent need to get to Neal propelled him out of the chair. Peter felt himself shake and the detectives’ voices were buzzing in his head.
“Agent Burke – Agent Burke, please – what else can you tell us?” Munch tried to stop him, but he shook him off.
“Look – I’ve got to get to the hospital. Get out of my way.” He went to the balcony and called for Jones and Diana, who came running. He closed the office door, shutting the detectives out.
He was succinct. “Neal’s been hurt. I’ve got to get to the hospital. Can one of you finish answering the detectives’ questions? I’d rather that they get information from us, rather than whatever shows up in ViCAP.” In the back of his mind, Peter realized that his behavior was extraordinarily unprofessional. He didn’t care.
This was Neal and he was hurt. All the anger, the bitterness he had been clinging to for so long just washed away.
Diana and Clinton went to deal with the detectives and Peter bolted out of the office. The elevator took too long and he ended up running down the twenty-one flights stairs to the garage. He put the bubble on the roof and pulled out of the Federal Building, zipping in and out of traffic, blowing through lights to get to the West Side Highway. It was the middle of rush hour and Peter recklessly pushed through, riding the shoulder, cutting across lanes, uncaring of his own safety or anyone else’s. The need to get to Neal was an unshakable imperative. He couldn’t stop; even a second’s delay and it could just be too late.
Peter had been to Columbia Pres enough to know how to get access to the ER as law enforcement. The badge and bubble light got him through the gate and direct access to the administrative desk. But as he was about to demand the status of Neal Caffrey he faltered, just for a moment. Not Neal Caffrey, a John Doe sexual assault.
The attendant, an old man in a bright red jacket was far more interested in his game of solitaire than answering questions. Peter impatiently tapped his badge on the desk.
“Oh, huh...what can I help you with?”
“A crime victim was admitted last night as a John Doe; I was told he was taken into surgery before he could be identified. I have reason to believe he’s … a member of my team.” So he lied, a little.
The man blinked at him.
“If you can’t help me, I’m going to tear this hospital apart until I find someone who can.” Peter kept his voice low, but his tone was vicious.
The old man blinked again. “I think you’ll have to talk with Security, sir.”
That answer didn’t make any sense and he didn’t hesitate to say so. His voice must have carried because a security guard came over, hand on his gun.
“Sir, please step away from the desk.”
The urgency riding Peter doubled and he was ready to take out own his gun and shoot the rent-a-cop. And then thought better of it. “I am here to identify a John Doe who was brought in last night – I’m told that he needed surgery.” He repeated his request for information and all but shoved his badge in the man’s face.
“Sir. Please calm down.”
“I’ll calm down when you tell me where I can find my agent.” Another lie, and who gave a fuck?
The guard looked at him, his badge and the gun clearly visible in the shoulder rig under his jacket. “Okay – you’ll need to go up to the surgical floor – take those elevators –” He pointed to a bank of lifts twenty feet to his left. “Go to the seventh floor, make a right and the surgical desk is through a set of sliding glass doors. Someone there should be able to help you.”
“Thank you.” Peter rushed to the elevators and waited impatiently for a car to arrive. One finally did and the trip to seven was painfully slow. At least the guard’s direction was accurate. He just hoped the staff at the surgical desk were more cooperative and intelligent than the geezer downstairs.
A harried woman with tired eyes and a stethoscope draped around her neck looked up as he approached.
Peter took a deep breath, tried to control his emotions and once more flashed his badge. “I was told a John Doe was brought in last night, he needed surgery.”
The woman, Sonia Lavalle, R.N., according to her name tag, gave him a slightly disgusted look. “This is Columbia Presbyterian, sir. We get dozens of JDs needing surgery every night. Can you be more specific?”
“Male, mid-to-late thirties, Caucasian, slim build. He was stabbed and beaten, there were head injuries, too.” Peter swallowed. “He was also sexually assaulted.”
Sonia nodded. “Okay – I know the case.” She pulled out a chart. “You say you can identify him? What is the patient’s name?”
“Neal – Neal Caffrey.”
She made the appropriate notes in the chart. “And your name?”
“Special Agent Peter Burke, FBI.”
“Your relationship to the patient?”
Peter gritted his teeth – this was the hard part and he lied like a rug. “I’m his legal next of kin.” And still another lie. “He’s also part of my team.” He willed the woman to understand, to not demand proof.
She gave him a look, probably more willing to cooperate because of the badge than anything he told her. “Okay. Come with me.”
Sonia handed him a surgical mask and a package with a sterile gown, gloves, head covering and booties. Suitably protected, he followed her as they passed through a set of glass doors and she swiped a card to access the recovery ward. Almost all of the beds were occupied, but he didn’t see anyone who looked like Neal. Sonia kept walking, to a series of glass-walled rooms, stopping at one with a patient hooked up to a half a dozen monitors.
Between the bandages on his head, the intubation covering his mouth and the facial bruising, Peter almost didn’t recognize him. It was those eyelashes – ridiculous butterfly wings resting on cheekbones violated by some inhuman animal.
“Can I go in?”
“Just for a minute.”
Another swipe of the security card. The door buzzed and Peter entered. He reached out to touch Neal – just a single finger on a small patch of undamaged flesh.
“This is your colleague?”
“Yes.” He swallowed hard. “It’s Neal.”
“I can’t let you stay, I’m sorry.” Sonia pulled him out of the room and he trailed her as they left the post-op ward. “We’re going to need some details about him; will you be able to provide them?”
“Whatever you need.”
As Peter was giving the nurse Neal’s information, his cell phone rang. It was El. The nurse nodded at him and pointed Peter to a small waiting area where he could talk in private.
“Hon? I thought you were on your way home. Did you get waylaid by stray mortgage fraud claims?” Her voice was filled with laughter – that was an old, old joke.
Peter closed his eyes. He couldn’t believe he never called her – not even a thought to do so in his mad ride uptown. “I’m sorry, hon.”
The humor disappeared. “What happened, Peter?”
He paused, unable to speak as the words and a sick pain crowded his mouth.
“Honey?”
“It’s Neal. He was assaulted last night.”
“Oh my god – is he okay?”
“No – it’s bad. He was brought in as a John Doe – the cops found my card in his wallet. I rushed to the hospital. I’m sorry – I should have called you. Let you know where I was. You shouldn’t have had to worry.” Guilt compounded his agony.
“Peter! I’m fine. You don’t have to coddle me – not anymore. Now, tell me – what hospital?”
He told her, but insisted that she was not to come, not now. “Neal is in isolation in ICU, you won’t be allowed to see him.” What Peter didn’t tell Elizabeth was what Neal had been through. Not over the phone. Not yet. Sonia came into the waiting room and mouthed something at him.
“Hon – look, I need to talk with his doctors. I’ll have to call you back, okay?”
“Certainly – do what you need to do, let me know what’s going on when you can.”
A man in scrubs and a cap was standing at the desk making notes in a chart. He looked up as Peter approached. “Lavalle tells me that you identified one of our John Does.” His tone was brusque.
“Yes – did you operate on him?”
The doctor turned his back on Peter, signed off on some other papers, and flipped through a couple of charts before answering. “Yes.”
“And?” Peter was not unfamiliar with this god-complex behavior, but he had no patience for it now.
“The patient came through surgery. He’s in critical but stable condition. We’re watching the head injury – that may present complications. We can’t rule out additional surgery if he continues to bleed into his brain. He’s being closely monitored and Neurosurgery has been consulted.”
Peter swallowed. “When will you know?”
The doctor checked the chart. “He’s had several CT scans already and the inter-cranial bleed hasn’t yet stabilized. If the pressure doesn’t reduce itself within the next few hours, we’re going to have to get him back into surgery.”
He had to ask. “What about brain damage?”
“Hard to say at this point. Based on the location of the bleed, it’s unlikely that the patient’s sight will be affected, but you’ll get a better response from Neuro.” The surgeon looked at him. “Any more questions?”
“No – not now.”
“I understand he’s an FBI agent.”
As if that were relevant to Neal’s treatment or his injuries. “No, but Neal’s a member of my team.” Peter offered no further explanation. Best to keep the lies to a minimum.
“Ah, okay. Well – he’s a young man, in apparent good health. If he makes it through the next twenty-four hours, he should be okay.”
Okay, except for everything that happened. “Thank you.” There was nothing more to say.
He should call El back. He should go see June – he didn’t even know if Neal was living there anymore.
But not Mozzie.
The last person he ever wanted to see again. If Neal was the catalyst for what happened to his wife, Moz was the architect of the destruction of his dreams. He knew, through carefully placed inquiries, that the two men had never patched up their differences, and as irrational as it was, he was furious at Moz for Neal’s sake. He had once considered, in that fit of long simmering anger, issuing a BOLO on him, if just to make his life difficult.
He called El, filled her in on what the surgeon told her, reiterated that she shouldn’t come to the hospital and promised to let her know if anything changed.
Sitting in the dreadful little waiting room, with its decades-old magazines, dust-clogged plastic trees and posters warning about post-op infections and protection against blood-borne diseases, Peter started to cry.
Not just for Neal, but for himself. It was so easy to hate Neal for what he did, for all the betrayals, all the wrong choices. It was so easy to cling to that hate because forgiveness meant examining his own complicity.
I’ve had your back since Day One, and any time something goes wrong, I’m the first person you blame.
There had been a lot of truth in that mock fight – oh, not about the hats, and certainly not about Elizabeth getting lonely. But he had never let go of the idea that Neal was never going to change. Because you’re a con. It’s who you are, it’s all you’ll ever be.
At the time, he hadn’t really thought he meant those words. But deep down, he must have. Wasn’t that why he pounced on Neal when he found the scrap of painting after the warehouse exploded? Wasn’t that why he nursed his righteous anger and pushed Neal away every time they seemed to get back to normal? Why he couldn’t even shake Neal’s hand when, against all odds, he completed his work release and came to say goodbye?
What if he hadn’t flown off the handle that day? What if he hadn’t made it impossible for the two of them to just talk? Would this terrifying future, that horrible past, have been different?
He leaned his head back against the wall and the tears flowed unchecked.
“Peter?”
He looked up, blinking, as someone called his name. It was Diana. He hadn’t heard her come in and sit down next to him.
“You okay?”
He pulled a handkerchief out and wiped his face. “Yeah – no. Not really. What are you doing here?” He carefully refolded the square – it gave him something to focus on. “Sorry – stupid question.”
“That’s okay. How is he?”
“Not good, Di.”
“The detectives told us what happened to him.”
The thought of that on top of everything else nearly set him off again. He tried to focus on procedure – on something, anything else but that. “I’m sorry I just ran. I shouldn’t have left it to you and Clinton.”
Diana actually took his hand and patted it. “We understand.”
“Did you talk with the detectives – did you tell them about Neal? The good stuff?” Not how he lied and cheated and made a mockery out of our trust.
“Yes – the good stuff. Just the good stuff.” Diana gave him a gentle smile. “They’re here now. There are some questions that you’re probably the best one to answer. Can you?”
He let out a shuddering sigh. “Yeah. Okay.” Peter felt like an old man when he got up, the adrenalin that propelled him here was had washed out like the tide.
Munch and Benson were talking quietly with Clinton by the desk. The nurse, Lavalle, was gone and a younger man, in startling purple scrubs had taken her place. The detectives looked up at his approach.
“I’m sorry – about before.”
Munch nodded. “It’s okay – your agents filled us in on Mr. Caffrey. A rather intriguing individual.”
Peter had to smile. Intriguing. Neal would like that.
“We have a few more questions – can we talk?” Benson led them back towards the waiting room he just vacated.
“Do you have any idea who did this?” Peter had to ask.
“The park where Mr. Caffrey was found has recently seen an uptick in violent crime. It’s a quiet area, late at night – but it’s not too far from Washington Heights.” Munch answered.
“We know do why he was there, though. I ran his name through the DMV – he has a car registered in his name and at an address on Fort Washington Avenue and 189th. It seems that he had moved into that neighborhood about three months ago. We found the car on Cabrini. He probably had parked and was cutting through the playground when he was jumped. CSU found a set of car keys that belong to that vehicle.”
“So this was random bad luck?”
“Seems that way.” Benson answered. “I’m guessing that he had credit cards – we’ll have to get the numbers and run them. Maybe the perp was dumb enough to use them.”
“Visa –” Peter rattled off the bank, the numbers and expiration date. “He’s got a MasterCard and an American Express in his name. A few cards in other names, too.”
“You memorized his credit card numbers?”
“He has credit cards in other names?
Benson and Munch spoke over each other.
Peter instantly regretted mentioning that. “It was a thing – he went undercover frequently. I needed to check Neal’s expenditures – it was easier that asking him for the statements each month. He paid all his bills, it wasn’t identity theft.” Peter added needlessly.
Benson raised an eyebrow and handed him her notebook and pen. “Would you write down the numbers?”
He did, but he’d run them himself. Not that he didn’t trust the NYPD, but this was Neal.
The wait was endless. After he finished with Munch and Benson, he gave into Diana and Clinton’s urgings and went home.
In halting tones, he told El what had happened and she held him as he wept. “He was almost unrecognizable, El. That bastard beat him.” He raped him.
The dogs, sensing his distress, curled up next to him, little Cleo climbing up Satchmo’s back to reach his lap and Peter let her lick his tears away.
A few hours later he was back at the hospital – this time El wouldn’t let him go without her. Neal had to go into surgery again, the pressure from the inter-cranial bleed was too great and they had to operate.
One hour, then two. A third hour and Peter was beyond restless. Elizabeth held his hand, but he couldn’t stay still. He paced the length of the waiting room and resisted asking the nursing staff yet again if there was any news.
“Hon, sit down.” El patted the seat next to her. “You won’t do him any good if you wear yourself out.”
Peter thought that it was long past the time that he could have done Neal any good. He sat down anyway. The hard plastic chair was unreasonably uncomfortable and he shifted with the agitation he couldn’t contain.
“You think it’s your fault that this happened.” El said quietly. It wasn’t a question.
Peter stilled.
“It’s not, you know. There was nothing you did or didn’t do that could have changed this course of events. Neal wasn’t committing a crime – he was going home. It’s not for you to say that he shouldn’t have taken an apartment in a neighborhood within walking distance of a favorite museum. Or that he shouldn’t have been out after midnight or parked his car on the street or cut through a playground. It’s not your fault.” El was panting a little from the force of her words, squeezing his hand hard enough to leave bruises.
“Hon…”
“Just as it wasn’t Neal fault for what happened to me.”
He started to argue that point. “That’s not true, if he hadn’t lied –”
“No, Peter. What ever Neal did or didn’t do had nothing to do with Matthew Keller kidnapping me. Nothing.” Her voice was fierce, as if she was trying to change his mind by the force of her will alone.
“I wish I could believe that.”
“You have to. It’s the only way you can go forward.”
Intellectually, he knew that. Emotionally, he still felt like a child who broke his favorite toy in a fit of anger and was sitting heartbroken amongst the shattered pieces.
Another hour passed, the clock on the wall ticking down the moments of his life. He dozed, anxiety chasing anguish through restless dreams until Elizabeth shook him awake. A doctor – the neurosurgeon – was waiting to talk to them.
“How is he?” That was all Peter wanted to know.
“Stable. We were able to isolate the bleeding and repair the blood vessels. Mr. Caffrey will remain in a medically induced coma for another day or so, until the peripheral swelling is reduced.”
“Will he be all right? Was there any brain damage?”
The surgeon scrubbed at his eyes and put his glasses back on; Peter was uncomfortably reminded of Mozzie. “It’s hard to say, but I am cautiously optimistic that in time, Mr. Caffrey will make a full recovery. Given the rest of his injuries, he’ll need extensive rehabilitation.” He looked at them with some compassion. “You should go home – get some rest. There is nothing you can do for him tonight.”
“We can’t see him?”
“No – not for another few hours. Go home.”
El dragged him out of the hospital. “You need to sleep for a few hours. You’ll do him no good if you collapse.”
Peter let himself be lead. There were things he was going to have to handle – if just for his own peace of mind.
Sleep didn’t come easy, and Peter’s dreams were again filled with dread and unseen horrors. He slipped out of bed hours before dawn, let the dogs out and retrieved his file on Neal; the one that he dumped in the darkest corner of the basement when he took everything out of storage. He had thought about shredding it, burning it or simply tossing it in the trash, but he couldn't. So it sat in the basement, getting a little moldy as the seasons passed.
He set out each of the birthday cards; simple, hand-drawn things on cheap paper. “Happy Birthday, Agent Burke!” Please don’t forget about me. The copy of Neal’s original contract, a photocopy of his ID, old case notes about James Bonds and the Atlantic Partners forgeries. But those weren’t the papers he needed.
Early in the first year of their partnership, Peter had realized that Neal had no safety net, no insurance and no one to look after him. He argued with Hughes and the Administrators Office that Neal needed basic healthcare coverage. Since he would have been entitled to it during his incarceration, he should have the same while working for the Bureau. It was bad enough they weren’t paying him a living wage or anything beyond the housing stipend.
Hughes agreed and persuaded the Administrator to add Neal to the rolls. As part of the documentation, Neal had to provide contacts and a healthcare proxy. Peter had been the natural choice. Flipping through the few remaining documents, he found what he needed – the signed and notarized forms giving Peter Burke the right to make healthcare decisions for Neal Caffrey. Peter had taken his responsibilities seriously, and had another document drawn up.
“What’s this?” Neal had tossed the paper at him, slightly perturbed. “A living will?”
“An advanced directive.” Peter gave it back. “It gives your designee the right to make end of life decisions –”
“In case I can’t. I’m not signing this.”
“Neal – you’re not immortal. You’re not invincible.”
“Do you have one?”
He had just raised an eyebrow as a response.
“But of course you do – El’s the one who gets to pull the plug.”
“It’s not about pulling the plug or turning off life support. It’s about being responsible, about looking towards a future that may not be about cappuccino in the clouds.”
Something in Peter’s tone must have convinced Neal; he grabbed the pen and signed the form. Peter had hoped he’d never have to use it.
He still hoped.
He gathered up the papers, carefully putting them away. He’d have to do something about the dampness that had settled through everything, though.
He was just finishing his third cup of coffee when El came down. “Have you heard anything?”
Peter let out a shuddering sigh. “I’ve called a few times. Neal’s condition is unchanged. Critical but stable. He’s still in ICU, but they are going to move him to a Neuro ward this afternoon.
“That’s good news.” Her tone was guarded.
“Yeah. They said I’ll be able to see him for a few minutes this morning, and once he’s in the new unit, I can spend the day.”
“We can spend the day.” El corrected him.
Peter didn’t argue with her. He went up and took a quick shower and dressed. They took the dogs for a short walk and while he set out fresh water, El pulled out a few books.
“Hon?”
“They say that reading to a comatose patient helps. Which do you think Neal would prefer, Washington Irving’s Sketch Book or The Carpetbaggers by Harold Robbins.
Peter blinked at El’s attempt at levity, then smiled. “Do we even have a copy of The Carpetbaggers?”
She handed him the Washington Irving and dumped Peter’s ancient copy of Irving Stone’s The Agony and the Ecstasy on top of that for good measure.
By the time they got to the hospital, Neal had been transferred out of ICU and they got lost trying to find the tiny Neuro step-down ward, which was behind a series of security checkpoints and a locked access door.
It was still terrifying to see him. Neal was still on a ventilator, and would remain so until he was brought out of the medically induced coma. The bruising on his face and throat was even more livid; time had elevated the discoloration. The contrast of the dark splotches against the stark white bandage on his head was frightening.
El leaned into him, he could feel her shudders. “He’ll be all right, won’t he?”
Peter held her, rubbing his cheek against her head. “He will, he has to be.”
He sat down in one of the chairs, El next to him. The machines gave a soothing, steady beat; the whoosh of the ventilator and pinging monitors seemed to match his own heartbeat. Peter opened the copy of Washington Irving’s Sketch-Book and started to read.
I have often had the occasion to remark the fortitude with which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. Those disasters which break down the spirit of the man and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all of the energies of the softer sex…
He felt El smile at the words, and continued. The hours passed, his throat got scratchy and El took over when he went in search of a drink. He came back and found El standing outside Neal’s room. The attending – the same neurosurgeon who had operated on Neal – and a small cadre of residents were discussing his case and Peter listened with care.
Most of it was incomprehensible medical jargon presented in clinical tones, but it raised Peter’s hackles to hear them discuss Neal as if he were nothing more than a piece of meat. One of the residents, though, seemed to find his condition amusing, commenting in a loud voice. “Maybe if he just relaxed and enjoyed it, he wouldn’t have gotten his head bashed in.”
Peter didn’t hear the reprimand issued by the surgeon or the other residents’ reaction to this punk’s attempt at humor as he grabbed him by the collar of his white coat and shook him against the glass wall. “You think you’re funny, you little shit? You think that it’s funny that a man, a fellow human being, gets beaten and raped and left for dead on his way home? You think?” The glass rattled ominously as he punctuated each word with another shake. No one interfered.
“I’m – I’m sorry. I didn’t think.” The resident couldn’t meet his eyes and the floor staff gathered around to watch.
Peter let him go. “I don’t want this shit head near him again.”
The attending stepped in, “Don’t worry, Dr. Sullivan’s participation in this program is at an end. And you have my apologies on his behalf, Agent Burke.”
The resident blanched at his title and Peter glared at him, hoping he’d wet himself. The rest of the residents and the attending filed out.
Peter stood there, appalled at himself. Elizabeth kissed and whispered, “My hero.”
The rest of the afternoon passed quietly, they took turns reading to Neal, switching between the two books until El told him she needed to go.
“Cleo’s probably in a state by now – if she hasn’t already flooded the newspapers. Call me and I’ll come to pick you up.”
Peter shook his head. “Not necessary, hon. There’s a subway stop just a few blocks from here, I’ll get home quicker than you coming all the way back.”
“I want you to come home tonight – understand?”
Elizabeth must have read his mind, he had been thinking about spending the night. “Okay – I promise, I’ll come home when they kick me out.”
She kissed him again, gave him a searching look and left. Peter leaned back and rubbed his eyes. He’d sit here for a while; he’d give his voice a rest, his eyes a rest. The even, repetitive tones of the monitors were better than a sleeping pill, and he dropped off into an exhausted sleep. Biological imperative took over, and the dreams came.
He was laying out the facts of life to Neal – as they related political motivations that sent an Interpol agent illegally undercover.
“A half a million dollars. That's the price of a dead FBI agent. You really think you can believe everything she tells you? We either take down Lao now, or our partnership comes to an end.”
There was a sudden look of delight in Neal’s eyes, he all but gasped like a boy on Christmas morning. “We’re partners?”
And in the way that dreams both mimic and distort memory, the end of that conversation changed.
“Yes we are, if I can trust you.”
The happy light in Neal’s eyes dimmed then went out. “No, Peter. You can’t trust me. You should never trust me. I’ll always end up betraying you.”
“Neal – why would you say that?”
“Because it’s who I am. I was born bad, and I’ll die bad. Trust a con to betray you.”
“You have choices, you don’t have to be a con – you do good here. You can be something more, something else.”
“You’d like to believe that – it’s a nice fantasy. “Be a man, not a con.’ When I hit rock bottom, I’m not going to bounce.”’
“Then where do we go from here?”
“Send me back, Peter. Forget about me. If you want to save yourself from the grief I’ll bring to you, take me back to the prison and let me go. Forget about me. It would be for the best.”
“No, Neal. I won’t, I can’t. You’re too good, too smart. You’re my friend.”
“Only until I betray you.”
The happy light in Neal’s eyes dimmed then went out. “No, Peter. You can’t trust me. You should never trust me. I’ll always end up betraying you.”
“Neal – why would you say that?”
“Because it’s who I am. I was born bad, and I’ll die bad. Trust a con to betray you.”
“You have choices, you don’t have to be a con – you do good here. You can be something more, something else.”
“You’d like to believe that – it’s a nice fantasy. “Be a man, not a con.’ When I hit rock bottom, I’m not going to bounce.”’
“Then where do we go from here?”
“Send me back, Peter. Forget about me. If you want to save yourself from the grief I’ll bring to you, take me back to the prison and let me go. Forget about me. It would be for the best.”
“No, Neal. I won’t, I can’t. You’re too good, too smart. You’re my friend.”
“Only until I betray you.”
Peter woke up with a start, gasping as the tears clogged his throat. He looked at his watch; he’d been sleeping for more than an hour. It was close to four PM and the early December day was drawing to an end.
An aide popped her head into the room and gestured for him to step out.
“We’ve got to do some work on Neal – do you mind if we call him that?” She plowed on, insanely chipper. “Why don’t you go get a bite to eat and come back in about an hour – we can let you stay until eight, if you’d like.”
“Work? What are you going to do to him?”
“Oh, give him a sponge bath, change the bandages, check that all his tubes are right, probably change out the cath, you know – all the little humiliations.” She grinned, taking some of the sting out of her words. “Your brother will be fine.”
“Neal’s not my brother – he’s my friend.”
If anything, the aide’s smile got brighter. “You’re a good friend – a really good one, to sit with him like that – to read to him. Saw how you took down that pompous snot before. No one ever listens when we aides complained about him playing grab ass.”
“Well, you’re welcome.” Peter couldn’t think of anything else to say. He felt like a fraud – he wasn’t a good friend. This felt an act of expiation for all the times he let Neal down.
The aide pointed him in the direction of the cafeteria, and promised again that she’d take good care of Neal.
Peter had no intention of eating – the food smelled revolting, but the coffee was surprisingly decent. He called Elizabeth and updated her, saw that both Clinton and Diana left text messages inquiring about Neal, and there was a voice mail from Detective Munch, asking him to call back as soon as he could.
“How’s he doing?”
“They had to operate again, last night.” Peter explained. “But he’s doing okay now, according to the doctors. They moved him out of ICU this morning. He’s still in a medically induced coma, though.”
“Hmmm – so we won’t be able to talk to him for another few days, I guess.”
“At least. Were you able to track any usage on Neal’s credit cards?”
“Actually – that’s why I called. Someone went to town on them – we caught a skel red-handed, he’s got a list of priors as long as my arm, including assault and male-on-male sexual battery. Even better news is that the punk’s DNA is in the database.”
“Is it a match?” Peter held his breath.
“Too soon to know – it’ll take a week before the results are in. Of course, if your boy could ID the doer, it would so much easier.”
Your boy.
“Until he’s awake, we won’t be able to ask. Can you hold him for that long?”
“Don’t worry about that – we’ve got him on the stolen credit cards and his fingerprints are on Mr. Caffrey’s wallet. Given his priors, he’ll be charged and held, the DA will get remand.”
The talked for a few minutes more and just as he was about to hang up, something occurred to Peter. “Listen, did your ERT happen to find a hat in the playground?”
“ERT? Oh, you mean CSU. What type of hat?”
“Men’s – a fedora or trilby. Beaver felt, probably black or dark gray. Neal wore – wears – vintage hats.”
“Hold on, let me check.”
Peter could hear the detective flipping through his notepad.
“No – we didn’t. But maybe our doer took it as a trophy. I’ll have his apartment checked.”
He closed his eyes, trying to remember the tag he’d probably seen a hundred times. “Look for something old, from Dobbs Fifth Avenue, Size 8.”
There was the sound of a pen scratching in the background. “Why am I not surprised that you remember that, Agent Burke? What’s going to happen when your brain gets full?”
Peter chuckled. “I’ll let you know. Call me if you have any more information.”
“Will do – and my best to Mr. Caffrey. Let us know when he’d up and ready to talk.”
Peter got back to Neal’s room just as the aide and a nurse were finishing up with him. He settled back into the chair and picked up one of the books. This time it was the fictional biography of Michelangelo and started to read to Neal again. He lost track of time, and El called, telling him that he needed to be at the front of the hospital no later than eight-fifteen. She’d be there with the dogs, and if he didn’t want Cleo to pee on the leather seat, he’d be there on time.
The next day followed the same routine, except that El had an event to manage so Peter was by himself. Instead of reading, he started talking, trying to explain.
“We’ve moved back to Brooklyn; I though Elizabeth would never want to go back there, but she was the one who suggested it. I cosseted her, wrapped in cotton, protected her like she was the Hope Diamond. I forgot that the Hope Diamond is a diamond – the hardest, most durable gem of all. I was so afraid of her being afraid that I wasn’t letting her heal.
“She insists that it wasn’t your fault – what happened.” He paused, searching for the words. “That your choices were not the reason why she was kidnapped. That would be like blaming that iceberg for being in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean when the Titanic hit it.” He sighed, exasperated with himself. “I don’t even think I’m making any sense.”
“What I’m trying to say is – I’m sorry. I’m as much to blame as anyone. I hope – I hope you’ll be able to understand that. And I’ve missed you, I’ve tried not to – but I do. It’s there, all the time. You’re standing at my shoulder, a ghost of my lost contentment. I see you out of the corner of my eye, but you’re never really there, are you?”
The only answer he got was the still-steady beat of the monitors. He had to stop this maudlin train of thought.
“Not much else has changed – Hughes is retiring, I’m up for his slot. My clearance rate is down a little – ninety-two percent these days. I guess I’m slipping a bit, without you.”
Peter rambled on, telling Neal about a string of new cases – a very talented thief who was targeting private erotica collections. “Some of that stuff – it would make you go blind.”
“We have a new puppy, by the way. Not that there’s anything wrong with Satchmo – she keeps him young. And he’s patient. Cleo – that’s her name – has a thing for his tail. She chases it. Reminds me a bit of you and me – when he lets her catch it, she doesn’t quite know what to do.
“She was part of a litter from a rescue. Do you know about the Amish and how they run those terrible puppy mills? Well, El did a fundraiser for a Golden Retriever rescue operation in Pennsylvania, and she waived her fee in exchange for one of the pups. She’s the sweetest little girl and has us all wrapped around her paws.”
Peter talked until he had no more words, and then read to Neal until his voice gave out. It was Sunday and there were no grand rounds, but an attending – not Neal’s surgeon – stopped by to check on him.
This doctor, a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes, checked the chart, made some notes and fiddled with some of the leads, and made more notes.
“When will he be able to wake up?” Peter asked.
The doctor wasn’t particularly forthcoming. “When the swelling goes down.”
“Should it take so long?”
“It takes as long as it has to. He’s doing fine.”
Peter’s bullshit meter was heading into the red zone.
She must have seen something on his face and gave him a better answer. “He’ll go down for a CT scan tonight – if the results are positive, we’ll start bringing him out of the coma.”
“Okay – okay. I’d like to be here when that happens.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible – he’ll need to be extubated first, then there are other protocols that need to be followed. We’ll let you know when you can come back.”
Peter sat with Neal through the night, reading and talking. He was beginning to hate the sound of his own voice.
“I miss you.”
Three simple words. “I can’t wait for you to wake up – I can’t wait to hear your voice. And I am dreading it too – will you remember what happened to you? Will I need to explain? Will you be all right?”
And the hardest question of all. “Will you forgive me?”
Go to Part II
Tags:
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: peter burke,
- crossover: law and order: svu,
- genre: angst,
- genre: crossover,
- genre: future fic,
- genre: gen,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- pairing: peter/elizabeth,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- white collar,
- written for: angst bingo,
- year: 2011
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-12-05 04:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-05 04:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-05 05:08 pm (UTC)ARGH! :-)
no subject
Date: 2011-12-05 05:10 pm (UTC)You know that.
no subject
Date: 2011-12-05 05:39 pm (UTC)Thank god you are so cute or I'd have to kill you!
Same goes for you! :-)
no subject
Date: 2011-12-05 05:38 pm (UTC)So, there!
Okay, so really, I started reading today, and it *is* difficult, and I decided I'd put off the really hard stuff until I can read all the way to the resolution in one go. :-)
no subject
Date: 2011-12-05 06:13 pm (UTC)So - you are all victims of my own preferences!
no subject
Date: 2011-12-05 05:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-05 06:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-05 06:08 pm (UTC)*unless I succumb to temptation once it's all posted...
no subject
Date: 2011-12-05 06:11 pm (UTC)Time is telescoping - the days are going by quicker and quicker.
HUGS YOU.
no subject
Date: 2011-12-05 08:32 pm (UTC)An admirable story.
no subject
Date: 2011-12-06 12:40 am (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2011-12-05 08:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-06 12:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-05 09:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-06 12:39 am (UTC)I hope you enjoy the next two parts.
no subject
Date: 2011-12-05 09:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-06 12:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-05 09:54 pm (UTC)“Will you forgive me?”
I'd been trying to hold back the tears and you undid me with those lines.
You're a genius. I can safely say that the WC community wouldn't be the same without you. You understand the characters like no other and I find myself loving each and every single one of your stories.
Thanks for being so awesome! :)
no subject
Date: 2011-12-06 12:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-06 01:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-06 01:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-06 06:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-06 01:51 pm (UTC)I've posted the new chapter, you can find it right here.
no subject
Date: 2011-12-06 07:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-06 01:50 pm (UTC)I was going to post last week, but I didn't want to step on your excellent story.
I've posted the new chapter, you can find it right here.
no subject
Date: 2011-12-06 08:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-06 01:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-06 08:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-06 01:48 pm (UTC)Next chapter is up! You can get it right here!
no subject
Date: 2011-12-09 01:14 pm (UTC)It's 5am and I should be sleep.. But my epic!fic senses were tingling. When I first saw this (before it was all posted) I vowed to read it the moment I saw law & order svu mentioned. Also it took a good while to highlight and read what the warnings were.
Speechless.. That is how you have left me after this one part.. Speechless and wanting to cry. I plan to finish the rest later today.. I hope. I can't wait!
no subject
Date: 2011-12-09 01:47 pm (UTC)I wish I could say the rest of the story is easier, but it's not.
no subject
Date: 2011-12-09 09:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-29 05:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-29 12:36 pm (UTC)It was a tough story and I appreciate your feedback one it.