![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: Return and Rebuild the Desolate Places – Chapter Seventeen
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, Mozzie, Reese Hughes, Clinton Jones, Diana Berrigan, Olivia Benson (L&O: SVU), Section Chief Bruce (McKinsey) Original Characters
Spoilers: White Collar, all of Season 5; no specific spoilers for L&O: SVU, but set in Season 15
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Kidnapping, torture (off-camera), rape (off-camera),
Word Count: This chapter – ~3000
Beta Credit:coffeethyme4me, miri_thompson, sinfulslasher, theatregirl7299
Story Summary: Six months after Neal disappears, Peter still has no answers and his decision not to go to Washington has had significant repercussions for both his career and his marriage.
Chapter Summary: Dreams and reality collide for Neal and Peter makes an important and long-overdue decision/
__________________
Previous Chapters: Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen |
A/N: Title from Alan Hovhaness’ wind concerto, which takes it from the Old Testament. New chapters will be posted to my LJ every Thursday and to the relevant communities on Fridays.
Art bykanarek13
Sometime in Late January – Late Wednesday Afternoon
A doctor came and checked the tube that led to a drainage bag collecting the fluid that had built up in his lung. She seemed pleased and told Neal that it looked like the infection had retreated. But he still had a ways to go before they could remove the precautions. He was still in a highly debilitated state and his wounded body was still prey for any opportunistic bacteria.
Neal didn’t like that word, ‘prey’. He’d spent six months as a sadist’s prey.
The doctor left and the nurses and aides came. There were IVs to check and pills to take, bedding to be changed. By the time they were finished, he was exhausted. Before the last of the medical personnel left, he asked if they’d turn off the overhead lights, he wanted to sleep. Or at least try to.
He must have dozed off and started to dream, because it wasn’t winter anymore and he wasn’t in the hospital. It was one of those dreams that were so hyper-realistic that he knew he had to be dreaming.
Which didn’t seem to make the dream any better.
It was early spring, and Neal knew that because the trees were mostly bare, but there were splashes of bright yellow – clusters of daffodils and the spill of forsythia. Here and there were touches of pink from the flowering trees just coming into bloom. In a few days, the air would be filled with petals, a warmly tinted snowfall.
He walked with a cane, moving slowly, carefully, like an old man who didn’t trust either the evenness of the ground or the steadiness of his feet. He was alone and all he knew was that this was a place he’d been told to go to and it was a place he’d been to before.
He was in a cemetery, vast and endless. Headstones and obelisks, memorials and crypts, marble glowing in the light as far as the eye could see. Neal pulled out a note from his jacket pocket; it was handwritten, but he didn’t recognize the handwriting: Section 29, Row J, Grave Number 15.
It was strange; to be in such a place of death and the birds were singing, taking delight in the burgeoning fecundity of spring. The sky was a soft blue, so typical of New York in this season. And while the setting was bucolic, it was still New York; the air was scented not with apple blossoms, but with the exhaust fumes from the tens of thousands of cars and trucks that lumbered along the highways that bordered this fine and private place.
Neal wasn’t sure why he was here, who he was coming to see. Not to visit Kate’s grave; the bits and pieces left of her had been buried next to her father, in a plot somewhere to the east of this point. Her grave wasn’t in a pretty part of the cemetery; it was set on a hill overlooking a vast sanitation plant. Whoever was buried in Section 29 was surrounded by century-old maples and sycamores and well-kept boxwood hedges.
He found Row J easily enough. There was a large crypt on one side of the path, topped with a confection of weeping angels, the marble worn by time; the Victorian banality of the carvings softened into something interesting. Opposite the crypt was a row of simple headstones, also eroded by a century of rain and snow and urban pollution. But at the end of the row was a new stone, and Neal counted the plots as he slowly walked along the path. Yes, the last stone was for number 15.
Dread slowed him down. He couldn’t imagine who was buried here. June wasn’t Catholic and he’d gone with her to the Abyssinian Baptist Cemetery in Harlem often enough to know that this wasn’t Byron’s resting place. Mozzie had had specific arrangements in place and none of them involved anything like a traditional interment. Besides, he’d just seen Mozzie. And he’d seen June, too. He’d had breakfast with her that morning. She’d even brought him the note that was in his pocket.
And he’d talked with Clinton and Diana and Reese and Elizabeth. Everyone who was important in his life was alive and well and in communication with him.
Everyone but Peter.
No. No. No. He tried to stop, but his feet kept moving forward, that new gravestone looming closer and closer until it was in front of him, an impassible obelisk.
Neal closed his eyes and refused to look. He couldn’t bear it. But he had to look.
Peter Burke
1963 - 2014
Loving Husband
Gave His Life For Justice
Requiescat in Pace et in Amore
This was why Peter had never come to see him in the hospital, had never come to see him when he’d been released, when he was healing. This was why he’d been left to wonder and worry. No one wanted to tell him that Peter was dead.
He started to cry, he felt himself tremble, his whole body shaking, and he fell to his knees before the grave, beating against the gray stone until his hands were bloody. How could they do this to him? How could they keep this from him?
It hurt so much, he couldn’t breathe past the grief, he couldn’t scream for all the anguish. All he could do was beat his hands against the cold ground and weep for everything he’d lost. “Nooo, oh, god, no, why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“Shh, shh, calm down, Neal.” A hand swept across his forehead. The voice was familiar, soothing.
“No, no, no.”
“It’s okay, you’re safe, you’re safe now.”
He struggled to open his eyes, to break out of this horrible dream. And he did, only to fall deeper into another dream. Those eyes, above the mask, he knew them. But he knew to his soul, that those eyes were only another nightmare.
“Go away, just go away.” He turned his face away from that hand, that touch - he wanted that so much, but it was never there.
A voice, a different voice, broke through the nightmare. “Agent Burke, you’ll have to leave. You’re distressing the patient.”
It took too long for the woman’s words to penetrate, for Neal’s eyes to open, and when he was finally truly awake and turned back to the mirage,it - he - was gone as if he’d never been there. The only other person in the room was a nurse, checking the monitors, taking his blood pressure. Neal frantically tried to get out of bed. An alarm sounded and aides rushed to help her hold him down.
“Calm down, Mr. Caffrey. You can’t get out of bed.
Neal fought against the hands on his body, he tried to reach Peter. He couldn’t. It took all the strength he had, he fought against every instinct that told him to keep silent, but the scream erupted from him and he cried out, “Peter!”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
After Peter had left the Four Seasons, he’d headed back to the office. Despite his focus on keeping Neal out of prison, he knew that he had to at least keep up some pretense of managing the division. There were always reports he needed to review, endless stacks of paperwork to move from one side of his desk to the other.
The crap that made his job such a joy.
Except that he passed the FBI building and kept on walking, all the way to Tenth Avenue, to Mount Sinai-Roosevelt Hospital, where Neal was. He didn’t let himself think too deeply about what he was doing, where he was going. If he did, he’d turn back.
Instead, Peter remembered Diana’s fury from earlier today, Elizabeth’s sad encouragement the other night. He remembered Neal, so angry that last afternoon before he vanished, when he’d told him that the Justice Department had refused to commute his sentence. He remembered a hundred good moments and just as many bad ones. One that kept coming back to him was Neal on top of that tower in Praia, waiting for him with a wary smile, and then finally with open arms, hugging him, welcoming him back into his life. And there was another moment, a little later that day, when they’d managed to get to Mozzie’s fortress in paradise, when he’d been talking to Hughes about bringing Neal back, reinstating his deal. He remembered how Neal’s eyes had lit up.
Yes, he could have – he should have – let Neal go after he ran, but Neal wanted to come back, too. Neal wanted that life back and wracked with guilt, Peter had forgotten that. He shouldn’t have.
He went to the nurses’ station first and was surprised to find Neal’s primary doctor there, filling out a report. They’d met on Saturday, when Peter had been waiting and watching as the Treasury Department, the Justice Department and the Marshals each had a go at Neal, and they’d spoken on the phone every day since.
“How is he?”
“Ah, Agent Burke – I’m glad to see you. Mr. Caffrey’s condition is improving. We’ll take out the chest tube tomorrow. As long as the infection doesn’t come back and he continues to make progress, he might even be able to get out of here by Friday.”
“That seems awfully ambitious, Doctor.”
The woman smiled, a wry twist to her lips. “Hospitals are terrible places for sick people. Mr. Caffrey’s going to need long term rehabilitation, both physical and psychological, and keeping him here won’t really help once he’s medically cleared. Which reminds me, I just got a message from your assistant. She said that you’ll need a complete written assessment of Mr. Caffrey’s physical and psychological condition.”
“My assistant?”
“Hmm, about ten minutes ago. Said her name was Landon Shepherd, and that you needed it urgently. She told me to email it to her directly – which seemed a little, well, strange. Especially since she didn’t have a government email address.”
Peter didn’t know whether to be pleased or outraged by Landon’s request. But he understood what she was doing and he appreciated that she’d gotten right to work. “Send the report to both of us – when do you think it’ll be done?”
“I’ve scheduled the psych consult for tomorrow and I’ve asked Dr. Reissenger to expedite the report. Your assistant mentioned that Mr. Caffrey’s continued liberty was under determination. Honestly, I can’t imagine him in any condition to do any harm to anyone, except maybe himself.”
That shocked Peter. “To himself? What do you mean? You think he’s suicidal?” He hadn’t even considered that.
“Ah, sorry – no, I don’t. But that will, officially, be Dr. Reissenger’s determination to make. I just think that Mr. Caffrey is not particularly inclined to follow medical directives. I think he tends to over-estimate his capabilities and capacity and won’t let his body and mind heal properly.”
“And yet, you want to release him from the hospital. That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know – it’s a conundrum, isn’t it? But I’ve talked – in general medical terms, only – with his friend, June. She said she’ll watch over him, and her home is well equipped for caring for an invalid, that she’s got staff and will ensure that Mr. Caffrey gets all the rehabilitative therapy he needs. Alternatively, he can be released into an in-patient facility, but given his …” The doctor paused delicately, “recent trauma, being in a familiar environment, with familiar faces, will be better for his recovery.”
Peter had to agree. Hospitals were terrible places. No privacy, constant interruptions, constant noise. Neal would do better at home, and home would be June’s mansion, complete with an elevator to the fourth floor, servants to watch over Neal, the privacy to heal and rest and recover. It was also secure. Once upon a time, June showed him the system her husband had installed and she had updated over the years – wireless cameras that watched over the entire street, a state of the art alarm system on every window and door, not just the first floor but all the way up to Neal’s apartment, including the skylights. Her house was a fortress and as long as Neal was there, he’d be safe.
“Okay. Okay. I’ll get with June and we’ll get things ready for Neal’s homecoming.”
The doctor checked her notes. “Are you going to see Mr. Caffrey now?”
Faced with that question, Peter actually considered declining. But he’d come this far. “Yes, if he’s up to it.”
“He’s a little tired, but I think he’d be happy to see you. You’ll have to wear the standard protective gear.” The doctor made a gesture to one of the medical personnel behind the counter and he handed her a sealed package. “Put everything on – it may seem like overkill, but it’s not for your protection, it’s for Mr. Caffrey’s. Avoid touching him, even when you’re wearing the kit. You never know what you’re carrying along.” The doctor closed the chart and left.
One of the aides was kind enough to take his coat and jacket, but she gave his shoulder rig and gun a bit of a side-eye. Not that Peter would let a stranger take possession of his weapon. Ever. He donned the yellow gown, booties, gloves, face mask and cap and felt like a bit of an idiot as he made his way to Neal’s room.
There was still a Marshal at the door and Peter pulled down the face mask and identified himself. He hoped that he wouldn’t have to take off all of the protective gear and get out his ID folder. But the Marshal just nodded and told him to go ahead.
He paused at the doorway, thinking that there was still time to turn back. He didn’t have to go in. He could turn around, leave and …
What? Be a coward? How many more people did he need to tell him that Neal wanted to see him, that Neal needed to see him?
He pushed open the door and found Neal asleep. He looked a little better than he had Friday night, some of the bruising faded, some of the gauntness filled out. But his hair was lank and long and greasy, threaded throughout with gray, the same gray that decorated the ungroomed scruff on his chin. Eyes closed, his lashes were like birds’ wings against his cheeks, melding with the deep shadows under his eyes. How could anyone look at this man and say he was anything but a victim?
Peter stepped into the room and sat down in the chair next to the bed, trying to make as little noise as possible. He was actually grateful Neal was asleep. It gave him a little more time to think about what to say. But as he watched his sleeping friend, he couldn’t seem to find any words but I’m sorry, forgive me. Maybe those were the only words needed.
In his sleep, Neal was restless. His fingers twitched against the covers, his legs were moving. He tossed back and forth against the mattress, as if he was trying to escape. Peter reached out and rested his hand on Neal’s arm, disregarding the doctor’s orders. It didn’t seem to do anything, as Neal’s tossing became violent, as he started to mutter, “No, no, no”
Peter could only imagine what horrors Neal was reliving, but the next words, uttered with such grief, “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” broke Peter’s heart.
“Shh, shh.” He tried to soothe Neal, resting his hand on his forehead, as if Neal were a fretful, feverish child. “Calm down, Neal.”
“No, no, no.”
Peter didn’t know what to do, but he tried to reassure Neal that he wasn’t in danger. “It’s okay, you’re safe, you’re safe now.” He stroked Neal’s forehead, his cheek, trying to wake him. It seemed to work; Neal opened his eyes and looked at him, his expression turning from confusion to horror.
“Go away, just go away.” Neal turned his face away, pulled free of Peter’s gentle hold. The monitors started to sound and a nurse came in, all but pulling him out of the room.
“What’s going on?” She didn’t answer him, rushing back into Neal’s room. He could hear Neal shouting and an alarm sounded. Other people rushed to Neal’s room and Peter stood there, terrified.
And heartsick that he had brought this on. He tried to console himself with the thought that Neal hadn’t recognized him through the mask and the head covering. Then he heard Neal call out his name, a terrible, hoarse, grieving sound, and he couldn’t stop himself, he had to go to Neal, he had to see him, get him to calm down.
He pushed his way back into Neal’s room, past the medical people struggling to keep him on the bed. None of the nurses were wearing face masks and Peter pulled his off so Neal could see him, recognize him.
Shoving his way between Neal and an aide who was trying to put him into restraints, Peter wrapped his hands around Neal’s cheeks and forced him to look at him. “I’m here, I’m here, Neal. Please calm down.”
The desperate wildness faded. “Peter? Peter? You’re alive, you’re here?” Neal clung to his hands, holding him so hard that his fingernails punctured the gloves Peter was still wearing.
“Yes, Neal. I’m here, I’m alive.” Peter realized just what Neal must have been dreaming about, and it was his own damn fault. “I’m here, I’m here. I’m here.”
TO BE CONTINUED
Go to Chapter 18
Author:
elrhiarhodan Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, Mozzie, Reese Hughes, Clinton Jones, Diana Berrigan, Olivia Benson (L&O: SVU), Section Chief Bruce (McKinsey) Original Characters
Spoilers: White Collar, all of Season 5; no specific spoilers for L&O: SVU, but set in Season 15
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Kidnapping, torture (off-camera), rape (off-camera),
Word Count: This chapter – ~3000
Beta Credit:
coffeethyme4me, miri_thompson, sinfulslasher, theatregirl7299 Story Summary: Six months after Neal disappears, Peter still has no answers and his decision not to go to Washington has had significant repercussions for both his career and his marriage.
Chapter Summary: Dreams and reality collide for Neal and Peter makes an important and long-overdue decision/
Previous Chapters: Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen |
A/N: Title from Alan Hovhaness’ wind concerto, which takes it from the Old Testament. New chapters will be posted to my LJ every Thursday and to the relevant communities on Fridays.
Art by
kanarek13Sometime in Late January – Late Wednesday Afternoon
A doctor came and checked the tube that led to a drainage bag collecting the fluid that had built up in his lung. She seemed pleased and told Neal that it looked like the infection had retreated. But he still had a ways to go before they could remove the precautions. He was still in a highly debilitated state and his wounded body was still prey for any opportunistic bacteria.
Neal didn’t like that word, ‘prey’. He’d spent six months as a sadist’s prey.
The doctor left and the nurses and aides came. There were IVs to check and pills to take, bedding to be changed. By the time they were finished, he was exhausted. Before the last of the medical personnel left, he asked if they’d turn off the overhead lights, he wanted to sleep. Or at least try to.
He must have dozed off and started to dream, because it wasn’t winter anymore and he wasn’t in the hospital. It was one of those dreams that were so hyper-realistic that he knew he had to be dreaming.
Which didn’t seem to make the dream any better.
It was early spring, and Neal knew that because the trees were mostly bare, but there were splashes of bright yellow – clusters of daffodils and the spill of forsythia. Here and there were touches of pink from the flowering trees just coming into bloom. In a few days, the air would be filled with petals, a warmly tinted snowfall.
He walked with a cane, moving slowly, carefully, like an old man who didn’t trust either the evenness of the ground or the steadiness of his feet. He was alone and all he knew was that this was a place he’d been told to go to and it was a place he’d been to before.
He was in a cemetery, vast and endless. Headstones and obelisks, memorials and crypts, marble glowing in the light as far as the eye could see. Neal pulled out a note from his jacket pocket; it was handwritten, but he didn’t recognize the handwriting: Section 29, Row J, Grave Number 15.
It was strange; to be in such a place of death and the birds were singing, taking delight in the burgeoning fecundity of spring. The sky was a soft blue, so typical of New York in this season. And while the setting was bucolic, it was still New York; the air was scented not with apple blossoms, but with the exhaust fumes from the tens of thousands of cars and trucks that lumbered along the highways that bordered this fine and private place.
Neal wasn’t sure why he was here, who he was coming to see. Not to visit Kate’s grave; the bits and pieces left of her had been buried next to her father, in a plot somewhere to the east of this point. Her grave wasn’t in a pretty part of the cemetery; it was set on a hill overlooking a vast sanitation plant. Whoever was buried in Section 29 was surrounded by century-old maples and sycamores and well-kept boxwood hedges.
He found Row J easily enough. There was a large crypt on one side of the path, topped with a confection of weeping angels, the marble worn by time; the Victorian banality of the carvings softened into something interesting. Opposite the crypt was a row of simple headstones, also eroded by a century of rain and snow and urban pollution. But at the end of the row was a new stone, and Neal counted the plots as he slowly walked along the path. Yes, the last stone was for number 15.
Dread slowed him down. He couldn’t imagine who was buried here. June wasn’t Catholic and he’d gone with her to the Abyssinian Baptist Cemetery in Harlem often enough to know that this wasn’t Byron’s resting place. Mozzie had had specific arrangements in place and none of them involved anything like a traditional interment. Besides, he’d just seen Mozzie. And he’d seen June, too. He’d had breakfast with her that morning. She’d even brought him the note that was in his pocket.
And he’d talked with Clinton and Diana and Reese and Elizabeth. Everyone who was important in his life was alive and well and in communication with him.
Everyone but Peter.
No. No. No. He tried to stop, but his feet kept moving forward, that new gravestone looming closer and closer until it was in front of him, an impassible obelisk.
Neal closed his eyes and refused to look. He couldn’t bear it. But he had to look.
1963 - 2014
Loving Husband
Gave His Life For Justice
Requiescat in Pace et in Amore
This was why Peter had never come to see him in the hospital, had never come to see him when he’d been released, when he was healing. This was why he’d been left to wonder and worry. No one wanted to tell him that Peter was dead.
He started to cry, he felt himself tremble, his whole body shaking, and he fell to his knees before the grave, beating against the gray stone until his hands were bloody. How could they do this to him? How could they keep this from him?
It hurt so much, he couldn’t breathe past the grief, he couldn’t scream for all the anguish. All he could do was beat his hands against the cold ground and weep for everything he’d lost. “Nooo, oh, god, no, why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“Shh, shh, calm down, Neal.” A hand swept across his forehead. The voice was familiar, soothing.
“No, no, no.”
“It’s okay, you’re safe, you’re safe now.”
He struggled to open his eyes, to break out of this horrible dream. And he did, only to fall deeper into another dream. Those eyes, above the mask, he knew them. But he knew to his soul, that those eyes were only another nightmare.
“Go away, just go away.” He turned his face away from that hand, that touch - he wanted that so much, but it was never there.
A voice, a different voice, broke through the nightmare. “Agent Burke, you’ll have to leave. You’re distressing the patient.”
It took too long for the woman’s words to penetrate, for Neal’s eyes to open, and when he was finally truly awake and turned back to the mirage,it - he - was gone as if he’d never been there. The only other person in the room was a nurse, checking the monitors, taking his blood pressure. Neal frantically tried to get out of bed. An alarm sounded and aides rushed to help her hold him down.
“Calm down, Mr. Caffrey. You can’t get out of bed.
Neal fought against the hands on his body, he tried to reach Peter. He couldn’t. It took all the strength he had, he fought against every instinct that told him to keep silent, but the scream erupted from him and he cried out, “Peter!”
After Peter had left the Four Seasons, he’d headed back to the office. Despite his focus on keeping Neal out of prison, he knew that he had to at least keep up some pretense of managing the division. There were always reports he needed to review, endless stacks of paperwork to move from one side of his desk to the other.
The crap that made his job such a joy.
Except that he passed the FBI building and kept on walking, all the way to Tenth Avenue, to Mount Sinai-Roosevelt Hospital, where Neal was. He didn’t let himself think too deeply about what he was doing, where he was going. If he did, he’d turn back.
Instead, Peter remembered Diana’s fury from earlier today, Elizabeth’s sad encouragement the other night. He remembered Neal, so angry that last afternoon before he vanished, when he’d told him that the Justice Department had refused to commute his sentence. He remembered a hundred good moments and just as many bad ones. One that kept coming back to him was Neal on top of that tower in Praia, waiting for him with a wary smile, and then finally with open arms, hugging him, welcoming him back into his life. And there was another moment, a little later that day, when they’d managed to get to Mozzie’s fortress in paradise, when he’d been talking to Hughes about bringing Neal back, reinstating his deal. He remembered how Neal’s eyes had lit up.
Yes, he could have – he should have – let Neal go after he ran, but Neal wanted to come back, too. Neal wanted that life back and wracked with guilt, Peter had forgotten that. He shouldn’t have.
He went to the nurses’ station first and was surprised to find Neal’s primary doctor there, filling out a report. They’d met on Saturday, when Peter had been waiting and watching as the Treasury Department, the Justice Department and the Marshals each had a go at Neal, and they’d spoken on the phone every day since.
“How is he?”
“Ah, Agent Burke – I’m glad to see you. Mr. Caffrey’s condition is improving. We’ll take out the chest tube tomorrow. As long as the infection doesn’t come back and he continues to make progress, he might even be able to get out of here by Friday.”
“That seems awfully ambitious, Doctor.”
The woman smiled, a wry twist to her lips. “Hospitals are terrible places for sick people. Mr. Caffrey’s going to need long term rehabilitation, both physical and psychological, and keeping him here won’t really help once he’s medically cleared. Which reminds me, I just got a message from your assistant. She said that you’ll need a complete written assessment of Mr. Caffrey’s physical and psychological condition.”
“My assistant?”
“Hmm, about ten minutes ago. Said her name was Landon Shepherd, and that you needed it urgently. She told me to email it to her directly – which seemed a little, well, strange. Especially since she didn’t have a government email address.”
Peter didn’t know whether to be pleased or outraged by Landon’s request. But he understood what she was doing and he appreciated that she’d gotten right to work. “Send the report to both of us – when do you think it’ll be done?”
“I’ve scheduled the psych consult for tomorrow and I’ve asked Dr. Reissenger to expedite the report. Your assistant mentioned that Mr. Caffrey’s continued liberty was under determination. Honestly, I can’t imagine him in any condition to do any harm to anyone, except maybe himself.”
That shocked Peter. “To himself? What do you mean? You think he’s suicidal?” He hadn’t even considered that.
“Ah, sorry – no, I don’t. But that will, officially, be Dr. Reissenger’s determination to make. I just think that Mr. Caffrey is not particularly inclined to follow medical directives. I think he tends to over-estimate his capabilities and capacity and won’t let his body and mind heal properly.”
“And yet, you want to release him from the hospital. That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know – it’s a conundrum, isn’t it? But I’ve talked – in general medical terms, only – with his friend, June. She said she’ll watch over him, and her home is well equipped for caring for an invalid, that she’s got staff and will ensure that Mr. Caffrey gets all the rehabilitative therapy he needs. Alternatively, he can be released into an in-patient facility, but given his …” The doctor paused delicately, “recent trauma, being in a familiar environment, with familiar faces, will be better for his recovery.”
Peter had to agree. Hospitals were terrible places. No privacy, constant interruptions, constant noise. Neal would do better at home, and home would be June’s mansion, complete with an elevator to the fourth floor, servants to watch over Neal, the privacy to heal and rest and recover. It was also secure. Once upon a time, June showed him the system her husband had installed and she had updated over the years – wireless cameras that watched over the entire street, a state of the art alarm system on every window and door, not just the first floor but all the way up to Neal’s apartment, including the skylights. Her house was a fortress and as long as Neal was there, he’d be safe.
“Okay. Okay. I’ll get with June and we’ll get things ready for Neal’s homecoming.”
The doctor checked her notes. “Are you going to see Mr. Caffrey now?”
Faced with that question, Peter actually considered declining. But he’d come this far. “Yes, if he’s up to it.”
“He’s a little tired, but I think he’d be happy to see you. You’ll have to wear the standard protective gear.” The doctor made a gesture to one of the medical personnel behind the counter and he handed her a sealed package. “Put everything on – it may seem like overkill, but it’s not for your protection, it’s for Mr. Caffrey’s. Avoid touching him, even when you’re wearing the kit. You never know what you’re carrying along.” The doctor closed the chart and left.
One of the aides was kind enough to take his coat and jacket, but she gave his shoulder rig and gun a bit of a side-eye. Not that Peter would let a stranger take possession of his weapon. Ever. He donned the yellow gown, booties, gloves, face mask and cap and felt like a bit of an idiot as he made his way to Neal’s room.
There was still a Marshal at the door and Peter pulled down the face mask and identified himself. He hoped that he wouldn’t have to take off all of the protective gear and get out his ID folder. But the Marshal just nodded and told him to go ahead.
He paused at the doorway, thinking that there was still time to turn back. He didn’t have to go in. He could turn around, leave and …
What? Be a coward? How many more people did he need to tell him that Neal wanted to see him, that Neal needed to see him?
He pushed open the door and found Neal asleep. He looked a little better than he had Friday night, some of the bruising faded, some of the gauntness filled out. But his hair was lank and long and greasy, threaded throughout with gray, the same gray that decorated the ungroomed scruff on his chin. Eyes closed, his lashes were like birds’ wings against his cheeks, melding with the deep shadows under his eyes. How could anyone look at this man and say he was anything but a victim?
Peter stepped into the room and sat down in the chair next to the bed, trying to make as little noise as possible. He was actually grateful Neal was asleep. It gave him a little more time to think about what to say. But as he watched his sleeping friend, he couldn’t seem to find any words but I’m sorry, forgive me. Maybe those were the only words needed.
In his sleep, Neal was restless. His fingers twitched against the covers, his legs were moving. He tossed back and forth against the mattress, as if he was trying to escape. Peter reached out and rested his hand on Neal’s arm, disregarding the doctor’s orders. It didn’t seem to do anything, as Neal’s tossing became violent, as he started to mutter, “No, no, no”
Peter could only imagine what horrors Neal was reliving, but the next words, uttered with such grief, “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” broke Peter’s heart.
“Shh, shh.” He tried to soothe Neal, resting his hand on his forehead, as if Neal were a fretful, feverish child. “Calm down, Neal.”
“No, no, no.”
Peter didn’t know what to do, but he tried to reassure Neal that he wasn’t in danger. “It’s okay, you’re safe, you’re safe now.” He stroked Neal’s forehead, his cheek, trying to wake him. It seemed to work; Neal opened his eyes and looked at him, his expression turning from confusion to horror.
“Go away, just go away.” Neal turned his face away, pulled free of Peter’s gentle hold. The monitors started to sound and a nurse came in, all but pulling him out of the room.
“What’s going on?” She didn’t answer him, rushing back into Neal’s room. He could hear Neal shouting and an alarm sounded. Other people rushed to Neal’s room and Peter stood there, terrified.
And heartsick that he had brought this on. He tried to console himself with the thought that Neal hadn’t recognized him through the mask and the head covering. Then he heard Neal call out his name, a terrible, hoarse, grieving sound, and he couldn’t stop himself, he had to go to Neal, he had to see him, get him to calm down.
He pushed his way back into Neal’s room, past the medical people struggling to keep him on the bed. None of the nurses were wearing face masks and Peter pulled his off so Neal could see him, recognize him.
Shoving his way between Neal and an aide who was trying to put him into restraints, Peter wrapped his hands around Neal’s cheeks and forced him to look at him. “I’m here, I’m here, Neal. Please calm down.”
The desperate wildness faded. “Peter? Peter? You’re alive, you’re here?” Neal clung to his hands, holding him so hard that his fingernails punctured the gloves Peter was still wearing.
“Yes, Neal. I’m here, I’m alive.” Peter realized just what Neal must have been dreaming about, and it was his own damn fault. “I’m here, I’m here. I’m here.”
Go to Chapter 18
Tags:
- character: clinton jones,
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: june ellington,
- character: landon shepherd,
- character: mozzie,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: ofc,
- character: olivia benson,
- character: omc,
- character: peter burke,
- character: theo berrigan,
- crossover: law and order: svu,
- genre: abuse,
- genre: angst,
- genre: emotional trauma,
- genre: friendship,
- genre: future fic,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- genre: violence,
- pairing: peter/elizabeth,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- wc verse: return and rebuild,
- white collar,
- year: 2014
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2014-07-24 09:55 pm (UTC)Anyway... Finally! They're in the same room. Now they just need to talk. I was afraid you'd leave it with another cliffhanger with both of them angsting and not realizing the truth, but you didn't! Thank you. It's been long enough, they both need to get things off their chest. Perhaps, Peter more so.
Oooh, and Landon's working! Can't wait to see how she fixes things.
no subject
Date: 2014-08-02 11:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-07-24 10:30 pm (UTC)::WHEW::
no subject
Date: 2014-08-02 11:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-07-24 10:35 pm (UTC)Looks like that light at the end of the tunnel isn't the A-train after all. Thank you for this wonderfully hopeful chapter.
no subject
Date: 2014-08-02 11:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-07-24 11:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-07-26 03:11 am (UTC)Maybe it's the writer in me, but I gotta tell ya, if I were to post roughly 45K, keeping my promise to update the 'verse weekly, and that's the only reaction I'd receive? I personally wouldn't be a happy camper.
It's everyone's decision to read a WIP or wait till it's finished. I get that. And I also get that it's frustrating that it takes longer to actually see the finished product. But we all know that Elr will finish this story, and she only said that she expects this to take 10 to 12 days. That was when she started writing. As a fellow author I can tell you that the plotbunnies and the muses get in the way all the time. If I estimate a fic will be no longer than 3K, it'll surely end up over 5K. It's not Elr's fault that the story takes longer to be told. Plots develop. I'd rather see her take all the time in the world to tell this story as it deserves to be told instead of her rushing through it just so it's done.
Why not pretend that Elr said she'd finish this fic by the time you retire, and when it's finished earlier, it'll be a nice surprise?
Sorry, but this sort of comment just pushes my buttons as a writer, and as the beta of this particular story, I know how hard Elr works on it. I understand that this wasn't meant to be a complaint, but maybe my explanation helps you realize that it can come across as one, and that can be very frustrating to an author. :(
no subject
Date: 2014-08-02 11:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-07-25 01:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-08-02 11:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-07-25 01:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-08-02 11:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-07-25 02:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-08-02 11:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-07-25 02:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-08-02 11:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-07-25 04:12 am (UTC)Truth be told, I'm kind of terrified that Neal is going to freak out again, but I really hope not. I want him and Peter to talk and to comfort each other. I really, really do.
no subject
Date: 2014-08-02 12:00 pm (UTC)The conversation we've all needed is going to happen.
no subject
Date: 2014-07-25 05:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-08-02 12:00 pm (UTC)I don't think that even me - the author - could have taken much more angst!
no subject
Date: 2014-07-25 07:10 am (UTC)Can't wait for more!
no subject
Date: 2014-08-02 12:01 pm (UTC)I had considered having Peter walk away again, but I just couldn't do that to the boys (and to you as the reader, and to me, as the author).
They will have their happiness.
no subject
Date: 2014-08-02 02:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-08-02 02:35 pm (UTC)There's a fine line between angst and sadism, and I was beginning to worry if I'd crossed it.
no subject
Date: 2014-08-02 02:41 pm (UTC)But then, you're talking to me, and I have been known to suddenly need extreme angst (Neal death!fic D:) and a good cry. I will always read angst, even when it barges straight across that line.
no subject
Date: 2014-07-25 08:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-08-02 12:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-07-25 06:46 pm (UTC)Poor Neal! I'm so glad that Peter is finally not allowing his guilt and fear to keep him from giving Neal the comfort he needs.
Oh, this fic, oh these boys! *Sigh*
no subject
Date: 2014-08-02 12:02 pm (UTC)Yes, in the same room - and even if they can't really talk yet, they will soon. The guilt trip has to come to an end.
no subject
Date: 2014-07-26 01:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-08-02 12:03 pm (UTC)I had toyed with the idea of Peter walking away, but I just couldn't do that again. They need to have some healing, it's about time.
no subject
Date: 2014-07-26 02:54 am (UTC)*smishes both boys hard*
no subject
Date: 2014-08-02 12:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-07-28 09:29 pm (UTC)Ok is crying a lot.
Srsly what are you doing with my babies?
You are so so good...it's annoying sometimes.
Hugs all over
no subject
Date: 2014-08-02 12:04 pm (UTC)And than you so very much.
no subject
Date: 2014-08-01 10:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-08-02 12:05 pm (UTC)They will talk soon, too.
Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2014-08-03 12:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-08-03 06:15 pm (UTC)::hugs the boys:: Yay, they are back together!!!!!! :) Love this chapter! And, you painted such a wonderful picture of Neal's dream - the tension between the beautiful scene he was seeing and the apprehension he was feeling was palpable. This whole journey has been thrilling and perfectly written so far, but for some reason, your depiction of the dream just struck such a chord with me that I think this may be my favorite chapter so far. Beautifully written!