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It takes one of those big steel battering rams to break through the door. Six inches of solid steel protecting a cache of priceless stolen art. Pieces stolen by dictators and art thieves and some of them worth more than Peter Burke will make in his lifetime.
He blows past each of them, barely even registering them, as he makes his way to the back of the room and to the figure who is tied to a chair there.
Neal Caffrey’s head is bowed, his dark hair falling forward and damp with sweat. Peter’s heart thumps in his chest and he nearly stumbles as he approaches the still form. Nearly loses the nerve to reach out and check if Neal is really...
But the often times exasperating ex-con saves him the trouble.
Caffrey groans and lifts his head, bleary, squinted eyes blinking up at Peter as the FBI agent falls to his knees on the floor in front of the chair.
There’s no time for words, just a quick touch to the side of Neal’s face to convince him that Peter is real and Neal is safe before the agent begins working the bonds.
Neal’s feet and ankles are tied to the chair and it’s clear from the abrasions on his wrists that he's been trying to free himself for quite some time. Red, raw, and weeping flesh is exposed when Peter gets the first wrist free and he lets the bloody rope fall to the floor beside him with a grunt of disgust.
This is beyond any of them now.
“Someone call an ambulance,” he calls over his shoulder to the nearest agent and Neal visibly flinches.
Peter touches his knee. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”
Peter makes quick work of the other wrist and then leaves Neal to cling to the arms of the chair while he moves on to his ankles. He’s barely finished freeing the last leg before a hand clamps down on his shoulder and Neal nearly collapses against him.
“Woah. I’ve got you. You’re alright,” he says again, massaging the back of Neal’s neck. Neal has buried his face in Peter’s neck and the agent can tell that he’s trembling. “You’re ok. We found you. The ambulance is on its way.”
But Neal isn’t looking for confirmation that this rescue is real. All of the color has gone out of his face when he straightens up again suddenly, eyes shut tightly and his breathing erratic. He looks like he’s about to be sick.
Peter manages to get up from the floor and grab hold of Neal just as his friend starts heaving in earnest over the arm of the chair. Neal must not have much in his stomach because nothing much comes up.
When he’s done he stays leaning over, clammy and trembling in Peter’s arms. Peter tries to settle him back in the chair after a moment, but Neal stiffens as soon as he tries.
“No...” he pleads, fingers digging into Peter’s arm. Blood from his damaged wrists smears across the tan fabric, but Peter could care less.
“What’s the matter? Talk to me, Neal.”
The only other people with them in the impromptu vault are a handful of agents and a couple of SWAT guys sweeping for explosives. Not exactly medics if this turns out to be something Peter is not prepared to handle.
“M-my head,” Neal manages to answer, another round of heaving stealing the rest of his words and bending him over even further. It’s all Peter can do to keep him in the chair.
“Did you hit it? Did they hurt you?” He asks, automatically prodding Neal’s scalp and looking for damage. Neal shakes his head, but the movement only seems to make things worse. The ex-con groans pitifully and clings to Peter’s arm even harder. Peter lets him, wishing he could do more to help than just hold his consultant and soothe circles into his back with his free hand.
“How much longer on that ambulance?” Peter asks a nearby agent and the man gets on the radio to check.
Peter is starting to get worried. He’s never seen Neal like this before. They’ve gotten into their fair share of scrapes over the years to be sure, and perhaps he’s naively begun to expect Neal to come out on the other side of those scrapes with nary a scratch, but this is different. Something is wrong. He can tell by the way Neal trembles against him and keeps his eyes shut tight. Even the low hum of the conversation around them seems to bother him.
The worry and fear that has been living inside of Peter since the moment his friend disappeared surges up again. “Neal, tell me what’s going on.”
“I think it’s a… m-migraine...” the young man stutters, letting go of Peter’s arm to run his fingers through his hair and scrape the tips across his scalp.
The word makes Peter pause. He knows about migraines. El suffers from them from time to time and he had a second cousin once who got them. And they weren’t your average, run of the mill migraines, either. They were debilitating and dangerous and had landed said cousin in the hospital on more than one occasion. Peter had distant memories of his mother dragging him along with her to the hospital to deliver flowers. “ It’s our Christian duty ,” she would always say. It’s funny the things you remember in a crisis.
But surely Neal just suffered from the occasional intense headache like the rest of the population, right? If he had the other kind, he would have said something. It would have been in his medical records. Noted in his prison file… Right?
Peter eases Neal back into the chair when it looks like the worst of the nausea has passed and just as the agent he sent out for an ETA on the ambulance returns.
“Bus is 10 minutes out, Burke,” the young man explains, eyeing Neal when he groans again. “There was a pileup on the freeway.”
Peter curses internally but nods at the agent. Neal might look like death warmed over at the moment, but he’s conscious and talking. Besides his wrists he doesn’t appear to be injured anywhere else. Peter can get them through the next ten minutes while they wait for the ambulance.
“Talk me through it, Neal,” he says. “Tell me what we’re dealing with here.”
Neal scrubs his hands down his pale and sweaty face, digging his palms into his eye sockets and hissing in pain. Peter squeezes Neal’s shoulder gently, offering his own awkward brand of comfort, such as it is. He can tell Neal is in a considerable amount of pain. The slump of his shoulders, the shallow breaths he’s taking, and the noises coming from the back of his throat are evidence enough of that. There just isn’t anything Peter can do about it.
“My head feels like it’s about to split open,” comes Neal’s terse reply from behind his hands. “And I can't see very well when I open my eyes. Everything’s distorted.”
Peter lets out a breath. “Does this happen often?”
There’s a slight pause before Neal answers quietly. “Sometimes. They’re usually not like this. But I have... medications at home I can take for when they get really bad.” Neal turns a shade greener and then clamps his mouth shut.
For a moment, Peter is at a loss for words. He’s angry and wants to scold Neal like an irate parent, but this is neither the time nor the place for a talk like that. Peter settles on an exasperated, “ Damn it, Neal ,” but keeps his voice low. He knows about light sensitivity and how loud sounds can feel like a knife to the brain for someone suffering from a migraine.
If Neal’s migraines are anything like El’s then what he needs is a quiet, dark place where he can lie down and sleep it off. A crime scene swarming with SWAT and FBI agents and the buzz of conversation isn’t exactly ideal. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
Neal swallows hard and keeps his hands over his eyes, rocking back and forth slightly in his chair. He looks terrible, his shirt torn in places and soaked with blood at the cuffs. Skin ashen and covered in a fine sheen of sweat. “I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”
“Not that big of a deal?” Peter repeats, incredulously.
A million different questions are swirling around in his brain. How long has this been going on? Has Neal had headaches like this before and hidden them from Peter? And how in the hell did he managed to keep this a secret from the prison officials and out of his medical records?
Peter wants nothing more than to demand the answers to these questions from his CI but stops short when Neal suddenly doubles over again. Peter can do little more than watch on helplessly as Neal grabs for the back of his head and frantically massages at the base of his skull. When this apparently does nothing to abate whatever fresh wave of agony is assaulting him, Neal abandons his neck and wraps his arms around his middle instead. He’s shaking now. Peter can see the tremors rolling up and down his body. They’re so bad they rattle the chair.
Unsure of what to do, and beyond concerned at this point, Peter drops down into a squat in front of Neal. The ex-con remains hunched forward with reyes closed but Peter can see his ashen face now… and the moisture wetting Neal’s cheeks.
“This is one of the bad ones, isn’t it?” Peter asks, touching Neal lightly on the knee.
“Y-yeah.” Neal’s voice is thick with emotion. Peter can only imagine what he’s going through.
“Do I need to send someone over to your place to get your meds?”
Neal shakes his head. “They’ll have what I need…” he pauses a moment to swallow, “...at the hospital.”
Peter nods, even though Neal can’t see it. That’s good. It means they’re going to be able to help Neal with his pain at the hospital. It means Neal is going to go and get checked out willingly and without a fight. Peter just never knows how it's going to be with this asset of his. Sometimes the kid goes without question, and other times Peter has to drag him into the ER, kicking and screaming. And yet… what if this sudden willingness to visit the hospital is a bad sign?
Peter can’t think about that right now. One crisis at a time.
“Is there anything I can...” he begins to ask but Peter doesn’t get to finish his question. Without warning, Neal suddenly goes stiff as a board in the chair, both of his legs shooting out and sending Peter sprawling backwards onto the floor. A nearby agent hauls him up again quickly, but before that same agent can head for Neal, Peter puts out an arm to stop him.
Neal has fallen out of his chair and has begun to convulse on the floor, his body lurching and muscles contracting in seemingly impossible ways. It’s brutal and unnerving to watch. But as violent as the scene may be, Peter knows they mustn’t touch Neal. They have to stand back and let the seizure run its course, as hard and against their training as that may be, otherwise they run the risk of hurting the ex-con even further.
Peter orders everyone to stay back, not entirely sure where he finds the strength to push back his mounting panic and remain calm. He tosses the chair Neal was tied to out of the way, methodically checking the area for anything else that might pose a threat to Neal as he continues to thrash. The EMTs show up a few moments later and Peter gives them a rundown of everything that’s happened. All of it. He tells them about how Neal disappeared a few days ago and they’ve only just found him. About the migraines and the damaged skin around his wrists. The two EMTs take all this information in with grave faces and then swoop in as soon as Neal’s convulsions stop. The entire thing has taken less than a minute, but to Peter it feels like an eternity.
Peter hovers nervously as the EMTs begin their assessment. His medical knowledge may be rudimentary at best but he’s able to take at least some comfort in the fact that the EMTs don’t appear all that worried or rushed. There are no shouted orders or calls for the defibrillator, just quietly asked questions that Neal manages to answer on his own as they carefully bandage his wrists and then load him onto a gurney. Peter follows them out like a lost little puppy and doesn’t even look for Jones to tell him where he’s going before jumping into the back of the ambulance with Neal.
The EMT who stays with them in the ambulance to treat Neal is tall. So tall in fact, that he hits his head on the ceiling of the ambulance on more than one occasion while trying to take Neal’s vitals. He shoots a few random questions off to Peter and he answers them as best he can. Neal is no longer responding. He’s still conscious, but his hands are back up by his face, knuckles digging into his eyes. Peter had been hoping the migraine would have ended along with the seizure, but that apparently isn’t the case. When the siren engages and the ambulance lurches away from the curb, Neal cries out and cradles his head in his hands.
As per usual, and despite his best efforts, they don’t let Peter past the admin desk in the ER. Neal is wheeled away and he’s told by a rather stern looking nurse that he better go find the waiting room and sit there until someone comes out to speak with him. Not even his badge impresses her so he does as she says and starts making his calls.
Jones, as expected, has stepped up and is finishing up at the crime scene. Hughes is relieved to hear that Neal has been found and inquires after his injuries. Peter doesn’t mention the migraine or the seizure, though he’s certain the FBI rumor mill is already in full swing and that his boss will hear about it eventually. El is supportive as always and promises to bring him some food later on if it comes to that.
Then comes the waiting and the bad coffee and the people watching and the mindless TV programs.
Peter picks at the dried blood on his sleeve. Neal’s blood, he realizes, and lets the arm drop in disgust.
This isn’t right. It’s not fair. That young man has been through so much in his life and now Peter finds out he also has to deal with migraines? Migraines that get so bad he has medicine for them in his apartment? An apartment Peter has searched himself, rather thoroughly, a time or two and never found a trace of drugs? He’s going to have one hell of a talk with his consultant when all this is over. But first, Peter just needs to hear if he’s okay or not.
Neal is okay, and once he’s settled into a room, Peter is allowed to see him.
The lights are turned down low when he enters. Neal is curled up on his side and cracks one eye open when Peter touches him lightly on the arm.
“Hmph,” Neal mumbles unintelligibly.
“My sentiments exactly,” Peter shoots back, settling into a chair someone has left beside Neal’s bed. It’s like they were expecting him.
“M’sorry,” Neal slurs a little before Peter can even open his mouth to speak.
He folds his hands in his lap and looks up at the ceiling. “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”
Neal is quiet for a moment like he’s trying to choose his next words carefully. Peter saves him the trouble.
“Oh don’t worry. We’re going to talk about these migraines you somehow managed to hide from your prison doctors and the FBI,” Peter says and Neal cocks an eyebrow, even though it obviously causes him pain. “But all that can wait. I need to know if you’re ok.”
Peter knows the clinical answer to this question. He had a long conversation with Neal’s doctor before coming in here. But now he needs to hear the answer from Neal. A real answer. A genuine answer, and not one clouded by misdirection. Maybe it’s unfair to take advantage of Neal’s vulnerable state, but Peter asks it anyways.
Neal seems to be at a loss for words. Peter can’t remember the last time that happened.
“I’m ok,” he eventually says.
“You had a seizure,” Peter points out.
“That’s never happened before.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“All my life.” Neal’s voice is barely louder than a whisper. He sounds tired. He sounds defeated.
“Is it going to happen again?” This is the hard question. The one Peter is dreading the most. Migraines in and of themselves are not something the FBI will throw a fit over. What they’re going to be pissed about is the fact that Neal hid them and then had a seizure in front of a roomful of agents. His doctor explained to Peter that seizures were not normally a symptom associated with migraines, not even the really bad ones, but that doesn’t change the fact that Neal still had one. His tests had all come back normal, but that wouldn’t matter to some people in the Bureau. The ones who weren’t particularly fond of the arrangement Peter and Neal had, or with the fact that Caffrey was no longer behind bars. The wolves would catch wind of this soon, and they would be out for blood. Peter needs to know how to play this.
“It shouldn’t.” Neal answers finally.
Peter contemplates this for a second. “Then let's hope that will be enough.”
They don’t talk again after that. Neal burrows down even further into his mattress and apparently drifts off to sleep. Whatever medicines they’ve been giving him seem to be kicking in and the lines of pain on his face are no longer so defined.
Peter watches Neal for a good long while, lulled into a sense of peace by the steady rise and fall of Neal’s arm as he breathes, the quiet drip of the IV and the serene glow of the screen displaying his vitals. Curled on his side like this, Neal looks younger than ever and some long-buried paternal instinct rises up into the back of Peter’s throat and burns there. When did this relationship of theirs morph into something other than Handler and Asset? When did Peter start looking at Neal in a different light? This is something he’s been thinking a lot about lately, especially after Neal disappeared two days ago. Maybe it's dangerous to feel this way. Maybe he should put a stop to it and go back to dealing with Neal with that same cold indifference he had for him at the beginning. Before the ex-con wormed his way into Peter’s life. Before El fell in love and all but adopted Neal Caffrey into the family.
Peter smiles in spite of himself. He’s not going to change a thing, because he knows that the introduction of this man into their lives, into his division, has changed everyone for the better. Yeah, mistakes have been made. Neal has lied to him on countless occasions, and Peter isn’t sure there will ever be a time when he truly trusts him, but there’s no denying that this thing they have going really works. It’s a thing worth fighting for, and Peter knows in that moment that he will fight tooth and nail to keep it. Let the wolves come. Peter will be ready for them.
Fin.