Work Text:
Neal looked at the time as he got into the passenger seat of his temporary partner's car and silently cursed fate, timing and the State of New Jersey. It was 8pm, and Neal should have finished his shift at 4, which should have given him plenty of time to get to his date with Peter in Manhattan at 7. At 6pm, Neal had given in and texted Peter.
Work got complicated and I won't be able to make it tonight.
I'm really sorry.
Peter's reply had come quickly. It's okay, I understand. Talk to you later?
Sure. Then, before he could reconsider, Neal sent another text. Unless you want to meet at my place? 8?
I'll be there.
At that point, Neal had thought he would be home well before 8pm, but he shouldn't have discounted the way emergency rooms could become vortexes of time. He sent Peter one more text--I'm on my way, sorry.—then tucked his phone into his pocket and closed his eyes for the ride to his apartment.
When Neal was finally walking up to the front door of his building in Hoboken, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye and startled until he realized it was Peter. Of course, punctual Peter had been waiting outside in his car.
"Hey. What did you do to yourself?" Peter gestured at the sling on Neal's left arm.
Neal shrugged then winced. "More trouble than it was worth."
Peter seemed to pick up on Neal's pissy mood, and it wasn't until they were inside Neal's apartment and Neal was on the couch with a glass of wine in hand that Peter asked again. "What happened?"
Neal took a sip and sighed. "I got just...slightly shot."
Peter stood up from the couch. "Shot! A gunshot wound?"
"No, it was a cannon. My arm was grazed, not a big deal."
"You were at the hospital?"
Neal nodded.
"Did they give you pain meds?"
Neal nodded again then frowned in protest when Peter plucked the glass of wine out of his hand and swallowed the contents himself. "Hey," Neal complained weakly.
"Hey yourself! You got shot and you didn't call me?"
"Just grazed. Just--it was stupid." Neal sighed. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked you to come out here tonight when I'm the world's worst date."
"Jesus, Neal. I don't care if you're in a bad mood. I care that you were shot. I know all too well how few inches can make the difference between a graze and a--a grave."
That's a cheesy wordplay, Neal thought, and then he felt the room spin around him because he'd been so focused on how close he'd been to avoiding getting shot at all that he hadn't even considered the distance between his bicep and his lungs. Or his heart. "I--uh--" Neal swallowed hard, and he wanted to reach out as Peter walked away, but then Peter was back and pressing a water bottle into his good hand.
"Take a sip. You're okay."
Neal's hand shook as he raised the bottle to his mouth, but the cool water on his throat made the panic recede. He closed his eyes and took another sip as he focused on the feeling of Peter's hand on the back of his head, Peter's fingers gently combing through his hair. "Thanks," Neal said when he could think and breathe like a normal person again.
"You're welcome," Peter said deliberately. "Promise me one thing?"
"Dodge better next time?"
"If there is a next time that you get hurt at work--or not at work--call me?"
Right at that moment Neal thought that he would give anything for Peter to keep touching him like that, massaging away the tension and the pissy mood and the anxiety he hadn't even realized was there. "I promise," he said.
Peter kept his hand on the back of Neal's neck and pressed a kiss to his lips. That was all the answer Neal needed.