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Getting stabbed in the company of Sara Ellis was ... undignified.
The job wasn’t supposed to be dangerous. It was exchanging money for artwork, Neal had done it dozens of times both legally and not, it was pedestrian. In fact the whole case had been frustratingly pedestrian. Stirling Bosch had become impatient with the number of claims they were fielding from clients who had been relieved of artwork, and had engaged the FBI to find the culprit. Their enquiries had quickly led to a doctoral student of art history, an inexplicably brash and overconfident young man named Matthew Auberge, who seemed to think he had been suave and discreet in his thefts when in reality he had left bread crumbs a blind man could follow. It had insulted Neal to pit himself against someone so basic.
They’d sized up the target, reviewed the logistics, run through scenarios for catching him in the act... and apparently miscalculated. Neal had treated Auberge with barely concealed disdain in their few encounters, he couldn’t help himself. When the hauteur inflated Neal had pricked at him, challenging the vastly overestimated skills. Perhaps that was why things had gone awry, because they had scratched against each other with deep dislike. Or perhaps Auberge had felt some kind of foreboding about the deal, an inkling that something wasn’t right. Whatever it was, on the side of the law, in the company of his ex girlfriend, when risk should have been zero, Neal was about to go down for the count, swooning and delicate and caught unprepared. It was mortifying.
“He’s running,” Sara huffed with irritation, providing a commentary for Peter. “He stiffed us on the handover and took the money and the painting. He gave Neal a punch in the gut on his way out, which was nice, he’s a real gentleman.”
Neal struggled to catch his breath, badly winded. On his knees, he had one hand braced against the floor while the other clutched his stomach trying to force away bitter pain. Blood was leaking traitorously through his fingers, ignoring his efforts to stanch it, and he pressed harder because he did not want this to be a big deal. He wanted to button up his jacket, pretend nothing had happened and deal with the sly stabbing later in private but he could already tell that wasn’t going to happen, he wasn’t going to be able to walk it off, he doubted he could get to his feet. Any minute Sara was going to notice, and it really annoyed him that this was the outcome of the job. He tried to keep his breathing even, squashed looming groans, deferring as long as possible the drama of being a victim.
Unobtrusively he probed the flayed skin, trying to gauge the damage.
There was yelling nearby, the FBI causing a scene. Freeze! Don’t move! Stay where you are! Both through his earpiece and through the walls Neal could hear it clearly. He knew exactly how it would play out. Guns drawn. Smug smiles. Hands shaken at another successful operation.
And Neal about to collapse. Which was ridiculous. Who gets shivved buying artwork?
“Um, Sara?”
“Come on Neal, we’re missing the coup de grace.”
Neal grimaced. The information from his fingers was that the rip in his lower left side was wide and deep. Less than a death blow (fingers crossed), but more than a scratch, way more. Probably needing stitches. And then internal damage occurred to him, how far inside the knife had penetrated, what might have been in its path, and he could feel dread rising as basic human biol flickered through his brain.
“Could you...?” He fumbled his thoughts, alarmed by how unwell he already felt. “Could you ...get Peter for me?”
“I’m coming Neal.” He’d forgotten that Peter could hear everything.
“Are you alright?” Sara asked uncertainly, her heels click clacking as she drew closer. She rested fingers gently on his back in an act of possessive concern as she crouched beside him, her large hazel eyes scrutinising him. Her closeness made him claustrophobic, like she was interrupting his air flow. An abstract in blood was blossoming on the marble tiles and, to Neal’s untrained eye, seemed to be expanding a little too quickly.
“Oh, wow, ok. Peter we need an ambulance. Neal’s hurt.”
“How bad?”
“I don’t know. There’s blood. Quite a lot.” There was no panic in her tone, she always displayed calm control, but her words were clipped and terse.
”I’m coming.”
Sara met Neal’s eyes in commiseration. “So.. this is dramatic,” she offered, matching his wry sniff of agreement with a mirthless smile. “The punch was a stab? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I figured it would become apparent.” Neal wasn’t in the mood for banter, distracted by what was going on inside him, pain that he was trying to minimise.
“You should probably lay down.”
“Yeah.”
The logistics of shifting, laying down, were a challenge. Neal’s body was rigidly tense, his arm strained at extension and he worried that if he loosened up, even a little, he might crumple inelegantly to the floor, so instead, he inched his knees slowly forward until his weight rested fully on his heels. It was a relief to unlock his straight arm, release the tension, find a more comfortable balance, and he dropped his head to his chest with a soft exhale. His fingers still pinched either side of the gash to keep it closed but they kept slipping in the wet, making an inefficient vice.
He wished it would all go away, the burn in his stomach, the persistent blood, the excess of federal agents who were about to witness his suffering. It was all too much.
“Let me see,” Sara soothed, velvety voiced, tugging gently at his shoulder.
“No, let Peter do it.”
“I can handle a little blood.”
“I know but it’s messy.” She was always beautifully dressed and he really didn’t want to ruin her expensive outfit.
“Neal. Please.”
He breathed his annoyance as she braced her palm against his sternum to keep him upright and swiped aside the hand that was protecting the injury, examining him closely as if reviewing him expertly, like she had any medical experience.
“This looks pretty bad,” she pronounced absently.
“Mm.” He took it with a grain of salt.
“I think you might actually need a hospital.”
“Well I was stabbed.”
“Yes, you were. It was an odd end to the deal.”
“Not what I was expecting.”
“Hmm.”
Her attention was more on his torso than the conversation, a diversion while she inspected him thoroughly. She lifted her head with sudden decisiveness, deftly loosened his tie with hurried fingers and slipped open the top three buttons of his shirt with a grim, knowing smile because she had done this many times in more intimate circumstances. She pulled the bottom of his shirt from his trousers, past the constraint of the belt, and wadded the material under her hands as she pressed hard against the deep ugly gouge in his stomach, eliciting a cry from him and making his vision stutter. His natural inclination was to curl over and it resulted in his head resting against her shoulder, which was actually alright, like leaning on a comfortable pillow.
Pressure started building in his chest, an undeniable statement from his body that all was not well. A burn tickled at the bottom of his throat, insisting that he cough and he swallowed furiously to quench it, not wanting to add a degree of difficulty to the situation, trying to maintain the status quo, such as it was. Christ he felt unwell. When the effort became futile, his body dictated rather than asked, he twisted abruptly away from Sara to cough and retch and spit out blood, gasping and groaning with the effort, and cursing the fortitude of the human body that the agony didn’t render him unconscious.
“Lay back Neal.” Peter had apparently joined the party and was using his commanding tone to take control of the scene. “Lay back so that we can put pressure on the wound.”
Neal didn't want to lay back, it was more comforting leaning against Sara, but it wasn’t open for discussion, he was manhandled into position, forced into compliance by strong, insistent hands until he was prone on the cold tiles.
Peter’s medical assistance was akin to a cinder block on his torso, agonizingly heavy, impossible to breathe through, all of his weight localized in one tender area and Neal closed his eyes tight to see if he could mentally transport himself to a more pleasant place.
He couldn’t.
“God Peter,” he moaned. “Ease off.”
“I’m trying to keep your insides inside.”
“Well I actually think you're just pushing them around.”
Peter pursed his lips in telltale disagreement. “I know what I’m doing Neal, you’ll thank me later.”
Neal flung an arm across his face, shuttered his lids once again and tried to find zen or something like it. Someone clasped his hand and without looking he knew it was Sara, squeezing tight as unwanted groans escaped him, occasionally interrupted by spitting out blood with a new level of misery.
For an indefinite period he lost track of everything. It probably wasn’t long, minutes, maybe ten, his mind buzzed with thoughts, random things, cases mixed with memories mixed with plans mixed with bemoaning his predicament, weird and fluctuating non-sequitars.
A prick in the arm alerted Neal to the arrival of the professionals. He ignored it at first. Let them go about their business of prodding and gauging without his input. But after a few minutes he was bathed in numbness, it was like a crushing pall lifted, his whole body relaxed, and he wanted to kiss the beautiful genius who had delivered it, the relief was enormous.
With a contented sigh Neal re-engaged with his surrounds, opened his eyes.
“Better?” asked a young woman with scrutinizing concern, her gaze momentarily faltering at the piercing blue of his irises.
“So much better,” he murmured, gifting her his warmest smile, keeping his lips closed so as not to ruin the effect with the blood he could taste.
“Suddenly I feel superfluous,” Sara said, and let go of his hand but Neal fumbled his clumsy fingers into hers.
“I still need that.”
She regarded him with skeptical fondness, like she wanted to believe him but knew better, and it stung a little that this was still their relationship. Not quite trust. Not quite belief.
He shifted his focus to Peter and blinked a few times to clear the fogginess rolling over him.
“Tell me you got Auberge,” Neal asked, trying to find some normality in the sideshow.
“We did.”
“And the painting.”
“Of course.”
“And he’ll go to prison for a long time?”
“You can set the term.” They both knew he couldn’t but it was a nice idea.
“Not a total waste then.”
“Except for this part it was a success. What happened? Why did he stab you?”
Neal huffed. “I don’t know.”
“Did you say something? Did you threaten him?”
Neal bristled. “No. It was totally unprovoked.” Whatever caustic comments or snide inferences he may have directed toward Auberge in their interactions did not warrant a physical response.
“Okay.” Peter patted his hand, which was unintentionally patronizing. “It’s fine. We’ll talk about it later, when you’re feeling better.”
If Neal could have mustered the energy he would have whipped out a sarcastic comeback, it rankled that he had to let the condescension pass. With waning lucidity he clutched at Peter’s sleeve and mumbled, “Please don’t wheel me through a crowd of agents.”
“Most of them left ten minutes ago,” Peter assured, bemused by the request. “Your dignity will remain intact.”
“Tell June,” he breathed, eyes slipping shut, “I’ll be home later.”
Peter regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, his brows furrowed, before finally answering, “I will.”
“I’ll go with him,” Sara offered. “To the hospital.”
She was feeling a bit shaky. She had only been a few steps from Neal as he was grievously injured and it had happened so quickly, so unexpectedly. If she had been holding the painting, it could have been her on the way to the hospital. Beneath the cool composure her heart was thumping wildly, at the risk she had blithely assumed, and the consequences that had occurred and might have occurred. She hadn't really appreciated the danger.
Peter nodded. “Call me. Just to let me know...”. It was positivity mixed with disquiet, a sentiment she shared.
“I will.”