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"Here, hon."
Peter startles as El hands him yet another cup of hospital coffee. He takes it, smiling weakly.
She leans against the armchair Peter's been occupying by Neal's bedside and pushes a worried hand through Peter's hair. "You have to sleep at some point, hon. Go home and nap, Neal'll be here when you get back. He's not going anywhere."
Peter looks at Neal, immobile on the bed, anchored by tractions and intravenous drips and a breathing tube and a great, terrible stillness. El's right: Neal's not going anywhere.
And so Peter can't sleep. Not until Neal wakes up.