Work Text:
Man Down
by Olivia Sutton
Elizabeth Burke was putting the finishing touches on dinner when she heard the front door open and slam shut.
Peter entered the kitchen.
"Honey, there's something we need to talk about..." said Elizabeth. Now that Peter was finally home for the evening she was hoping to tell him her news.
Peter interrupted her, "El - I swear, I didn't do anything!" Peter snapped, looking embarrassed, he added in a softer tone, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't snap at you, I'm a little wound-up."
Elizabeth just nodded, her husband was always "wound up" when he was working, and he was working all of the time -- well, most of the time, at the New York FBI office's White Collar Crime Unit. "No, no, that's not it..."
But she was interrupted a second time by a squeal from their phone/fax. "Honey, are you expecting a FAX?"
"No, I didn't even know that thing was still plugged in," answered Peter, walking from the dining table to his wife's side.
Elizabeth approached the FAX machine and grabbed the paper that it spit out. "Who's Jimmy Burger?"
"Neal!" said Peter.
*****
Peter Burke drove as fast as he could to the Hauser Clinic, hoping he'd get there before Neal Caffrey got himself into too much trouble, or the case was blown wide open. Why was it that Neal always seemed to think he could take matters into his own hands? Didn't he realize how dangerous the criminals they dealt with were? Most criminals, even white collar criminals, were not the "gentleman criminals" or Robin Hood Wannabees that Neal seemed to think they were. Most criminals were not like Neal Caffrey. Peter slid through a red light, glad for the official light he had slipped on the top of his car. "Damnit Neal!" Peter said to himself, as he slammed his left hand on the steering wheel.
A block from the clinic, Peter turned off the siren so he wouldn't give away that he was a law enforcement officer and pulled the official light from the top of his car. He drove at top possible speed to the clinic. He parked in the clinic's underground garage, went inside, and looked for Melissa Calloway.
The cool, statuesque redhead was partnered with Dr. Powell in running the clinic as a front for illegal organ transplants. Peter saw her at the top of the clinic's main staircase, and joined Melissa, hoping his face wouldn't betray his worry for Neal or even his annoyance at pretending to be interested in her. Peter slipped away from her as soon as he could, to search for Neal.
He rushed down a deserted hallway, stopping to open each door for a quick look. The third one he opened revealed a terrifying sight: Neal Caffrey was strapped to a hospital table with his shirt sleeves rolled-up. He was unconscious. Peter's heart leapt to his throat as he ran over to his partner.
Peter quickly reached for Neal's neck, muttering, "Oh, god," under his breath. He pressed down on the carotid artery; there was a strong, quick pulse.
He checked for breathing. Neal didn't appear to be breathing at all, but when Peter leaned over his friend, he could feel faint air movement against his cheek. He grabbed his phone to call his team, nearly dropping the phone when he heard a harsh wheezing sound. Peter gasped, Neal's face was flushed, clearly puffy and swollen and the tight raspiness when he breathed in was not a good sign.
"No, oh no, not again, no!" Peter said. Neal must have been given something he was allergic to, and was having an anaphylactic reaction. Peter had seen such a reaction twice before: the first time - an anaphylactic reaction to a bee sting had nearly taken El from him before they were even married. The second time he had a lost a partner, despite his best attempts to save him.
Peter took a deep breath, pressed the speed dial button to his team, and shouted "Man down! Repeat, man down! Caffrey went off at his own and we're at the Hauser Clinic. They shot him up with something and we need help down here, now!" He clicked off that call and dialed 911, gave his badge number and rank, and ordered an ambulance. He described Neal's condition in rapid fire speech. While doing so he barricaded the door with a straight-backed chair, stuffing the back under the doorknob. It wouldn't do to have Doctor Powell or any of his staff walking in.
"Calm down, sir!" the Dispatcher stressed. "First, check the patient's breathing. Is he breathing at all?"
"He was, barely," Peter tilted Neal's chin up to open up his airway as much as possible but the wheezing, whistling sound had died away, "Oh no! He doesn't seem to be breathing at all now! If he is, I can't even detect it by putting my ear to his mouth and listening."
"Sir, do you know how to do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?"
"Yes."
"Put the phone down. Do you have a speakerphone?"
Peter clicked the button marked speaker on his phone and set it down, "Yes, I'm trying mouth-to-mouth now." He pinched Neal's nose shut, covered Neal's mouth tightly with his own and blew air in, but the conman's chest didn't move. "No good - his throat is so swollen the air's not getting to his lungs!"
"Do you think you can get a tube into his throat? I can walk you through it, if you have the materials."
"I... I tried something like that once before. It didn't turn out that well. Ma'am," Peter said tightly, his voice cracking with anxiety and fear. "His lips are turning blue." Peter took another long steadying breath, readying himself for what he knew would come next.
"We'll have to try. You'll need a small sterile blade, sterilizing solution, sterile bandages, tape - either surgical or Scotch tape, some sort of a tube - even a hollow pen will work, bottled oxygen, and gloves for yourself."
"Wait, you want me to try to trach him? I'm not a doctor, I'm a Fed!"
"Try to get some air into his lungs."
Peter fit his mouth over Neal's mouth, pinched his nose, and breathed out into Neal's mouth, but there was still no oxygen getting to the lungs. Neal's chest didn't move, "It's not working. When will the ambulance get here?"
"It will be at least fifteen minutes. Sir, we're going to have to try this. Your partner's oxygen saturation is dropping if his lips are blue, and he doesn't have time to wait. You're going to have to do the tracheotomy - it's his only chance."
"I might kill him!" said Peter, panicking.
"It's his best chance. If he doesn't start getting enough oxygen, he could suffer brain damage or die."
"What do I have to do?" said Peter.
"Now gather everything we need. Find a small bowl and fill it with alcohol, sterilize the blade, the tube, and lastly your hands. If you have gloves, put those on after you have sterilized everything."
Peter rushed around the room, frantically pulling open cabinets and drawers, until he found what he needed. The scalpel and tube were sealed and already sterile. He quickly washed his hands with Purell, and pulled on the surgeon's gloves, cursing as his fingers seemed to want to go anywhere but where they belonged in the gloves.
He brought everything over to Neal's side and spread it on a tray. "OK, I'm ready."
"Check his breathing again, we don't want to do this unless we have to."
Peter tried to breathe air into Neal's lungs. Again, very little of the air made it past the man's swollen throat and into his lungs. "No go, ma'am, and his face is blue and sweaty," said Peter to the dispatcher.
"Is the patient lying flat on his back, facing straight up?"
"Yes."
"Now, feel along his throat, below his Adam's apple there is a small bump, place your scalpel next to the bump and press down lightly, make a small incision, only slightly larger than the tube you found."
"Here it goes." He made the cut, wincing at the sight of blood, "A rush of air just hit me in the face - from that cut!" Immediately, Neal's lips pinked up and he inhaled, his chest heaving with the effort, "He's already looking pinker."
"Good, good - that means you hit his airway below the blockage on the first try. Now insert the tube, make sure it goes into his airway."
Peter slipped in the tube, fortunately, that seemed fairly easy. "Got it." He was glad to see Neal take in another breath. His wound was bleeding freely, though. He wrapped gauze around the wound, then used more, with tape, to secure it in place.
"Wrap bandages around the tube and wound and tape the tube in place."
"Done."
"Now, connect the oxygen tank to his tracheotomy tubing, to get more oxygen into his lungs."
Peter grabbed the oxygen tank, turning the knob until he heard a hiss of escaping air and attached the tubing to the trach tube to get oxygen into Neal's lungs. He was rewarded by seeing Neal taking an easier breath.
"Continue with the oxygen. If he wakes up - keep him calm. The ambulance should be there any minute."
"Thank you, thank you so much."
"Just doing my job, do you want me to remain on the phone until the ambulance arrives?"
"No, no, I think my team should be here soon. It will be OK." Peter stripped off one of his gloves and ran a hand through Neal's dark hair, "It will be OK," he said, quietly, half to Neal and half to the dispatcher.
Peter reached for the phone, hit the end call button, then dialed his team. "Lauren?" he asked.
"Yeah, boss," she said.
"We need to get Caffrey's medical records. We're looking for severe allergies - anything that would cause anaphylactic reaction."
"Right. How's Neal?"
"Unconscious, but at least he's breathing. When will the team be here?"
"Any minute now, they left as soon as you called."
"Good." Peter heard his name being called from the hallway, "In here!" he shouted, holding his hand over the phone. Putting the phone back to his ear, he said, "They're here, Lauren. Call me when you get his records, and you may need to meet us at the hospital."
Peter dropped his phone in his pocket, and went to the door. He pulled the chair barricading the door out of the way. Jones was walking down the hall just as the elevator opened and two paramedics rushed into the hallway. "Down here!" Peter yelled, waving. Everyone flooded into the room with Neal. Peter stripped off the other glove and dropped it to the floor, walking over to stand near Neal's head.
The paramedics converged on Neal, one on each side. They quickly checked Neal's vital signs, one calling numbers to the other who recorded the information.
The stocky red-headed man nodded slightly as he looked Neal over, "For a quick field trach, you did a good job, he's breathing."
"When will he wake up?" Peter asked.
"We'll get him back to the hospital, check on what he took. Do you know?"
"I don't know what they gave him! I found him like this, his airway was completely swollen."
The other paramedic, a brunette woman, had started an IV so fast that Peter didn't see her insert the needle into Neal's arm. Neal moaned and struggled weakly, which had to be a good sign.
Peter moved closer, "Neal, calm down, let the medics do their jobs."
"We'll give him some IV Benedryl and Epinephrine," the redhead said, helping his partner transfer Neal onto a stretcher.
"What's going on?" asked Jones.
"Caffrey didn't want to wait, he decided to take things into his own hands. He must have gotten caught, they shot him up with something, and, and..." Peter started to shake with reaction, "When I got here he was barely breathing." He tilted his head towards Neal, "I had to trach him, Jones. And you remember what happened the last time I had to do that on somebody."
Jones nodded sympathetically, "It wasn't your fault what happened, you know."
Peter just shook his head dismissively, "Yeah, I did the required time in counseling, Jones."
"He's stable. We're ready to take him to the hospital now. Meet us at Mercy GeneralHospital," said the red-headed paramedic.
"I'd like to go with him in the ambulance, if that's alright?" Peter asked.
"That's not a problem, sir," said the female paramedic.
"Jones," Peter addressed his agent, "Take over here, get the records of this clinic. Now that we're here, we should be looking for proof of what we suspect is going on."
"You got it. Call me with an update on Caffrey's condition?" asked Jones.
"You bet," Peter answered.
The paramedics had covered Neal's legs with a red emergency blanket, and strapped him to the gurney. The older, red-haired paramedic opened the office door to start transporting Neal out, only to have their way blocked by the arrival of a new agent.
The new agent was young and blond, and wore red-rimmed plastic glasses, "We're restraining Palmer and Calloway downstairs."
"Good," said Peter, "Mannelly, work with Jones to get the records and finish up here."
"Yes, sir," answered Bob Mannelly.
"We need to get him to a hospital," the red haired paramedic urged.
"Of course," said Peter, then he made shooting motions towards Jones and Mannelly who moved out of the way.
Peter, watching closely as Neal's chest rose and fell, walked just behind Neal's gurney and the paramedics. They went out the door, down the hall, to the elevator, and from there to the waiting ambulance.
*****
The screaming ambulance reached Mercy GeneralHospital in less than ten minutes. Two nurses met the ambulance and helped the paramedics wheel Neal into the examination area. He was moved from the wheeled gurney onto an examination table.
Peter hovered behind the paramedics, trying not to be in the way, yet anxious to find out more about his partner's condition. Nancy Bartlett, light brown-haired older nurse, checked Neal's vitals, while Betty Able, her younger blond partner started an IV of Lactated Ringers, and slapped leads on his chest to monitor his heart on the overhead screen.
The E/R doctor, an extremely thin, tall blond man with wire-rimmed glasses, approached Peter, "I'm Dr. Greenbean, Can you tell me what happened?"
"He works with me, I'm an FBI agent. He went undercover, over his head, and got caught. Persons unknown gave him something, and he appeared to have an anaphylactic reaction. Emergency dispatch talked me through giving him a tracheotomy." Peter pulled out his black leather badge and ID case and flipped it open, to let Doctor Greenbean examine his credentials.
"Do you know what he was given?"
"No idea! But my people are checking his records. Hopefully that will narrow it down."
"Dr. Greenbean, he's shocky, heart rate one ten, respiratory rate in the fifties, O2 sats is sitting in the low nineties and his blood pressure is low," Nurse Bartlett reported, as she adjusted the oxygen tubing on Neal's trach. Betty was preparing a tray with a plastic trach appliance and ties to hold it in place.
"Nancy, go ahead and crank up his IV rate, give him a lactated ringers bolus, and another round of Benedryl and Epi," Dr. Greenbean said. He noticed Neal's anklet. "What is that?"
"Tracking anklet. He's a consultant, work release. Look, it's complicated, just take care of him, please?"
"Of course we will," said Dr. Greenbean. He ordered the E/R staff, "Do a tox screen, urine and blood, CBC, cultures, coag studies, and a chem 7 - and let's clean up that trach, OK?"
Betty drew blood from Neal's IV tubing, while the two paramedics gathered their equipment and left the exam area. Peter brought a hand to his face, scrubbing away the tiredness and the fear he felt. He knew the one person who could help him calm down and deal with this mess. He went to pull out his cell phone, but noticed a white and red sign with a cell phone blocked by a red circle with a line through it. Immediately below the no cell phones sign was a white phone with another sign identifying it as a courtesy phone. Peter slipped his cell back into his pocket and walked to the phone, to dial El at home.
"Hello?" came his wife's sweet voice.
"Hi, honey," said Peter.
"Peter - where are you calling from? The caller ID didn't pick up anything. I almost didn't even answer, but...."
Peter interrupted her, "I'm at the hospital, El."
"Oh, god, Are you all right? What happened?"
"I'm fine. It's Neal. Someone at the clinic shot him up with god-knows-what and he had a reaction. He was barely breathing when I got to him. I..." Peter stopped, then started again, "He should be fine, El, the doctors are with him now."
"Which hospital? I'll be right there."
"Mercy GeneralHospital, I'm in E/R waiting. They've taken Neal in for treatment. I..." Peter left off. His hands were shaking. In fact, his whole frame was trembling, and he wanted nothing more but to sit down somewhere, preferably near his wife.
"I'll be there as soon as I can. Hold on Peter, it will be all right, you'll see. Neal will be just fine."
"Yeah, thanks El. See you soon. And El? I love you."
"I love you, too, Sweetie."
Just as Peter was hanging up, his cell rang. He looked around, walked outside the waiting area, and answered the call. "Hurry, I'm in a no cell zone," he said, tersely.
"Peter, it's Lauren. I found Caffrey's records. He has documented allergic reactions to Morphine, Codeine, and shellfish."
"And shellfish? Are you sure?"
"Yep, that what it says here -- Morphine, Codeine, and shellfish -- he's had reactions to all three."
"Thanks, Lauren." Peter clicked off the phone, and turned it off, then went back to the waiting room. So, Neal was allergic to shellfish, huh? He thought, So what would he be doing at an Oyster Bar in Grand Central Station? He knew Neal had been lying about that. He just knew it.
*****
Elizabeth Burke rushed into the emergency room waiting area at Mercy GeneralHospital. She glanced around her, heart in her throat, until she saw her Peter. Even though they hadn't talked long, she'd noticed Peter had sounded off on the phone. She was very worried about her husband. She suspected that Peter would be affected by his own bad memories as well as worried about his partner.
Peter Burke was slumped in one of the dirty white plastic chairs that lined the waiting area. El rushed to his side, "Peter?"
Peter stood and wrapped his arms around his wife, pulling her into a bear hug. "I'm so glad you're here."
"What happened? Is it Neal, is he worse?"
"No, no, the doctors are still treating him. No one has come out to speak to me since he was brought in."
"Then what, honey?" El prompted, gently.
"I had to trach him, El. He was barely breathing, and I had to do a field trach, with equipment from the med clinic and instructions from an emergency dispatcher." Peter's voice shook as he spoke.
El placed a hand on his shoulder sympathetically, "But he's going to recover, right? You got to him fast enough?"
"I think so," said Peter. "I mean, he was breathing at first, but then he stopped and... I had no choice, but.... I was so scared, El, I had to do it, but I was just so scared."
El lightly placed her hand on Peter's upper arm, then drew him into another hug, "It will be OK, you'll see, he'll be just fine."
Peter looked off into space, then mumbled, "It was like Alan all over again, El."
"What was that, honey?"
"I said, it was like Alan."
El took a deep breath, and put her hand on Peter's arm, as memories hit her full force.
******
FLASHBACK - Seven Years Ago
******
Peter Burke worked the violent crimes division of the FBI, with his partner Alan Turner and a team of dedicated agents and specialists in criminal behavior and forensic psychology. Alan, the first person Peter ever met when he joined the FBI, had also become a personal friend. They'd often share drinks after work, or catch a game together or even play some pick-up basketball. Elizabeth also liked Alan and had invited him to dinners at the Burke household. Alan was Peter's height, with fine, white blond hair and blue eyes that defied the stereotypical "tough guy" look of most agents.
Violent crimes had been investigating a series of bank robberies for months. A few of the men involved in the crimes were finally caught, but the head of the gang, Phillip Barton, was still on the loose. Until, now, Peter hoped, since they had a lead that Barton was holed up in the warehouse.
Peter and Alan entered the warehouse together, guns drawn, starting their sweep.
Alan coughed into his hand, as he glanced around the dark, dusty room filled with wood crates and cardboard boxes.
"You all right, there, buddy?" asked Peter.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Must be the dust and dirt in here," said Alan.
"Sure?" asked Peter, concern slipping into his voice.
"Yeah, don't be such a mother hen. Now, go left," Alan said, over his wheezing. He pointed to the left of the warehouse and a set of stairs, "You take the second level, I'll check down here."
"Got it," said Peter, stepping away from his partner.
Believing that Alan was fine was Peter's first mistake. Separating from his partner was his second mistake.
Peter searched the second floor of the warehouse. It was a loft-style floor, and only covered half the building, so he was able to determine it was empty in ten minutes. "Alan, there's no one up here," he said into his radio.
Alan didn't answer.
"Alan, come on, don't go off radio now," said Peter, as he made his way back to the stairs.
There was still no answer, so Peter pulled his cell out of his pocket and hit the speed-dial for his partner, but Alan's phone went straight to voice mail.
Oh no, no! Peter thought, his quick walk becoming a run down the stairs to the lower level to find Alan.
Five minutes after he was unable to raise his partner by radio or cell, he found Alan, lying unconscious on the floor of the warehouse. "Agent down! Repeat, agent down! I need back-up and an ambulance at my location," Peter called in to the rest of their team.
"Come on, come on," Peter said as he searched first Alan's breast pockets, then his jacket pocket for the man's ever-present Epi-pen.
Peter found the pen in Alan's left-hand suit coat pocket. Grabbing the pen, he frantically read the instructions, listening to the horrible wheezing of Alan gasping his last breaths. His hands shaking he twisted the cap off and drove the needle of the pen into his partner's leg, depressing the plunger to release the Epinephrine. To Peter's horror, nothing happened, Alan didn't react to the pure adrenaline coursing through his system.
Hoping to find another pen to deliver a second dose, Peter checked, but found nothing.
He began mouth to mouth, pinching shut Alan's nose and repeatedly blowing into Alan's mouth, but his throat was already too swollen and the rescue breathing didn't work, Alan's chest refused to rise and fall. Alan was fading before Peter's very eyes.
Peter dialed 911. "This is Peter Burke, FBI Junior Agent 4325, I have a man down. He's not breathing. His throat is swollen shut. I tried giving him a shot from his Epi-pen but it didn't work. I'm trying rescue breathing, but that's not working either! He's dying! What do I do?"
Following the emergency dispatcher's instructions, Peter used a pen-knife sterilized in the flame of his partner's cigarette lighter, and attempted a tracheotomy. His first cut bled copiously, soaking Peter's hands. He nearly lost his grip on the pen-knife. But no air escaped from the wound. Alan's chest didn't rise.
"It's not working!" he yelled in the phone to the dispatcher. Taking a steadying breath to calm himself Peter said more calmly, "He's still not breathing."
"The incision must be above the blockage. Try again, lower down on the throat."
"Yes, sir," said Peter, taking another steadying breath, then doing as he was told, cutting into his partner's neck.
When Peter made a second incision, Alan gasped, catching a tiny breath through the wound. Triumphant, Peter inserted the old hollow pen tube into the cut to create an artificial airway.
But Alan was still struggling to breathe, his face bluish and sweating. The Epi-pen hadn't reduced the swelling in the his throat, and his respiratory distress actually seemed to be getting worse. Alan gave a high squeaky wheeze and clutched at Peter's hand.
Peter looked around the warehouse for something that could help them, but there was nothing useful. Pushing down his fear and forcing himself to remain calm and non-panicky, he gathered his partner in his arms. Alan was tall but Peter ran with him, Alan's head on his shoulder, his legs cradled in his arms, until they were outside the building. Laying him on the blacktop parking lot outside the warehouse, he tried to blow air into his partner's lungs through the narrow opening of the pen, but he wasn't very successful.
Everything faded into the background as Peter breathed in and then blew into the pen, willing Alan to revive. Suddenly, there was of a pair of paramedics asking him to move back. They took over the rescue breathing and began treating Alan with their sophisticated equipment.
"Burke, What happened?" asked Jones.
Looking around, Peter realized there were two ambulances and several unmarked FBI cars with their official lights shining, parked near the warehouse. "What's going on? Where did all of you come from?" Peter asked, waving a hand towards all the emergency vehicles.
Jones placed a hand on Peter's arm, leading him away from Alan. He opened the door of one of the unmarked FBI cars and had Peter to sit down. "You called in an 'agent down' then didn't answer any calls back, Peter."
"What?" Peter asked, dazed, "I didn't hear any calls back. Alan, is Alan...?" He stopped.
"The paramedics are trying but it doesn't look good," said Jones, honestly.
"What happened? What the heck happened?" asked Peter.
Another man approached the two agents, "We were hoping you could tell us that," said Montgomery, Peter's boss in violent crimes.
Peter stood and locked eyes with the tall man who had steel grey hair and brown eyes, "I don't know. We were searching the warehouse. Alan was coughing a lot, but I thought it was the dust. There didn't seem to be anyone around and we separated to search more quickly. Barton must have left, though. I didn't find anyone, or hear anything. When I got back to Alan, he was unconscious. But there was no signs of violence. I tried one of his Epi-pens, but it didn't work. I tried mouth-to-mouth but that didn't work either. Emergency dispatch had me try a trach, and... and I botched that too. Sir."
Montgomery expression changed from hard professionalism to sympathy for his agent. "This warehouse processed peanuts in a former life."
Peter paled, "Oh, no."
"You couldn't have known, Burke. Jones, take him home. We'll sort everything out later."
"But Alan... I should go with him to the hospital. I should be there, he doesn't have anyone else."
Montgomery looked over at the paramedics working on Turner, "It's too late, Peter. He's gone. The paramedics have to bring him into an E/R for a doctor to make it official, but... I'm sorry."
Peter slid down to the ground, "No, no, no, no... oh, no." He looked at his partner, only seeing the blood on Alan's throat, and the paramedics uselessly trying to revive him.
Jones grabbed Peter's arm, "Come on, sir, I'll take you home."
******
END FLASHBACK
******
"The family of Neal Caffrey?" Dr. Greenbean asked walking into the waiting room.
Elizabeth and Peter stood as the doctor approached. El kept her hand firmly on her husband's arm, supporting him.
"Neal has been stabilized, and it looks like he will recover completely. We're moving him to a room, and he will need to stay overnight for observation."
Peter grinned, shaking the doctor's hand. "Can we see him?"
"Once he's settled in his room you can. He's still on a trach tube and oxygen, but we should be able to change to a nasal cannula in a few hours, once all the swelling has gone down. Do you know if he has any allergies to penicillin or other drugs?"
"His records state Morphine, Codeine, and shellfish, but that's all I know," said Peter. "Did you find out what he was given?"
"The tox screen showed Morphine, so we administered Narcan, it reverses the sedation, respiratory depression and low heart rate. The Benedryl and Epi we've given him are reducing the swelling in his throat, but it's not completely down yet. We started antibiotics because of the open wound. He hasn't shown any negative reaction to the antibiotics."
"I understand," Peter said. "But he's going to be OK, right?"
"He should be fine."
"Thank you, Doctor Greenbean."
"A nurse will come and get you when he's settled in his room."
"Thank you, Doctor," said Elizabeth gratefully, as she reached out to shake the doctor's hand.
"Just doing my job." Dr. Greenbean spun on his heel, and left.
Elizabeth turned to Peter and kissed him lightly, "See, he's going to be fine."
Peter returned the kiss, hugged her, "I know, El, I know, I just..."
"You were afraid it would be like last time?"
"Yeah."
******
Peter and Elizabeth Burke sat quietly in Neal Caffrey's hospital room. The young conman was sleeping. The health professionals who had been in and out of the room had insisted that was normal and that Neal needed to sleep.
"Do you want anything, honey? I'm going for a cup of coffee," said Peter.
"What?" asked Elizabeth, startled, then she realized what he had said, "Coffee? No, no that's fine."
"If you're sure?" Peter asked, rhetorically, and slipped out of the room.
Once he was gone, Elizabeth scooted her chair closer to Neal's side. "Neal, I know you're asleep. I just have to tell you, Peter won't admit it, but he needs you."
Neal went right on breathing softly without waking, so Elizabeth began to fill him in on Peter's past - just a little.
******
FLASHBACK -- Seven Years Ago
******
Elizabeth was arranging a vase of flowers in the middle of the dining room table, when she heard the door open. That's weird, I wasn't expecting him home so early, I hope nothing's wrong.
"El?"
Elizabeth shivered, she knew that tone, something was horribly, horribly wrong. She walked quickly into the living room. Peter stood near the door, still wearing his tan trench coat. There were flecks of red on his shirt, jacket, and hands. She flew to his side. "What happened?"
Peter's eyes were dull, full of pain, and he didn't answer.
Elizabeth dragged an unresisting Peter to the sofa in their living room, "Honey, what happened?"
Peter looked away, not meeting El's eyes, "Alan died today, honey. And it was my fault."
Elizabeth gasped, picturing her husband's tall, handsome partner in her mind's eye. He was dead? How? Why? She ran a comforting hand, up and down her husband's arm, "I'm sure it wasn't your fault. Are you okay? You didn't get hurt, did you?"
"It was his allergies, El. We had a lead on Barton for a warehouse out in the middle of nowhere. When we got inside he started coughing. He said it was the dust, and I believed him. How could I have been so stupid?" Peter made a fist with his right hand and hit his other hand, physically beating himself up the same way he'd been mentally beating himself up.
"Stop that right now, Peter Burke!" El exclaimed. "I really don't think it was your fault. Just tell me what happened."
"I thought it was the dust too, and did nothing. We even separated so we could work faster. When I got back to him he was down, unconscious, and I tried to cut into his trachea to open his airway, but I botched it. The first cut didn't get below the swelling, and the second one... he couldn't get enough air. He died at the scene, El." Peter cried.
El hugged her husband, tears forming in her own eyes.
Peter, his voice still harsh with tears, said, "The warehouse processed peanuts."
"I figured," Elizabeth answered him.
"I should have done my homework. Checked out the place. Alan didn't need to be on that raid. Barton wasn't even there!"
"Peter, come on, there was no way you could have known. It wasn't your fault. Alan could have called you for help, and he didn't, did he?"
Peter shook his head. "No, no he didn't. But how was he going to do that with his throat closing up on him?"
Elizabeth took Peter's face in her hands, searching his brown eyes, "Peter, it wasn't your fault."
Peter collapsed into his wife's arms, crying on her shoulder.
El held her husband close, tears sliding down her own face.
******
END FLASHBACK
******
"So, you see Neal, Peter went through a OPR review, and FBI-ordered counseling for the loss of his partner. Then he requested and was given a transfer to the White Collar division." She leaned forward and lightly touched the con man's hand for a moment.
"Once Peter received his transfer, he began to keep his working life and his home life separate. Oh, he still told me about work, what he could, but I never saw any of the people he worked with, not for dinner, or drinks." She smiled softly, looking at Neal's face. He still had blotchy, red patches on his cheeks and throat, but they were fading.
"It changed him, he made him more, I dunno, professional isn't the right word, because he was always a good agent. Three weeks after the transfer, your file landed on his desk. It gave him the challenge he desperately needed. You gave him focus, Neal."
There was a small moan from the bed, and Elizabeth saw Neal's bright blue eyes open. "Neal? Neal, don't try to talk, you still have a tube in your throat."
Neal moved a hand up and down his body, then in a circle, indicating the room.
"You're in a hospital, Neal. You had an allergic reaction to the Morphine they gave you at the clinic."
Neal's eyes widened in fear at the word, "Morphine".
"It's okay, Peter did a trach, he saved your life." She lightly touched his shoulder, and tugged at his blanket, smoothing it over Neal's chest. "But you saved him by giving him a challenge when he needed one, so I say you're fair and square."
Neal raised an eyebrow, looking at her questioningly.
"We are huh?" asked Peter from the doorway.
Elizabeth flushed, embarrassed, "How long have you been there?"
"Long enough," said Peter. He walked into the room, right to Neal's side, "Neal, you're awake! It's great to see you awake!"
Elizabeth looked down at the ground contritely, glancing from a grinning Neal to her husband, "I... I just wanted him to know how special he is, Peter."
Peter turned slightly, reached for his wife and ran his hand across her shoulder, "El, it's fine."
"I thought if he knew, if he understood about Alan..." Elizabeth started, "Besides, he was sleeping most of the time I was talking."
Neal emphatically waved a hand, and mimed sleeping.
Elizabeth leaned into her husband's caress, patting Neal's hand at the same time. "I was trying to get him to wake up, it probably didn't register what I said."
Peter shook his head, "I said, it was fine, El. And, if Neal didn't hear everything, I'll fill him in later, myself."
Neal glanced back and forth between Elizabeth and Peter, obviously wanting to talk, but unable to because of the trach tube.
Peter pressed the call button for the nurse. He lightly tapped Neal's shoulder. "Neal, please don't do something like that again."
Neal shrugged with a roll of his eyes.
"I know you went to the clinic to try to get evidence," Peter continued, "but you need to learn to follow procedure and rules. They're there to protect you as well as being a part of the law." Peter took a deep steadying breath, "I don't want to lose you, Neal, you're too good a partner."
Neal's eyes widened in astonishment.
Two nurses and a doctor came into the room. "Hi folks, I'm Dr. Beckwith, I'll be taking over Mr. Caffrey's care from now on." He took the stethoscope from around his neck, and listened to Neal's breath sounds. "Your lungs sound clear." He checked the pulse oximeter showing a bright 99, then smiled, "Much, much better, Mr. Caffrey. Your oxygen sats have improved. I think we can try taking out the trach tube, a nasal cannula will be much more comfortable. Do you have any residual tingling or numbness?"
Neal shook his head, then pointed to the tube in his throat.
"Right, then, this is what we are going to do..."
One of the nurses, turned to Peter and Elizabeth, "I'm Beth. You'll need to leave, all right? If all goes to plan, you can come back in as soon as we've finished."
"Thanks, Beth." Peter said, and he and El left the room.
*****
Peter and El walked over to yet another set of dirty white plastic chairs. Peter gently laid his hand around her shoulders as they sat. Peter said, "He's going to be fine. He's really going to be fine."
El smiled at Peter, "See, I told you."
Peter closed his eyes, and slid against the back of the chair. After a second he opened his eyes, "I thought I was going to lose him. I really thought... when I saw Neal lying there, I really thought I was going to..." Peter left off.
"But you didn't," said El.
"I didn't," Peter said.
"You got to him fast enough. You did what you had to. And you did a good job, Peter."
"Yeah," Peter said. He slid back against the back of the chair.
The two of them sat in comfortable quiet stillness for a few minutes.
El turned to Peter, "You're not really upset about what I told Neal, are you?"
"Of course not, El."
"Good," she said with conviction.
"But why? Why would you bring it up?" He tilted his head at her.
Elizabeth waved one hand in a so-so gesture, "What happened with Alan. It seemed to be on your mind."
"So you decided to tell Caffrey?"
"And now it's Caffrey? What happened to Neal?"
Peter shook his head. He wasn't ready to answer that question.
"Besides, he was sleeping, and you've already said you're not upset, so..." she left off.
"I'm not, El, I'm not mad. I guess, that in a way, it's a good thing."
"Neal probably never knew what it meant to you when you started chasing him."
"El, I wasn't exactly playing Javert to his Jean Valjean, you know."
"I know, but now he's your partner... and you need to start trusting him." She ran a hand up and down Peter's arm. Peter smiled at her, and leaned into his wife's touch.
They remained in companionable silence until Dr. Beckwith came and greeted them a little while later.
*****
Elizabeth and Peter Burke walked into the hospital room. Neal sat up in his bed, still attached to IVs with a cannula in his nose, but he no longer had the trach tube. The only reminder of the short-lived trach was a small gauze dressing at the base of his neck.
Peter walked up to his partner, standing near the head of Neal's bed. "You're looking better."
"I hear you saved my life," said Neal, his voice hoarse and scratchy.
Peter blushed, "It was nothing." Noticing Neal's cool, detached expression, Peter said, "I mean, it was my job..." He left off, flustered. "You know I'm not good at this Neal, don't make me..."
Neal grinned, and let him off the hook, "I'm grateful, Peter."
Peter acknowledged that with a small smile of his own. His tone more serious, he said, "Please stop taking chances like this."
"Can't promise that."
"Be careful?" Peter tried.
"That I can promise. Did you get him? Did you get Powell?"
"Jones and Mannelly are checking over records at the clinic. They're holding Powell and Calloway, pending charges."
"Is there enough evidence?"
"Hopefully. We think so. I don't have all the details, yet."
"Is it admissible?"
Peter looked at Neal, surprised. He grinned, "This is beginning to sound like a bit of role-reversal, Neal."
"Well, you're rubbing off on me." Neal looked off into space for a moment.
Peter lightly tapped Neal's arm, "Maybe we should leave. Let you rest."
"No!" Neal said. He squeaked, that had hurt, he put a hand to his throat. He returned his hand to the bed. "Peter, I didn't mean to come between you and Elizabeth. Don't ever let that happen."
Elizabeth looked at Neal in surprise. "Oh, honey, What are you talking about?"
"You two, you were fighting when I woke up. I don't even know what it was about. But, don't..."
Peter and El glanced at each other. Peter was embarrassed. El looked just a tad angry.
"We weren't fighting," said El with a dismissive wave of her hand.
"We weren't fighting," said Peter at the same time, "I walked in as El was telling you something... something private. I was surprised she told you. But I'm OK with it. Really." He put one hand around his wife's shoulders and patted Neal's shoulder with the other. "We weren't fighting."
"What did she tell me?"
"You didn't hear?" asked Peter, softly.
"No, all I remember was she said something about an OPR review. And a transfer to White Collar Crime. Peter, I never knew you worked anything else."
"What, did you think I was born in the White Collar Crime Unit?" He stood, paced to the end of the bed and back. "I trained at Quantico, I did a year of rotation work, then I did three years in violent crimes before requesting the transfer to the White Collar Unit."
"Oh," said Neal, surprise flooding his face. "Really? You always seemed so suited to investigating white collar crime."
"Look, Neal, I'll fill you in on everything. It would probably do me some good." Peter leaned his shoulder against the wall next to Neal, and ran a hand through Neal's dark hair, "But right now, you need rest. Should I call the nurse or a doctor to check you over?"
"I'm fine."
Elizabeth stroked Neal's arm. "Maybe we should let a doctor determine that, Neal. You know, it was a pretty close thing today."
"OK." Neal scooted up in bed.
Peter pressed the nurse call button above Neal's bed.
Dr. Beckwith and Beth came in. Beth glanced up at the monitor and charted Neal's vital signs on her notes. The doctor took the stethoscope from around his neck, and warmed the bell with his gloved hands. "I'm just going to check your breathing, Mr. Caffrey." He placed the bell on Neal's chest and listened for a few minutes. Once he was finished, he took the chart from the nurse and wrote a note in the file. "Sounding good."
"I'm just going to remove this dressing." Dr. Beckwith explained, peeling away the tape from Neal's neck. The wound ws bright pink, but there was no bleeding. "Does your throat hurt?"
"A bit," said Neal. "It's not bad," he added.
"We can give you more painkillers."
"It's not bad, really." Neal insisted.
Dr. Beckwith raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "The nurse will check on you in about an hour. Or, you can press the call button if you change your mind. I'm going to check your pupils." He flicked a penlight in Neal's eyes.
Neal winced at the light in his eyes.
"Your pupils are no longer constricted. Was the light painful?"
"Doctor, it always hurts having a bright light in your eyes," Neal pointed out. "But no, no more than normal." He looked at Peter and Elizabeth. "See, I'm fine."
"We're going to keep you for the rest of the night, Mr. Caffrey, but I think you shouldn't have any further complications and you can go home in the morning. You'll need to stay on oral antibotics for three days once you leave the hospital." Dr. Beckwith pointed to the call button. "If you need anything, just press that button."
"Could I have some water?"
"Be careful at first, your neck is still healing and drinking may be painful. Nothing except clear fluids until morning, Beth." Beckwith said.
Beth poured Neal a glass of water, raised the angle of the bed, and unwrapped a straw. She stuck it into the cup before handing it to Neal. Neal sipped the water, slowly, with a slight wince.
"I'll be back later," Beth promised as she and the doctor left.
"Neal, El and I should go. Let you get some sleep. But you and I can talk later, all right?"
Neal put a hand on Peter's arm, and said, "Thank you, Peter. I mean it, thank you."
Peter gave the ex-con man a look that said, that's what partner's do. He took Elizabeth's arm to guide her out of the room. Getting out of her chair Elizabeth walked over to Neal and lightly kissed his forehead. "Get better, Neal," she said.
*****
Peter unlocked and opened the door to his house that night. He and El walked in, and he locked the door. Before El even had her coat off, Peter took his wife in his arms, held her close and kissed her.
"Hey, hey, let's at least get out of our coats. Do you want dinner?"
"No, " said Peter and pulled off his coat. Going to hang it in the closet, he stood there, waiting for El's coat. Once he had put away her coat, he led Elizabeth to the sofa in the living room, then took her in his arms. "Hold me, honey."
Elizabeth took him in her arms, and realized he was trembling again. "Peter, what's wrong? What is it?"
Peter didn't answer, staring into space.
"Come on, Peter, talk to me." She ran her hands up and down his arms.
"I can't get the memories out of my head, El. I keep thinking about losing Alan. I keep thinking of how I felt when I saw Neal on the table at the clinic. At first, I wasn't even sure he was still alive."
"But Neal is fine," she kissed him sweetly.
"I know. I'll be all right."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, honey, I don't know why I'm reacting like this."
El gently caressed his shoulders. "You are tense, honey. What do you want?"
"I don't know. I don't know. This was just a nightmare, and right now, all I want is to feel alive, to get a little comfort."
Elizabeth hugged him and kissed him deeply. She let go and crooked her finger at him, pointing towards the stairs. "Come on." She led him upstairs.
*****
The next morning, El and Peter were sitting at the breakfast table, eating cereal.
"El, with everything that happened, yesterday, I forgot to ask you. What news?" He reached for the carton of orange juice on the table and poured some into his glass.
"Huh?" Elizabeth asked, taking a sip of her tea.
"Well, yesterday, you said you had something to tell me. What was it?"
El smiled, "With everything that happened, I wasn't quite ready to tell you."
Peter's stomach dropped, suddenly fearful, and he found it difficult to meet her eyes, "Tell me what?"
"I'm pregnant!" Elizabeth announced ecstatically
"What?" Peter said, stupidly.
"I'm pregnant!"
"Oh, El. Oh, honey," he said, happiness and excitement replacing the fear. "I'm going to be a father?"
El went to her husband and kissed him. "Yep, that's generally what happens."
Peter grabbed Elizabeth and held her tight, kissing the top of her head. He pulled her into his lap, laughing and he kissed her on the lips. "Oh, El. That's terrific! How far along are you?"
"Three months. Would you believe it? I took a self-test a few days ago, then went to my doctor the day before yesterday."
"Honey, that is the greatest news you could possibly have told me. I can't wait. We can set up a nursery upstairs in one of the spare bedrooms, and..."
She kissed him back and stood. "I'm glad you're as excited about this as I am."
"Of course I'm excited, El. We've wanted a child for years. Starting a family... it's perfect."
Elizabeth's eyes shone with happiness, "Now, off with you, you need to pick-up Neal from the hospital. I love you, Peter."
"I know, sweetie. I love you, too." He rose from his chair, then lightly kissed her one more time, before walking out of the kitchen.
*****
Peter drove to the hospital to pick up Neal. He was ready and waiting for him, even already dressed.
"Ready to go home, partner?"
"Yeah, Peter. Did the case stick against Powell?"
Peter shook his head, "The evidence at the clinic was poison fruit. We can't use any of it. No search warrant."
"Damn." A slow, sly grin broke out over Neal's face.
"You got an idea?"
"Oh, yeah. Let's get back to the office. I think you're going to love this, Peter."
Peter smiled. "I'm sure I will, Neal."
The End