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“Neal, talk to me, dammit!” Peter ran, breath misting in the frigid air. His heart thumped not from exertion, but from panic.
Neal’s distress signal had come moments before a bone-rattling explosion. The warehouse windows had blown outward releasing a torrent of steam into the air. Dust loosened from the exterior walls added to the haze that Peter plowed haphazardly through.
Peter vaguely registered, between his harsh breaths, his team in his earpiece, no doubt calling him back to safety. But there was no way he was leaving Neal in there, not for the twenty minutes it would take to get rescue workers on site.
In the aftermath of the explosion, the concrete and steel building sat strangely quiet, but for the dull clunk of debris settling. Peter’s steps crunched over broken glass, and he slowed to a trot, drawing his gun from its holster as he approached the warehouse door.
The door hung from its lowest hinge, blown back and angled across the entrance. Carefully stepping over it, Peter squinted into the dark interior of the building.
Struggling to think through the din of voices in his ear, Peter silenced his team, telling them to stay off the channel unless there was an update on the emergency response. He called Neal's name into the void. Only echoes answered him.
Peter cautiously picked his way south down the western wall, towards the office where Neal had initially been interviewed by the prospective gem forger. His raised gun led the way, feet tapping against rubble as he went. By now the steam had collected as condensation on every surface. Grey winter light filtering through the empty window frames did little to penetrate the cavernous space.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Peter made out the shapes of twisted metal strewn over the floor, contorted into grotesque works of modern art. Pieces of pipe, splinters of wood, and chunks of concrete created an obstacle course for him to navigate as his eyes scanned for signs of life. The creak and groan of shifting metal resonated uneasily through his chest, reminding him that the damaged structure could give in to gravity at any moment. He picked up his pace.
Rustling followed by a moan turned into a howl of pain echoing from the shadows before him. Unable to breathe, heart fluttering wildly, Peter approached the sound. Behind a concrete pillar a body slumped, limbs twitching on the floor. A spear of light from the shattered windows revealed an arm, skin red and raw, blistered from shoulder to fingertips.
Peter’s gun clattered to the floor as he crouched before the figure. He reached trembling fingers into the shadows and turned the anguished face towards him. It wasn’t Neal. It was one of the gem counterfeiters.
Peter’s relieved exhale was soon supplanted by fresh anxiety as his brain conjured images of Neal suffering similar injuries, screaming in pain. He pulled his mind back from that gruesome tableau, determined not to catastrophise without evidence. But the tendrils of fear refused to loosen their grip.
Retrieving his gun, Peter cast a few assurances to the scarred man that help would be arriving soon. The injured criminal wouldn’t be going anywhere, and Peter could do nothing more for him, so he continued into the gloom. For all he knew, this man was part of the reason Neal was missing, potentially injured or...
He reached the office halfway down the western wall. What had once been interior walls were now support beams and wooden framing. Shafts of dim light from empty window frames illuminated the bleak scene.
Peter shuffled through what had been the doorway. A table lay on its side. Several chairs were blown against the outer wall. A row of file cabinets tilted along the far wall, leaning to the right, incongruously propped at an angle by whatever obstacle lay hidden behind the table.
“Neal?” No answer.
Peter took two more steps into the room, scanning quickly behind the table, prepared to move on. His eyes caught on a familiar pair of shoes, attached to a pair of legs, connected to a leather jacketed torso pinned beneath the far-right filing cabinet.
“Shit, Neal!” Peter rushed around the table, holstering his gun. Frantically scanning what he could see of Neal, Peter determined he’d escaped without scalding burns. But he was trapped, face down, head, shoulders and arms beneath the heavy cabinets.
Fueled by adrenaline, Peter shifted each of the monoliths back upright, one at a time. Neal breathed but didn’t stir, curled with his back to the room, right arm hooked protectively over his head. Kneeling carelessly amongst the remnants of shattered glass, Peter carefully found Neal’s wrist. Feeling a steady pulse, he was finally able to breathe.
Relaying the situation to his team, he received a response that the fire service was ten minutes out, EMTs fifteen. Peter thanked them, and prepared to sit and keep vigil for as long as it took.
Needing to offer comfort, and seeking assurance from the warmth of the still body, Peter instinctively rested a hand over Neal’s shoulder. He soon drew back with a sick jolt, feeling the limb twisted out of its socket. Neal was alive, but not uninjured.
The sensation of pressure must have roused Neal. He let out a low moan, breath rasping.
“Hey, Neal, hey buddy. You're alright, just stay still, we’ve got paramedics on the way.” Speaking low but hurriedly, Peter tried to keep Neal calm. He hovered over the injured shoulder, not daring to touch, but wanting to soothe.
Not listening, or perhaps not understanding, Neal pulled his arm away from his head. A sharp hiss left his lips, and Peter's gut flipped seeing pain distort Neal’s features,
“Jeez, Neal, I told you not to move. Your shoulder’s dislocated. The EMTs are still fifteen minutes out, so you just need to sit tight till then.” Peter hoped that was the only thing the paramedics would need to fix. He couldn’t tell what sort of concussion or other injuries Neal might have.
Neal blinked deliberately, eyes roving towards Peter. A small smile curled his lips. “Peter. Knew you’d find me.”
A knot of trepidation turned Peter’s stomach, unsure whether to be reassured or worried by Neal’s flippancy. “I’m not sure that this counts, seeing how you didn’t exactly go anywhere...”
Neal was moving, pulling his knees up, rolling onto his front.
“What... no, Neal! Don't try to get up! You could have spinal damage or brain damage or anything!” Peter couldn’t figure out how to prevent Neal hurting himself with his own stubbornness, without inadvertently causing more harm.
At least it appeared spinal damage wasn’t an issue. Neal was able to get to his knees and sit up, facing the western wall. He hunched forward, cradling his right arm to his stomach, breathing shallowly, eyes scrunched shut. It was obvious he was in a lot of pain, but at least he wasn’t trying to stand.
“Okay, just take it easy.” Peter placed a gentle hand on the centre of Neal’s back, feeling shuddering gasps rip through the thin chest. “Just wait for the paramedics. Won’t be long now.”
Neal turned his head, adamant eyes finding Peter. “No, Peter. No hospital. It’s fine, I can handle it.”
Peter’s disbelief must have come across severe, because Neal frowned sullenly. Slowly, his legs uncurled until he was sitting against the filing cabinets with a straight back and a furrowed brow.
Peter relaxed marginally when it appeared Neal was going to rest. He realised, in the silence, that the shouts of the burned man had died away. Peter turned and peered towards the vacuous space of the warehouse. He hadn’t heard any indication of other survivors. Whatever had gone wrong, it seemed Neal was very fortunate to be in relatively good condition.
Then Peter remembered Neal had used his distress phrase before the explosion. He turned to Neal, the question on his lips. “Hey, what happened...”
Neal had his right arm hoisted above his head, right hand behind the nape of his neck. Peter watched in horror as Neal’s left hand reached back and pulled the elbow of the injured arm across towards his spine. A nauseating pop, and a cry of pain, and Neal slumped forward, chest heaving, arms limp in his lap.
“What the hell, Neal!” Peter scrambled forward, running a hand as gently as possible over Neal’s shoulder, his clavicle, trying to determine the extent of the damage.
Neal choked out a laugh, high and slightly hysterical. A shaky hand waved aside Peter’s frenzied concern. “It’s fine, Peter. Good as new.” Neal carefully pulled his right arm against his torso, resting back against the filing cabinets, pale faced, but eerily calm.
Running a hand down his face, Peter considered what the appropriate response to that should be. Nothing came to him; it was simply too bizarre, too grotesque. “I cannot fathom how you just did that.”
The grin that twisted Neal’s features appeared macabre. “It’s not that hard. Don’t they teach you that at Quantico?”
Peter stared. “No, Neal. I’m pretty sure that maneuver was listed under what not to do. You could have done more damage.”
Neal’s smile flickered, then fell, tension returning to his features. “You know I wouldn’t risk that. I told you I could handle it.”
Peter placed a wary hand over Neal’s. “I don’t doubt you. I’m just... surprised.” He exhaled roughly, wrestling the shock from his face. “How do you even know how to do that?”
Neal’s expression shuttered. He looked at his hands, cradled in his lap, Peter’s thumb caressing his wrist. His silence gave Peter his answer: he didn’t want to know.
Approaching sirens drew Peter’s attention, relieving some of his stress. His earpiece chirped to life, confirming that first responders had arrived. He smiled encouragingly at Neal. “Okay, we should be out of here in minutes. Then you can get some proper medical attention.”
Neal’s eyes widened. He grasped Peter’s wrist. “No, Peter, no hospitals.”
The fear in Neal’s voice was so far from his earlier defiance, Peter eyed him uncertainly. “Neal, you were caught in an explosion. You have to get checked out.”
Neal nodded feverishly, then winced, ratcheting up Peter’s alarm. “Yeah, of course. I’ll meet the paramedics here. But when they tell you I’m fine, you’ll let me go home, right?”
Neal’s agitation shivered through his body, translating into his tremulous hold on Peter’s wrist. Peter hesitated, then conceded reluctantly. “Alright, if they say it’s okay, I’ll take you straight home.”
A breathy exhale and a watery grin signified Neal’s appreciation. He released Peter’s wrist and ran his fingers through his hair absentmindedly, repeatedly pushing it back from his face. The gesture was so familiar to Peter, he allowed himself to believe Neal really would be fine.
Twenty minutes later, Peter had Neal in the passenger seat of his car, both grateful to be leaving the crime scene behind.
The paramedics had confirmed Neal had a minor concussion but wouldn’t need hospital care. The shoulder that Peter feared might need surgery would, amazingly, be fine. Neal sported a sling, which he wasn’t thrilled about, and he’d be confined to desk duty for a few weeks, which had him pouting peevishly.
Peter couldn’t help smiling as Neal sulked. Neal finally turned to him irritably. “Seriously, Peter? I thought you’d grown out of snickering at someone else’s misfortune.”
Tempted to roll his eyes, Peter briefly patted Neal’s knee. “You know me better than that, Neal. I’m just glad you’re okay. If there wasn’t sulking, I'd know there was a problem.”
Neal looked less than pleased with that assessment but didn’t argue the point, staring distantly out the side window.
Peter glanced in the rear-view mirror as the warehouse winked out of sight behind them. “I forgot to ask, what happened in there, anyway? I assume the autoclave blew?”
Neal stirred, adjusting to the change in topic. “Yeah. They tried to rush the gems by cranking the steam pressure up. The equipment wasn’t up for it. It was obviously going to go.”
Peter hummed in acknowledgement. “So you jumped behind the cabinets. Good move, it probably saved your life.”
Neal half shrugged with his left shoulder. “I’m not an amateur.”
Peter took a right at the next intersection.
“Er, Peter, June’s is left of here.”
Peter shook his head, frowning. Neal never ceased to amaze him. “We’re not going to June’s. You’ve got a concussion that needs monitoring. You’re coming home with me.”
Neal fidgeted with the fabric of his sling. “A minor concussion. I don’t need you hovering over me, I know how to monitor it myself.”
A sinking melancholy smothered Peter’s frustration. He contemplated the young man next to him sorrowfully. Years into their partnership, Peter had finally accepted that Neal was a fixture in his life, as good as family. He’d thought Neal had figured that out long ago. “I know what you’re capable of, Neal. But you’re not alone anymore. It’s okay to accept help.”
Neal swallowed, fingers twitching. He turned away, blinking at the passing houses. He cleared his throat. “Just watch the road, Peter.”
Peter chuckled fondly and returned his attention to the traffic. His hand rested on Neal’s knee and stayed there when it wasn’t brushed off.
When Neal’s fingers swiped across his eyes, Peter didn’t mention it. He’d convince Neal that confiding in family was a good thing. However long that took.