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“I’m fine, I swear.”
“Caffrey!” Peter snapped.
“I’m fine,” Neal waved him off.
Peter suspected that, actually, Neal was probably in shock. Probably couldn’t feel the bullet wound he’d received to the shoulder. (Jones had seen it happen, Neal couldn’t wave away the evidence of Jones’s senses.)
“Neal, get over to the goddamn ambulance and let them patch you up! That’s an order!” Peter barked.
Neal’s eyes flashed (literally, almost) and he curled his lip in distaste. “I already told you, I’m fine.”
“You’ve been shot!” Peter felt his voice go a little higher than he’d intended it to. High and concerned. Here he was, just trying to get his CI – his friend – to go get patched up. You know. To make sure he doesn’t bleed out, or get an infection, or otherwise keep everyone he knew worrying about him when there was a perfectly good pair of EMTs right there, ready to help. And what did Neal do? Deny he even needed the help.
“I haven’t been shot,” Neal disagreed. His tone was still smooth and convincing. But Neal hadn’t turned his back to Peter since the FBI had busted into the building to get Neal out of an escalating situation.
In the confusion, Neal had been shot. It was undeniable. And Peter could prove it, easily, if Neal just stopped being so pigheaded about the ambulance.
“You have!” Peter threw his hands in the air. “Get on the gurney, Caffrey!”
“Or what?” Neal carefully crossed his arms.
“Neal!”
Neal raised an eyebrow.
Peter stepped back and forced himself to calm down. Breathe, Peter, he told himself. Yelling’s not going to get anything done, here.
“Okay. Fine,” Peter said.
Neal raised both eyebrows, then, surprised.
“Prove to me you haven’t been shot and you don’t have to let the EMTs treat you,” Peter said.
“Oh, please. If I’d been shot, don’t you think there’d be a little more screaming? Maybe some blood and tears? That should be proof enough, don’t you think?”
And, actually, yeah. That’s exactly what Peter would have expected, if Neal were injured that badly. Neal had to be in shock to not be reacting in those ways, and his stupid blazer must have been sopping up the blood, besides. It was the only thing that made sense.
Either that or – more concerningly – Neal couldn’t feel the bullet.
Or had a high enough pain tolerance, was used to the pain enough, that he could hide it all. Peter couldn’t think of a single reason Neal would hide the injury like that, but that didn’t make it less of a possibility, especially the longer Neal went without showing any tells that he was in pain. Because he was definitely sporting a gunshot wound. Peter didn’t think Jones, or Jones’s concern, would be wrong about that.
“Take off your jacket and turn around,” Peter said.
“What?” Neal scoffed. “This is a blazer, Peter. Armani—” where the hell had Neal managed to snag an Armani blazer on his CI stipend? “—I’m not just going to take it off in this filthy place.”
Peter extended an arm expectantly.
“What's that for?" Neal looked from the arm to Peter’s face.
“I’ll hold it for you,” Peter said.
“No thanks,” Neal adjusted the blazer. And there it was! He flinched. Tiny, but there. It was the first tell, the first physical notion that he was in pain, but Peter held onto that proof, because Neal was beginning to convince him, with all his uppity conman excuses and perfect posture.
(Surely a normal guy, one who hated guns, wouldn’t be used to the pain – wouldn't try to ignore the pain – of a gunshot wound.)
“Neal,” Peter said, exasperated. He took a step forward.
Neal took a step back and looked shiftily to either side, like he was going to make a break for it.
“Neal, what the hell is going on?” Peter demanded.
Neal glared at him, eyes flashing again. This time, yeah, Peter could swear he’d seen a literal flash in his CI’s eyes. Green flooding the teal of Neal’s eyes, bright and consuming.
Peter leaned back a little, but then took another step forward. “This is ridiculous,” he snapped.
Neal stepped back again. This time, however, his back hit the exposed brick of the loft the FBI had taken over in their rush to afford their CI the backup he deserved, you know, given the risk he’d taken (on their behalf) to move the case forward.
As Neal’s back hit the brick, he exhaled sharply, as if punched, and withdrew from the brick like it was electrified.
“I’m. Fine,” Neal said. His voice was a lot gruffer, though, thick with a resurgence of pain. He was also practically growling, which wasn’t a very Neal Caffrey thing to do. “Step off, Burke.”
Peter straightened in equal measures of confusion and hurt. “Neal—” Peter cut himself off with a gasp.
Neal had moved away from the brick and left a large, bloody imprint of his shoulder in his wake. The back of his blazer had to be soaked. Peter looked Neal over and. And felt his breath catch. On the bottom hem of his precious Armani blazer, Peter could make out the spread of the blood from Neal’s wound. As he watched, a drop gathered at the hem, then dropped – thick and lazy – to the floor.
“Caffrey,” Peter snapped. “If you don’t get your ass to the EMTs willingly, I will have you sedated, do you hear me?”
Neal snarled at him, but stalked past. The whole back of his blazer was bloody.
But he was listening. Peter let himself droop in relief. Until fifteen minutes later when Jones came back in and asked if Peter had managed to convince Neal to let the EMTs check him over. Then all the tension was back, and worse than before. ”He didn't go down to them?" Peter demanded.
Jones straightened. ”No, we didn’t see him down there, at all.”
Peter swore. “The scene is yours, Jones. I’m going to go find Neal.”
Jones gave him an affirmative and, eyes concerned, watched Peter go.
--
A quick call told Peter that Neal had gone home. Had made it home. It was a small relief.
Mostly, though, Peter was pissed that Neal would take a chance with that much blood loss. The EMTs were right there! The ambulance was right there! What was the point of going home? Neal would absolutely need an ambulance for that gunshot wound. There was no maybe about it. Neal needed a hospital.
Peter made it to June’s in record time (and really ought to have been pulled over for speeding and reckless driving, probably) and trotted his way up to the room June was letting to Neal.
He was still simmering with concern and anger, but he felt some of it leave him as he knocked on the door. This was it, he’d see Neal and Neal would be okay. Or mostly okay. And Peter could get on with his life, including the final wrap-ups for the latest case they’d been working on. Maybe he'd call the ambulance for Neal, first, just to make sure the absolute idiot got to the hospital. But it’d be fine.
There was shuffling inside Neal’s apartment until Peter knocked, then everything went suspiciously still.
That just ratcheted Peter’s anger right back up. And his concern, because Neal could have been bleeding out, right then and there, just on the other side of the door. If there was that much blood on the back of his blazer, he probably needed a transfusion or something. What if the bullet had nicked a major artery? What if—?
Peter knocked on the door again, louder. “Neal, open up,” he demanded.
What followed was an exchange of soft voices, an argument, and then the door was unlocking.
Peter stepped back instinctively when the door opened and a stranger’s gaze met his. Not Neal. Not Mozzie. Someone Peter didn’t know in the slightest, but for a nagging sense of recognition somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind. “Where’s Neal?” he demanded.
The guy sighed and pushed his hair behind his ear. ”Could you come back a bit later, Agent?”
“No,” Peter said slowly, “I’m here because my CI was shot and refused medical aid at the scene. I’d like to make sure he hasn’t bled out.”
“He’ll be fine,” Mystery Man said. “Pinkie swear.” He even had the gall to smile and offer Peter his pinkie.
Peter was thoroughly unimpressed.
Mystery Man sighed and dropped his proffered pinkie. “Okay, fine. Come in, Agent Burke. But please try to stay out of my way.” He left the doorway and wandered into Neal’s apartment, perfectly at home. He went over to the counter and pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, then washed his hands.
Peter blinked at the display, then turned his eyes until he found Neal and—
The blood was cleaned up – bloody tissues and rags tossed into a small garbage can to one side – and the bullet wound itself wasn’t very bad. No. Everything else. It was everything else that had Peter’s eyes widening and a sense of apprehension rising in Peter.
Neal was covered in scars. All sorts of scars, all up and down his back, his ribs. Probably his front, too, except that Neal’s back was to the door and -- like some kind of cowboy from an old Western – he was swigging whiskey right from the bottle.
“Hey, Peter,” Neal tossed over his shoulder. His smirk was sharp and dangerous. “See? I’m fine.”
“You—” Peter felt his throat rebel by closing up a bit.
“Not what you expected?” Neal asked.
And Neal was a criminal, sure, but he was a nonviolent offender. There was no reason he should be covered in scars like that. There was no reason he should be used to pain, no reason he should both feel like he could and like he should hide a bullet wound. Or deal with it on his own.
“What happened to you?” Peter asked.
The Mystery Man walked between Peter and Neal and pawed through a first aid kit. Peter had never even seen a First Aid kit of that size. Nor had he seen a First Aid kit with that amount of diversity in its collection of materials.
“Doesn’t look like it needs staples. Lucky, too. I don’t have a way to staple wounds shut in this kit,” the Mystery Man said.
“I know,” Neal said.
“I wasn’t talking to you.” The guy glanced over at Peter. “It’s pretty minor, all things considered. He’ll be fine. Didn’t even need a transfusion, though he’ll certainly need to rest and keep hydrated for a bit.”
“I saw the amount of blood on his jacket—” Peter started.
“Blazer,” Neal cut in. “Still a blazer. C’mon, Peter.”
“Blazer,” Peter bit out. “It was covered in blood, seeping all the way down and dripping. There’s no way he doesn’t need a transfusion.”
“Well, he doesn’t,” the guy smiled tiredly.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Neal said. He swigged the whiskey again.
The Mystery Man turned back to his work, dabbed and prodded at the wound a bit, then pulled out a needle and started on a series of neat, tight sutures. “We’re used to stuff like this,” he said softly. “Used to receiving it, used to treating it. This is normal.”
“It’s not normal,” Peter said.
“It shouldn’t be,” the guy agreed.
“Dickwad, stop talking to the Fed,” Neal said.
Peter raised his eyebrows. Neal usually had more decorum than that. A lot more decorum.
“He’s your friend, Neal ,” the guy pressed against Neal’s wound, lightly. Definitely enough to hurt (and make Neal flinch and swear), but not so hard that it could be considered more than an accident. It definitely wasn’t an accident, though.
“Shut up,” Neal snapped.
“I know you’re just lashing out because you’re in pain. I know you’re just angry because it’s easier than being vulnerable. So, cut it out,” the guy said.
“Bite me,” Neal scoffed.
In retaliation, Neal’s friend – if he could be called a friend – took away the bottle of whiskey and set it far out of Neal’s reach, on the other end of the dining room table.
“You’re the worst!” Neal tried to stand. Wobbled. Sat back down. “Give that back.”
“No, I don’t think so,” the guy frowned, then set about cleaning up the area. He met Peter’s eye briefly, then smiled and shrugged, like ‘oh, what can you do?’ or something.
“Neal, you should still go to a hospital,” Peter tried. “I’m sure your friend—”
“Not my friend,” Neal cut in.
Peter pressed his lips into a line.
“Not my friend,” Neal repeated, quieter. Here, with his guard down and both blood loss and alcohol affecting his faculties, Neal spoke in a much gruffer, deeper voice than usual. He also spoke with the distant vestiges of an unfamiliar accent. “Wouldn’t have friends like Dickface, over there. S’ my brother.”
Peter straightened and looked back at the other man.
The guy froze in place and looked at first Neal, then Peter, with wide eyes.
“Older brother,” Neal muttered.
“Little Wing, might be time for some sleep,” the guy said tightly.
Neal scoffed and stood again, still a little unsteady, but obviously determined. He turned and—
Peter’s breath caught.
He didn’t say anything as Neal shuffled out of the room, but after the door to his bedroom his shut, he turned back to the other man. To Neal’s apparent brother.
“Yeah,” he said.
“That looked like—”
“Yeah,” Neal’s brother repeated. “I know.”
An autopsy scar. What the hell?