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White Collar fanfic: Fight Me
Title: Fight Me
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing: Gen (with a little background Peter/El)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4600
Summary: Neal is drugged and on the loose; Peter just wants to catch him before he hurts himself or somebody else. This is for my![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
10tropes prompt "Intoxication Ensues", and also another one in the series of "drug everybody!" fics that began with Trust Me, Catch Me, and Rescue Me. (These do not necessarily take place in the same continuity; they're just thematically related.)
Cross-posted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/423390
Notes: As far as I know, there is no hallucinogen that makes people act like the one in this story does, including the one that is name-checked (which is a real drug, just not one that makes people behave like this). *g* Quite a lot of creative liberty is being taken here.
Taking out terrorists wasn't part of the White Collar unit's mandate. And that would only make a difference, Peter thought, if criminals came conveniently labeled with their type of crime. Like name tags at one of those mind-numbing conferences that the FBI kept sending him to. Hi, my name is GUIDO. I am a DRUG DEALER.
In this case, they thought they were sending Neal to infiltrate a diamond smuggling ring, only to discover, too late, that the diamonds were financing a chemical weapons lab hidden in the back office of a Flushing travel agency. Five seconds later Peter had phone in hand, calling Hughes to find out what the hell was going on and get the Counterterrorism Division out here, when someone who wasn't him barked "FBI! Freeze!" through the radio headset and then everything went to hell.
It turned out that CTD had also been investigating the same smugglers, but from the other end -- trying to track down a branch of an obscure anarchist movement who'd tried to set off a bomb at a trade summit in Manhattan a few months ago. They had, in fact, been parked around the corner in another unmarked van. And when their mole gave the takedown order, Neal was caught in the middle.
"Hold down the fort," Peter snapped at Diana, throwing down the headset and charging out of the van with the rest of his crew in tow. It was raining lightly, a gray mist that made the sidewalk slippery and put a sheen on the low, grimy office buildings around them. "Neal!" But Neal wasn't responding, and the radio had gone dead, and he was met at the building by a cordon of yellow DO NOT CROSS tape. "Stay out here," he ordered his people, and ducked inside.
In the office he found the usual controlled chaos: desks knocked over, suspects being handcuffed. The difference was that every agent in sight -- all, he assumed, Counterterrorism personnel -- were wearing respirators and gloves. A quick scan of the room immediately located the agent in charge, mostly because he was glowering at Peter. "What are you doing here?" the agent demanded, his voice muffled to near illegibility by the respirator. "This area is off limits, we've got potential contamination --"
Peter already had his badge out. "Special Agent Burke, White Collar unit. I've got a man in here." Someone slapped a respirator into his hand.
"If you're going to be here, put that on," the agent in charge said. He was an older guy, heavyset, his hair shot through with grey. "They're working on some nasty stuff in here."
Neal. Peter's stomach flipped over. "One of my men is missing," he said as he pulled the straps of the respirator over his head. But he could see at a glance that Neal wasn't here.
He started for the door into the warren of rooms behind the office, but the agent took two quick steps to stop him. "Don't go in there, Burke. I told you, we've got contamination. We're searching right now."
"What sort of contamination?" Peter demanded, forcing himself as calm as possible. "Biological? Chemical?" Lethal? his brain added, marching inexorably towards the worst possible conclusion. But that wasn't likely; if it was anthrax or something similar in here, they'd be cordoning off the block and calling in a half-dozen alphabet agencies. There were no signs of panic that he could see.
"You know what BZ is -- 3-quinuclidinyl benzilate?" the agent said, rattling it off without a pause, and Peter had to do a quick flip through his mental card catalogue.
"Psychoactive chemical agent. Might have been used in Bosnia and Iraq." He paid attention to the briefs -- tried to, anyway. "Is that what they've got here?" At least it wasn't deadly, if that's what this was. Unpleasant, but not usually lethal.
"According to our intel, they've been working on something that's chemically similar but with faster effects. BZ takes hours to produce full-blown symptoms; our informant says they've got something along those lines that takes effect in minutes."
Another agent, also in protective gear, emerged from the back office door. She shook her head. "There's at least two of them still at large, but we have the exits covered, so they can't get out."
"One of those people is almost certainly my missing man," Peter said. "Young, dark hair, suit." Why hadn't Neal identified himself? Or -- had he? Peter knew all too well how easy it was for undercover agents to be picked up in a sweep. And Neal might have chosen to keep his cover by going along with the escaping smuggler, too. It would be just like him.
"That guy? Yeah, I saw him," one of the other agents piped up. "He's in here somewhere."
The agent in charge handed Peter a pair of gloves. "All right, Agent Burke. Let's go; I'll give you a hand. I'm Special Agent Flynn, by the way, and while we're on my scene, I'm in charge. Don't touch anything."
"I've been to a crime scene or two before in my time," Peter said sharply. Someone at HQ was going to hear about this. He'd send a shock wave right up the chain of command if he had to. He hated having other agents muscling in on his operations, but doing it and endangering his CI went across a line that no one was allowed to cross in his presence.
Unexpectedly, however, Flynn smiled. "Sorry, I didn't mean it that way." He drew his gun; he and Peter slipped through the door in tandem, into a featureless hallway. "We're trained for this sort of situation; you and your team aren't," he explained. "And what I meant, specifically, is that this stuff can be absorbed through the skin. The gloves and your regular clothes ought to be adequate protection, but we're not sure how much constitutes an effective dose, so it's best for everyone if you don't get any of it on your clothes."
"How contaminated are we talking here?"
"One of the suspects tipped over a canister to cover their escape. It didn't do them much good -- we got most of them anyway -- but there's a good chance the missing suspect and your guy have been exposed."
Neal. "What's the toxicity?" Peter asked, forcing the words past the gravel in his throat.
"Not very. It's virtually impossible they got a lethal dose, no longer than they were exposed." Flynn nudged open a door with his foot and took a cautious glance inside. "However, we can expect psychological effects."
"They'll be out of it," Peter translated.
"Disoriented, yes, and likely hallucinating."
Great.
The next door opened onto what looked like an employee break room, although Peter only got a glimpse because a weight plowed into him, knocking him off balance. There was a brief flurry of elbows and knees, and he caught a sharp glint of metal and a flash of dark blue suit and thin striped tie. Pain lanced through his forearm and he lost his grip on his gun as Neal -- it had to be Neal -- shoved him to one side. Peter gasped, "No!" and knocked Flynn's gun arm aside as Neal lurched off the wall and then ran down the hallway.
"Neal!" Peter shouted after him. "Stop right now! That's an order!" Neal either didn't hear him or didn't care; he vanished into the stairwell.
"That your guy?" Flynn said, his gun at half-mast.
"Yeah." Peter fingered his forearm, where a shallow, stinging cut had been opened through suit jacket and the top layer of flesh, staining his shirtsleeve red. He was more shaken than he wanted to reveal. Out of it ... Flynn hadn't been kidding. Neal either hadn't recognized him at all, or had been too panicked to pay attention. And he had a knife. Better and better.
"Flynn!" the female agent shouted down the corridor. "Holloway just got a visual. Guy took a swing at him and lit out for the back of the building."
She pointed. It was the opposite direction from the way Neal had gone -- the other suspect, then.
"I'll take my guy," Peter said, nodding towards the stairwell. "You get that one. And you can use my people if you need them; just tell them I said they're taking your orders on this one."
"I'll send backup --" Flynn began.
"No," Peter said sharply. The last thing he needed was a bunch of agents who didn't know Neal charging in and waving guns around. "I've got it."
Flynn nodded to the cut still seeping blood into Peter's sleeve. "You sure?"
"I'm sure."
Flynn gave him a friendly smack on the shoulder. Peter took a deep breath, picked up his gun and holstered it; then he headed for the stairs.
He was pretty sure that, if he had to, he could take Neal in flat-out, hand-to-hand combat -- at least when Neal didn't have the element of surprise. Peter, after all, had the advantage in terms of reach, weight and experience. But he wasn't as sure as he would like to be. He wouldn't put it past Neal to have picked up some sort of random martial arts somewhere.
And that was normal Neal. Right now, Peter had no idea what was going on in Neal's head. Never in a million years would he have guessed that Neal would try to stab him, no matter how screwed in the head. Live and learn. The cut on his arm, shallow as it was, stung fiercely enough to remind him of the need for caution.
He pushed the door to the stairwell open, then quickly drew back in case Neal was lurking behind it. However, there was no sign of him. "Neal?" Peter called softly. No reply.
He went up rather than down, because Neal was Neal and Peter had a feeling that a confused, frightened Neal would head for a high place. And wasn't that a terrible idea -- Neal, out of his head, on the roof.
His hand itched to hold his gun. It felt all wrong to be creeping around a crime scene, senses on high alert, but still unarmed. He wasn't going to give in to the temptation, though. If there was one thing that Peter's law-enforcement career had drilled into him, it was: Never draw your gun if you aren't prepared to use it. And he was, quite simply, not going to shoot Neal, not even to save his own life.
The door at the top of the stairs was closed, with a dangling padlock that looked like it had been picked. If he'd needed a clue pointing in Neal's direction, there it was. Peter listened at the door, but couldn't hear anything from the other side except the soft hiss of the rain.
"Neal?" Peter called. "I'm coming out."
As below, he gave the door a hard shove to swing it open and then pulled quickly back into the stairwell. This time, it got him out of the way a fraction of a second before a butcher knife arced through the air where his arm had been. Peter had been prepared for this, and he leaped forward and chopped at Neal's wrist with the edge of his flattened hand as Neal spun around for another swing, trying to disarm him.
Neal was faster than Peter would have guessed, though -- even drugged, his reflexes were like a cat's -- and he danced away; Peter's hand skimmed thin air, barely brushing Neal's sleeve. The door clunked shut behind Peter, but he didn't dare take his eyes off Neal.
Neal had lost his jacket and his hat. His hair hung in his eyes, a sodden mess, and his shirt was plastered to his body. His eyes were hugely dilated. The only thing Peter knew for sure about 3-quinuclidinyl benzilate was that its physical effects were similar to those of atropine -- that one they'd studied because of its role in treating nerve gas attacks. Neal ought to be having some trouble seeing, and he should be losing a certain amount of coordination, though Peter wasn't seeing much evidence of either one of those.
"Stay away from me," Neal said, backing away with the knife held in front of him.
"Neal, come on." On the roof, in the rain, was not how he'd hoped this would go down. They were three stories up; it could've have been worse on a taller building, but he sure as hell didn't want either of them falling. Peter pulled off the respirator mask and tossed it aside, hoping it would help if Neal could see his face. "I'm not your enemy and you know it."
"Go away," Neal said. "Please go away." The last word caught on a sob. He was shivering; Peter could see that he was terrified.
"Neal, I don't know what you're seeing right now, but you know have to know I'd never hurt you." He tried to infuse his voice with as much sincerity as possible, while wishing that the FBI van came stocked with large nets.
Neal swiveled away and ran for the edge of the roof. Peter swore -- Neal was obviously going to try to jump to the next roof, slightly lower and uneven. Under normal circumstances, he could have made the leap easily. Now? Peter wasn't sure, and it was a long way down.
Peter tackled him from behind. They went skidding on the wet roof. Somehow Neal kept his grip on the knife, and he twisted under Peter, lashing out with a foot that caught the inside of Peter's thigh with stunning pain. Peter felt the knife blade score his ribs and rolled away, more shocked than hurt. Neal staggered to his feet and took the leap that Peter had been hoping he wouldn't. He almost didn't make it -- his agility was starting to desert him -- but momentum carried him the rest of the way and he sprawled facefirst in a completely un-Neal-like way.
Peter touched his side and his hand came away wet, the blood diluting quickly in the rain. He didn't think it was deep -- as with the slice across his arm, just enough to sting and annoy. When he raised his head, Neal was picking himself up on the other roof.
"You owe me a dry-cleaning bill, Caffrey," Peter said.
Neal looked back at him, then dashed for the far side of that roof. "Oh, come on," Peter groaned.
Seeing little alternative, he took a run at it -- heart pounding, buoyed by adrenaline. This was Neal stuff, Alex stuff -- not the sort of thing a 48-year-old FBI agent should be doing. He wondered if there was some way he could avoid putting this in his report, to keep from giving the probies ideas.
It was the rain that screwed him up. His foot slipped as he launched himself, throwing him off, and he realized in a rush of mindbending panic that he wasn't going to make it. He smacked into the wall and suddenly his weight was dangling from one arm, and he could feel his hand slipping, the fingers still encased in the rubber glove that Flynn had given him, now wet with rain and blood. That damn slippery glove was going to cost him his life.
Then another hand, unexpected, closed over his.
After a moment's thrashing, he was hauled over the edge of the roof. As soon as he could get his limbs under him, Peter scrambled quickly away, getting to his knees. Being rescued, only to be stabbed in the back, would be the perfect cap on a really awful day.
But Neal was sitting a few feet away, or huddling, rather, leaning against a rooftop air conditioner installation. He'd dropped the knife; it lay a few feet away from him on the roof. He stared at Peter in baffled terror. Dark swatches of blood were smeared on Neal's hands and his once-white shirt, giving Peter a momentary jolt before he realized the blood was his own.
"Thanks," Peter said. His heart rate was starting to return to something approaching a safe rate of speed, and as the adrenaline seeped out of him, he was beginning to feel a truly impressive collection of bruises and cuts.
Neal moaned softly. Peter approached him on hands and knees -- less threatening that way, and besides, he was still shaking so hard that he wasn't sure if he could stand up. He'd never had a complex about heights, but this, he thought, might just have given him one.
Neal scrabbled backward.
"Shhhh," Peter tried, holding out a hand like he was trying to approach some sort of scared wild creature.
It didn't work; Neal tried to make a break for it, and Peter, with a certain amount of bemused resignation, tackled him again. This time, he managed to pin him more effectively, using his weight to hold Neal down. Neal thrashed in an uncoordinated kind of way, and Peter continued to pin him until the fight seeped out of him. Peter could feel Neal's body heaving as he gasped for breath.
Peter made what he hoped were appropriately soothing noises until Neal was immobile enough that he could free a hand to get his cell phone out. Finally something was going his way -- it had survived the struggle and the rain. After calling Diana and being assured that backup and medical assistance were on the way, he pushed himself up on his elbow and looked down at the top of Neal's dark, wet head.
"Staying put?" Peter said.
Neal's only answer was a groan. Alarmed, Peter tried rolling him over to get a look at him, but all Neal did was curl up and press against him. Oh well. Peter threw an arm over him and tried to ease off a little of his own weight so that at least he wasn't crushing him. His leg was throbbing fiercely where Neal had kicked him.
"I thought we were done with rooftop chases when I caught you the first time."
Neal's breath hitched in what might have been a laugh.
***
Neal had gone from being terrified of Peter, to being extremely difficult to pry away from him, limpetlike. The paramedics managed to separate them and Neal was taken into quarantine. They made Peter strip in the ambulance and avoid touching anything until he could take a long shower at the hospital, wincing as the hot water stung his cuts and bruises.
Diana debriefed him while he was getting his side stitched up. "They've got a decontamination crew working on the office building. Did you get any of that stuff on you?"
Peter shook his head. "No, the rain probably helped with that. How's Neal?"
"Going to be okay," Diana said. "They told me he didn't get a dangerous dose; he's just tripping unpleasantly. I went to see him and he knew who I was. They've got him isolated in a dark room and it seems to be helping. He kept asking about you."
"I ought to go down there." Peter hunted around for his pants and then realized that the paramedics had stolen them.
"Elizabeth is on the way with clothes for you." Diana flashed him a quick grin. "I like that Flynn guy, by the way. He basically kept the media off your back while they were getting you and Caffrey down from the roof."
Peter nodded. "He's good people. Remind me to thank him later."
El showed up ten minutes later with a hastily packed bag containing clothing and a few other things -- a book of crosswords, a set of pajamas. "I wasn't sure if they were keeping you overnight," she said after a long hello kiss.
"Nope, it looks like I've escaped that particular fate this time."
"It's all over the news, you know," El said, and Peter had a brief moment of panic as to just what part of it, exactly, had made the news -- hopefully not the part where he almost fell off a rooftop and then basically cuddled with his CI; maybe he didn't owe Flynn thanks after all -- before she added, "'Terrorist Attack in Flushing.' Are you allowed to tell me how much of that is true?"
"I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."
He told her the whole story anyway while limping down to the psych floor, where Neal was being kept in an isolation room under guard. El had a few choice things to say about the guard part, but Peter pointed out that Neal had attacked a federal agent with a knife; there was no way he wasn't going to have a guard at this point, even if he'd been the director of the FBI. Also, it turned out the guard was Jones, whose first words were, "You look terrible."
"Thanks a lot." Peter touched his face, which was bruised and swollen all down the side; he wasn't sure if it had happened when he'd been tussling with Neal or if he'd smacked it on the roof, but there was no part of him that wasn't sore and aching at this point. At least the Tylenol 3 had kicked in, muffling his aches and pains to a background hum.
"Did you really jump between rooftops to catch Caffrey?"
"Sometimes Peter forgets he isn't twenty-two anymore," El said, tucking an arm through his.
In the presence of Elizabeth, Peter decided not to mention how close he'd come to not making that jump. "I caught him, didn't I?" he pointed out. "How's he doing?"
"Restless, unhappy, and severely twitchy, but firing on most cylinders. I sat with him for awhile, but he fell asleep so I figured I'd leave the poor guy alone."
With Jones on duty, guarding Neal had a double meaning -- no one else would be bothering him while Jones was on the job. "Thanks," Peter said. "I'll take it from here. You can head on out."
Jones said a polite goodbye to Elizabeth and then took full advantage of the offer.
"How about I go find us some coffee?" El suggested.
"You don't have to stay."
"Of course I do," she said, and kissed the unbruised side of his face before heading back to the duty nurse's desk.
Peter tapped very lightly at the door. If Neal was asleep, or, worse, in some sort of embarrassing or compromising position, he didn't want to bother him. After a moment, though, Neal said softly, "Yes?" and Peter said, "It's me. Coming in."
Neal didn't object, so Peter cracked open the door. The room was dim, though not completely dark, and Neal was sitting at the head of the bed with his arms wrapped around his knees. He flinched violently when the door opened and then flattened his legs and placed his hands on the bed at either side of him.
Peter closed the door and sat on the end of the bed. "They tell me it'll take a couple of days to get this stuff out of your system."
"Yeah, they told me the same thing. Nice to have something to look forward to." One of his hands jittered and he put the other quickly on top of it.
He sounded like Neal -- a little hoarse and slurred, but not too out of it. "Are you, uh --" Peter rolled a hand around his temple, not really wanting to say Still seeing things?
"I know what's real and what's not," Neal said. "Mostly. Which is more than I can say for earlier. Peter, I don't remember -- not exactly --" His eyes went to the bruising on Peter's face. "Jones said I didn't hurt you too much?" He sounded hurt, desperate.
"Nothing that won't heal," Peter said. "You were off your head, anyway. No one is blaming you." Or at least they wouldn't be if he had anything to say about it. "Plus you saved my ass."
"I did?"
"After endangering it in the first place."
"Oh, well." Neal flickered a wan smile. "As long as there was a reason."
"Can I get you anything?" Peter said. "Food?"
"I'm not really hungry. Right now, I guess I just want to --" He flinched again, violently, and reached up to touch his ear, then took his hand down.
Looking at him, Peter realized that Neal was still terrified, just hiding it better. For someone like him, whose whole world was centered around his brain, having his brain turn out to be unreliable must be the worst possible kind of betrayal.
Elizabeth opened the door quietly. "Coffee," she said, and smiled at Neal. "Hello."
"Hi," Neal murmured.
"I brought a cup for you. I'm not sure if you're allowed to have it."
Neal gave a half-laugh. "Probably not a good idea. The last thing I need is to be ...." He trailed off, glanced over his shoulder, and then gave Peter a helpless look, obviously having lost his train of thought.
"You want us to go?" Peter asked, taking the warm styrofoam cup from El.
"No," Neal said quickly, then, "I don't know. I -- it's a little better when you're here, I guess."
"Then we'll stay," El said firmly.
"I'm not good company."
"Somehow we'll deal with the lack of sparkling Caffrey conversation for a few hours," Peter remarked, and this got another faint smile.
El pulled a chair over to the bed, and placed one of her hands on top of Neal's while she sipped her coffee. "Just to show you what scintillating conversationalists we can be," she said, and winked at him before turning her attention to Peter, "have you given any more thought to replacing the window in the kitchen, hon?"
"I thought you were supposed to be calling contractors."
"I thought your cousin knew a contractor who could give us a deal," El countered.
Neal leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Every so often he jerked violently, startling himself out of whatever reverie he'd fallen into.
The conversation moved on to the equally fascinating topic of whether Satchmo needed a new round of vaccinations -- "Didn't we get the three-year rabies inoculation? I don't think he's due 'til next summer." -- and how to tactfully suggest to El's mother that perhaps the whole family didn't need a new set of matching sweaters this year.
After a while, Peter stretched out on the bed -- if Neal wasn't going to be sleeping, then there was no point in a perfectly good bed going to waste, and the combination of the painkillers and adrenaline crash had left him drowsy. There would be paperwork to file, but it could wait.
El, deprived of her discussion partner, managed to draw Neal into a slightly disjointed conversation, bouncing gracefully between topics as Neal lost and regained various conversational threads. Peter tuned in and out, enough to be aware that there were parts of this conversation that he really shouldn't be listening to, from a possibly-incriminating-Neal perspective. We'll call it a gray area, he thought sleepily. At some point -- he was drifting now -- he felt Neal touch his face lightly, fingers brushing butterfly-soft against his bruises, and then rest a hand on his head. When one of Neal's legs settled against Peter's side, he closed an anchoring hand over Neal's foot and drifted off to sleep.
~
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing: Gen (with a little background Peter/El)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4600
Summary: Neal is drugged and on the loose; Peter just wants to catch him before he hurts himself or somebody else. This is for my
10tropes prompt "Intoxication Ensues", and also another one in the series of "drug everybody!" fics that began with Trust Me, Catch Me, and Rescue Me. (These do not necessarily take place in the same continuity; they're just thematically related.)Cross-posted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/423390
Notes: As far as I know, there is no hallucinogen that makes people act like the one in this story does, including the one that is name-checked (which is a real drug, just not one that makes people behave like this). *g* Quite a lot of creative liberty is being taken here.
Taking out terrorists wasn't part of the White Collar unit's mandate. And that would only make a difference, Peter thought, if criminals came conveniently labeled with their type of crime. Like name tags at one of those mind-numbing conferences that the FBI kept sending him to. Hi, my name is GUIDO. I am a DRUG DEALER.
In this case, they thought they were sending Neal to infiltrate a diamond smuggling ring, only to discover, too late, that the diamonds were financing a chemical weapons lab hidden in the back office of a Flushing travel agency. Five seconds later Peter had phone in hand, calling Hughes to find out what the hell was going on and get the Counterterrorism Division out here, when someone who wasn't him barked "FBI! Freeze!" through the radio headset and then everything went to hell.
It turned out that CTD had also been investigating the same smugglers, but from the other end -- trying to track down a branch of an obscure anarchist movement who'd tried to set off a bomb at a trade summit in Manhattan a few months ago. They had, in fact, been parked around the corner in another unmarked van. And when their mole gave the takedown order, Neal was caught in the middle.
"Hold down the fort," Peter snapped at Diana, throwing down the headset and charging out of the van with the rest of his crew in tow. It was raining lightly, a gray mist that made the sidewalk slippery and put a sheen on the low, grimy office buildings around them. "Neal!" But Neal wasn't responding, and the radio had gone dead, and he was met at the building by a cordon of yellow DO NOT CROSS tape. "Stay out here," he ordered his people, and ducked inside.
In the office he found the usual controlled chaos: desks knocked over, suspects being handcuffed. The difference was that every agent in sight -- all, he assumed, Counterterrorism personnel -- were wearing respirators and gloves. A quick scan of the room immediately located the agent in charge, mostly because he was glowering at Peter. "What are you doing here?" the agent demanded, his voice muffled to near illegibility by the respirator. "This area is off limits, we've got potential contamination --"
Peter already had his badge out. "Special Agent Burke, White Collar unit. I've got a man in here." Someone slapped a respirator into his hand.
"If you're going to be here, put that on," the agent in charge said. He was an older guy, heavyset, his hair shot through with grey. "They're working on some nasty stuff in here."
Neal. Peter's stomach flipped over. "One of my men is missing," he said as he pulled the straps of the respirator over his head. But he could see at a glance that Neal wasn't here.
He started for the door into the warren of rooms behind the office, but the agent took two quick steps to stop him. "Don't go in there, Burke. I told you, we've got contamination. We're searching right now."
"What sort of contamination?" Peter demanded, forcing himself as calm as possible. "Biological? Chemical?" Lethal? his brain added, marching inexorably towards the worst possible conclusion. But that wasn't likely; if it was anthrax or something similar in here, they'd be cordoning off the block and calling in a half-dozen alphabet agencies. There were no signs of panic that he could see.
"You know what BZ is -- 3-quinuclidinyl benzilate?" the agent said, rattling it off without a pause, and Peter had to do a quick flip through his mental card catalogue.
"Psychoactive chemical agent. Might have been used in Bosnia and Iraq." He paid attention to the briefs -- tried to, anyway. "Is that what they've got here?" At least it wasn't deadly, if that's what this was. Unpleasant, but not usually lethal.
"According to our intel, they've been working on something that's chemically similar but with faster effects. BZ takes hours to produce full-blown symptoms; our informant says they've got something along those lines that takes effect in minutes."
Another agent, also in protective gear, emerged from the back office door. She shook her head. "There's at least two of them still at large, but we have the exits covered, so they can't get out."
"One of those people is almost certainly my missing man," Peter said. "Young, dark hair, suit." Why hadn't Neal identified himself? Or -- had he? Peter knew all too well how easy it was for undercover agents to be picked up in a sweep. And Neal might have chosen to keep his cover by going along with the escaping smuggler, too. It would be just like him.
"That guy? Yeah, I saw him," one of the other agents piped up. "He's in here somewhere."
The agent in charge handed Peter a pair of gloves. "All right, Agent Burke. Let's go; I'll give you a hand. I'm Special Agent Flynn, by the way, and while we're on my scene, I'm in charge. Don't touch anything."
"I've been to a crime scene or two before in my time," Peter said sharply. Someone at HQ was going to hear about this. He'd send a shock wave right up the chain of command if he had to. He hated having other agents muscling in on his operations, but doing it and endangering his CI went across a line that no one was allowed to cross in his presence.
Unexpectedly, however, Flynn smiled. "Sorry, I didn't mean it that way." He drew his gun; he and Peter slipped through the door in tandem, into a featureless hallway. "We're trained for this sort of situation; you and your team aren't," he explained. "And what I meant, specifically, is that this stuff can be absorbed through the skin. The gloves and your regular clothes ought to be adequate protection, but we're not sure how much constitutes an effective dose, so it's best for everyone if you don't get any of it on your clothes."
"How contaminated are we talking here?"
"One of the suspects tipped over a canister to cover their escape. It didn't do them much good -- we got most of them anyway -- but there's a good chance the missing suspect and your guy have been exposed."
Neal. "What's the toxicity?" Peter asked, forcing the words past the gravel in his throat.
"Not very. It's virtually impossible they got a lethal dose, no longer than they were exposed." Flynn nudged open a door with his foot and took a cautious glance inside. "However, we can expect psychological effects."
"They'll be out of it," Peter translated.
"Disoriented, yes, and likely hallucinating."
Great.
The next door opened onto what looked like an employee break room, although Peter only got a glimpse because a weight plowed into him, knocking him off balance. There was a brief flurry of elbows and knees, and he caught a sharp glint of metal and a flash of dark blue suit and thin striped tie. Pain lanced through his forearm and he lost his grip on his gun as Neal -- it had to be Neal -- shoved him to one side. Peter gasped, "No!" and knocked Flynn's gun arm aside as Neal lurched off the wall and then ran down the hallway.
"Neal!" Peter shouted after him. "Stop right now! That's an order!" Neal either didn't hear him or didn't care; he vanished into the stairwell.
"That your guy?" Flynn said, his gun at half-mast.
"Yeah." Peter fingered his forearm, where a shallow, stinging cut had been opened through suit jacket and the top layer of flesh, staining his shirtsleeve red. He was more shaken than he wanted to reveal. Out of it ... Flynn hadn't been kidding. Neal either hadn't recognized him at all, or had been too panicked to pay attention. And he had a knife. Better and better.
"Flynn!" the female agent shouted down the corridor. "Holloway just got a visual. Guy took a swing at him and lit out for the back of the building."
She pointed. It was the opposite direction from the way Neal had gone -- the other suspect, then.
"I'll take my guy," Peter said, nodding towards the stairwell. "You get that one. And you can use my people if you need them; just tell them I said they're taking your orders on this one."
"I'll send backup --" Flynn began.
"No," Peter said sharply. The last thing he needed was a bunch of agents who didn't know Neal charging in and waving guns around. "I've got it."
Flynn nodded to the cut still seeping blood into Peter's sleeve. "You sure?"
"I'm sure."
Flynn gave him a friendly smack on the shoulder. Peter took a deep breath, picked up his gun and holstered it; then he headed for the stairs.
He was pretty sure that, if he had to, he could take Neal in flat-out, hand-to-hand combat -- at least when Neal didn't have the element of surprise. Peter, after all, had the advantage in terms of reach, weight and experience. But he wasn't as sure as he would like to be. He wouldn't put it past Neal to have picked up some sort of random martial arts somewhere.
And that was normal Neal. Right now, Peter had no idea what was going on in Neal's head. Never in a million years would he have guessed that Neal would try to stab him, no matter how screwed in the head. Live and learn. The cut on his arm, shallow as it was, stung fiercely enough to remind him of the need for caution.
He pushed the door to the stairwell open, then quickly drew back in case Neal was lurking behind it. However, there was no sign of him. "Neal?" Peter called softly. No reply.
He went up rather than down, because Neal was Neal and Peter had a feeling that a confused, frightened Neal would head for a high place. And wasn't that a terrible idea -- Neal, out of his head, on the roof.
His hand itched to hold his gun. It felt all wrong to be creeping around a crime scene, senses on high alert, but still unarmed. He wasn't going to give in to the temptation, though. If there was one thing that Peter's law-enforcement career had drilled into him, it was: Never draw your gun if you aren't prepared to use it. And he was, quite simply, not going to shoot Neal, not even to save his own life.
The door at the top of the stairs was closed, with a dangling padlock that looked like it had been picked. If he'd needed a clue pointing in Neal's direction, there it was. Peter listened at the door, but couldn't hear anything from the other side except the soft hiss of the rain.
"Neal?" Peter called. "I'm coming out."
As below, he gave the door a hard shove to swing it open and then pulled quickly back into the stairwell. This time, it got him out of the way a fraction of a second before a butcher knife arced through the air where his arm had been. Peter had been prepared for this, and he leaped forward and chopped at Neal's wrist with the edge of his flattened hand as Neal spun around for another swing, trying to disarm him.
Neal was faster than Peter would have guessed, though -- even drugged, his reflexes were like a cat's -- and he danced away; Peter's hand skimmed thin air, barely brushing Neal's sleeve. The door clunked shut behind Peter, but he didn't dare take his eyes off Neal.
Neal had lost his jacket and his hat. His hair hung in his eyes, a sodden mess, and his shirt was plastered to his body. His eyes were hugely dilated. The only thing Peter knew for sure about 3-quinuclidinyl benzilate was that its physical effects were similar to those of atropine -- that one they'd studied because of its role in treating nerve gas attacks. Neal ought to be having some trouble seeing, and he should be losing a certain amount of coordination, though Peter wasn't seeing much evidence of either one of those.
"Stay away from me," Neal said, backing away with the knife held in front of him.
"Neal, come on." On the roof, in the rain, was not how he'd hoped this would go down. They were three stories up; it could've have been worse on a taller building, but he sure as hell didn't want either of them falling. Peter pulled off the respirator mask and tossed it aside, hoping it would help if Neal could see his face. "I'm not your enemy and you know it."
"Go away," Neal said. "Please go away." The last word caught on a sob. He was shivering; Peter could see that he was terrified.
"Neal, I don't know what you're seeing right now, but you know have to know I'd never hurt you." He tried to infuse his voice with as much sincerity as possible, while wishing that the FBI van came stocked with large nets.
Neal swiveled away and ran for the edge of the roof. Peter swore -- Neal was obviously going to try to jump to the next roof, slightly lower and uneven. Under normal circumstances, he could have made the leap easily. Now? Peter wasn't sure, and it was a long way down.
Peter tackled him from behind. They went skidding on the wet roof. Somehow Neal kept his grip on the knife, and he twisted under Peter, lashing out with a foot that caught the inside of Peter's thigh with stunning pain. Peter felt the knife blade score his ribs and rolled away, more shocked than hurt. Neal staggered to his feet and took the leap that Peter had been hoping he wouldn't. He almost didn't make it -- his agility was starting to desert him -- but momentum carried him the rest of the way and he sprawled facefirst in a completely un-Neal-like way.
Peter touched his side and his hand came away wet, the blood diluting quickly in the rain. He didn't think it was deep -- as with the slice across his arm, just enough to sting and annoy. When he raised his head, Neal was picking himself up on the other roof.
"You owe me a dry-cleaning bill, Caffrey," Peter said.
Neal looked back at him, then dashed for the far side of that roof. "Oh, come on," Peter groaned.
Seeing little alternative, he took a run at it -- heart pounding, buoyed by adrenaline. This was Neal stuff, Alex stuff -- not the sort of thing a 48-year-old FBI agent should be doing. He wondered if there was some way he could avoid putting this in his report, to keep from giving the probies ideas.
It was the rain that screwed him up. His foot slipped as he launched himself, throwing him off, and he realized in a rush of mindbending panic that he wasn't going to make it. He smacked into the wall and suddenly his weight was dangling from one arm, and he could feel his hand slipping, the fingers still encased in the rubber glove that Flynn had given him, now wet with rain and blood. That damn slippery glove was going to cost him his life.
Then another hand, unexpected, closed over his.
After a moment's thrashing, he was hauled over the edge of the roof. As soon as he could get his limbs under him, Peter scrambled quickly away, getting to his knees. Being rescued, only to be stabbed in the back, would be the perfect cap on a really awful day.
But Neal was sitting a few feet away, or huddling, rather, leaning against a rooftop air conditioner installation. He'd dropped the knife; it lay a few feet away from him on the roof. He stared at Peter in baffled terror. Dark swatches of blood were smeared on Neal's hands and his once-white shirt, giving Peter a momentary jolt before he realized the blood was his own.
"Thanks," Peter said. His heart rate was starting to return to something approaching a safe rate of speed, and as the adrenaline seeped out of him, he was beginning to feel a truly impressive collection of bruises and cuts.
Neal moaned softly. Peter approached him on hands and knees -- less threatening that way, and besides, he was still shaking so hard that he wasn't sure if he could stand up. He'd never had a complex about heights, but this, he thought, might just have given him one.
Neal scrabbled backward.
"Shhhh," Peter tried, holding out a hand like he was trying to approach some sort of scared wild creature.
It didn't work; Neal tried to make a break for it, and Peter, with a certain amount of bemused resignation, tackled him again. This time, he managed to pin him more effectively, using his weight to hold Neal down. Neal thrashed in an uncoordinated kind of way, and Peter continued to pin him until the fight seeped out of him. Peter could feel Neal's body heaving as he gasped for breath.
Peter made what he hoped were appropriately soothing noises until Neal was immobile enough that he could free a hand to get his cell phone out. Finally something was going his way -- it had survived the struggle and the rain. After calling Diana and being assured that backup and medical assistance were on the way, he pushed himself up on his elbow and looked down at the top of Neal's dark, wet head.
"Staying put?" Peter said.
Neal's only answer was a groan. Alarmed, Peter tried rolling him over to get a look at him, but all Neal did was curl up and press against him. Oh well. Peter threw an arm over him and tried to ease off a little of his own weight so that at least he wasn't crushing him. His leg was throbbing fiercely where Neal had kicked him.
"I thought we were done with rooftop chases when I caught you the first time."
Neal's breath hitched in what might have been a laugh.
***
Neal had gone from being terrified of Peter, to being extremely difficult to pry away from him, limpetlike. The paramedics managed to separate them and Neal was taken into quarantine. They made Peter strip in the ambulance and avoid touching anything until he could take a long shower at the hospital, wincing as the hot water stung his cuts and bruises.
Diana debriefed him while he was getting his side stitched up. "They've got a decontamination crew working on the office building. Did you get any of that stuff on you?"
Peter shook his head. "No, the rain probably helped with that. How's Neal?"
"Going to be okay," Diana said. "They told me he didn't get a dangerous dose; he's just tripping unpleasantly. I went to see him and he knew who I was. They've got him isolated in a dark room and it seems to be helping. He kept asking about you."
"I ought to go down there." Peter hunted around for his pants and then realized that the paramedics had stolen them.
"Elizabeth is on the way with clothes for you." Diana flashed him a quick grin. "I like that Flynn guy, by the way. He basically kept the media off your back while they were getting you and Caffrey down from the roof."
Peter nodded. "He's good people. Remind me to thank him later."
El showed up ten minutes later with a hastily packed bag containing clothing and a few other things -- a book of crosswords, a set of pajamas. "I wasn't sure if they were keeping you overnight," she said after a long hello kiss.
"Nope, it looks like I've escaped that particular fate this time."
"It's all over the news, you know," El said, and Peter had a brief moment of panic as to just what part of it, exactly, had made the news -- hopefully not the part where he almost fell off a rooftop and then basically cuddled with his CI; maybe he didn't owe Flynn thanks after all -- before she added, "'Terrorist Attack in Flushing.' Are you allowed to tell me how much of that is true?"
"I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you."
He told her the whole story anyway while limping down to the psych floor, where Neal was being kept in an isolation room under guard. El had a few choice things to say about the guard part, but Peter pointed out that Neal had attacked a federal agent with a knife; there was no way he wasn't going to have a guard at this point, even if he'd been the director of the FBI. Also, it turned out the guard was Jones, whose first words were, "You look terrible."
"Thanks a lot." Peter touched his face, which was bruised and swollen all down the side; he wasn't sure if it had happened when he'd been tussling with Neal or if he'd smacked it on the roof, but there was no part of him that wasn't sore and aching at this point. At least the Tylenol 3 had kicked in, muffling his aches and pains to a background hum.
"Did you really jump between rooftops to catch Caffrey?"
"Sometimes Peter forgets he isn't twenty-two anymore," El said, tucking an arm through his.
In the presence of Elizabeth, Peter decided not to mention how close he'd come to not making that jump. "I caught him, didn't I?" he pointed out. "How's he doing?"
"Restless, unhappy, and severely twitchy, but firing on most cylinders. I sat with him for awhile, but he fell asleep so I figured I'd leave the poor guy alone."
With Jones on duty, guarding Neal had a double meaning -- no one else would be bothering him while Jones was on the job. "Thanks," Peter said. "I'll take it from here. You can head on out."
Jones said a polite goodbye to Elizabeth and then took full advantage of the offer.
"How about I go find us some coffee?" El suggested.
"You don't have to stay."
"Of course I do," she said, and kissed the unbruised side of his face before heading back to the duty nurse's desk.
Peter tapped very lightly at the door. If Neal was asleep, or, worse, in some sort of embarrassing or compromising position, he didn't want to bother him. After a moment, though, Neal said softly, "Yes?" and Peter said, "It's me. Coming in."
Neal didn't object, so Peter cracked open the door. The room was dim, though not completely dark, and Neal was sitting at the head of the bed with his arms wrapped around his knees. He flinched violently when the door opened and then flattened his legs and placed his hands on the bed at either side of him.
Peter closed the door and sat on the end of the bed. "They tell me it'll take a couple of days to get this stuff out of your system."
"Yeah, they told me the same thing. Nice to have something to look forward to." One of his hands jittered and he put the other quickly on top of it.
He sounded like Neal -- a little hoarse and slurred, but not too out of it. "Are you, uh --" Peter rolled a hand around his temple, not really wanting to say Still seeing things?
"I know what's real and what's not," Neal said. "Mostly. Which is more than I can say for earlier. Peter, I don't remember -- not exactly --" His eyes went to the bruising on Peter's face. "Jones said I didn't hurt you too much?" He sounded hurt, desperate.
"Nothing that won't heal," Peter said. "You were off your head, anyway. No one is blaming you." Or at least they wouldn't be if he had anything to say about it. "Plus you saved my ass."
"I did?"
"After endangering it in the first place."
"Oh, well." Neal flickered a wan smile. "As long as there was a reason."
"Can I get you anything?" Peter said. "Food?"
"I'm not really hungry. Right now, I guess I just want to --" He flinched again, violently, and reached up to touch his ear, then took his hand down.
Looking at him, Peter realized that Neal was still terrified, just hiding it better. For someone like him, whose whole world was centered around his brain, having his brain turn out to be unreliable must be the worst possible kind of betrayal.
Elizabeth opened the door quietly. "Coffee," she said, and smiled at Neal. "Hello."
"Hi," Neal murmured.
"I brought a cup for you. I'm not sure if you're allowed to have it."
Neal gave a half-laugh. "Probably not a good idea. The last thing I need is to be ...." He trailed off, glanced over his shoulder, and then gave Peter a helpless look, obviously having lost his train of thought.
"You want us to go?" Peter asked, taking the warm styrofoam cup from El.
"No," Neal said quickly, then, "I don't know. I -- it's a little better when you're here, I guess."
"Then we'll stay," El said firmly.
"I'm not good company."
"Somehow we'll deal with the lack of sparkling Caffrey conversation for a few hours," Peter remarked, and this got another faint smile.
El pulled a chair over to the bed, and placed one of her hands on top of Neal's while she sipped her coffee. "Just to show you what scintillating conversationalists we can be," she said, and winked at him before turning her attention to Peter, "have you given any more thought to replacing the window in the kitchen, hon?"
"I thought you were supposed to be calling contractors."
"I thought your cousin knew a contractor who could give us a deal," El countered.
Neal leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Every so often he jerked violently, startling himself out of whatever reverie he'd fallen into.
The conversation moved on to the equally fascinating topic of whether Satchmo needed a new round of vaccinations -- "Didn't we get the three-year rabies inoculation? I don't think he's due 'til next summer." -- and how to tactfully suggest to El's mother that perhaps the whole family didn't need a new set of matching sweaters this year.
After a while, Peter stretched out on the bed -- if Neal wasn't going to be sleeping, then there was no point in a perfectly good bed going to waste, and the combination of the painkillers and adrenaline crash had left him drowsy. There would be paperwork to file, but it could wait.
El, deprived of her discussion partner, managed to draw Neal into a slightly disjointed conversation, bouncing gracefully between topics as Neal lost and regained various conversational threads. Peter tuned in and out, enough to be aware that there were parts of this conversation that he really shouldn't be listening to, from a possibly-incriminating-Neal perspective. We'll call it a gray area, he thought sleepily. At some point -- he was drifting now -- he felt Neal touch his face lightly, fingers brushing butterfly-soft against his bruises, and then rest a hand on his head. When one of Neal's legs settled against Peter's side, he closed an anchoring hand over Neal's foot and drifted off to sleep.
~
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