Work Text:
Plan B
Peter sat in the waiting area in the orthopedic surgeon’s office while his dad talked things over with Coach and the trainers and the doc. Whatever happened, his dad would sort it all out, Peter had faith. He adjusted the sling on his throwing arm nervously, not wanting to jar it. Whatever the doctor said, Peter wasn’t going to do anything to delay the healing of his injured shoulder.
Peter shook his head to the side, flicking his hair out of his eyes for what may have been the 90th time that day. He watched his dad’s face as everyone talked to him, first the doctor, then the trainers and finally Coach Stanley. His expression was stoic, neutral, the only hint of emotion played out in the bunching of the muscles in his jaw.
At last, he stood and addressed the men in the office. Peter couldn’t really hear anything, but he thought he could guess what was going on. He hung his head and breathed deeply through his nose, thinking. At last, he saw his dad’s foot come into view on the carpet in front of him, clad in his well-worn steel-toed work boots. He put a hand on Peter’s shoulder and he looked up.
Pete Burke Sr. had a great poker face, with nary a tell to betray what went on in his mind. He worked this skill to his advantage almost every day, whether he was negotiating pricing with a supplier or dealing with an unreasonable client. But today, his son could see past his carefully constructed mask, through to the emotions that roiled just beneath the surface, and knew what was coming before Pete even spoke.
“It’s bad, isn’t it, Dad?”
Pete nodded and sat down beside him. “It’s a torn labrum, son.”
Peter hung his head again; tears blurred his vision. “So surgery –“
“Will make it feel better, but your fast ball won’t be what it was.”
Peter nodded. “Coach tell ya there’d be a scout from the Indians out there today?”
Pete Burke rested his large, callused hand on the back of his son’s neck and drew him in close, resting Peter’s head against his shoulder. “Yeah,” he said, his voice gruff with unshed tears and the realization that his son’s dream of a major league career had just been torn apart.
They sat that way for several minutes. “Well, then, I guess it’s on to Plan B then, eh Dad?” Peter straightened and looked at his father. Disappointment clouded his brown eyes, but there was another thing Pete saw there too: determination and resolve.
“Plan B?”
“Well, I haven’t been studying my ass off to maintain a 4.0 GPA in a double major for nothing. Do you know what the chances are of a kid like me making it to the majors these days?”
“I imagine they’re pretty slim.”
“Like a thousand to one. And if there’s one thing you’ve taught me it’s always to have a contingency. Well, if a baseball career isn’t in the cards for me, then I guess I’ll have to rely on my fallback position.”
Pete looked at his son and saw him, really saw him for the first time. The boy he’d been and the man he would be, with the strength and intelligence of his mother and the stubbornness and hard-work ethic he himself had hoped to instill in his children. Pete was suddenly more proud of him than he thought he could ever be, and he smiled, his eyes crinkling at the edges, the tears that had been threatening finally spilling down his cheeks.
“And what’s that, Peter?”
“Graduation. Business school. Wall Street. Congress…”
“That’s your Plan B? Congress?”
“Yep. You always said to aim high, Dad.”
“That I did, son, that I did.”
Peter stood, his manner suddenly relaxed, as if the weight of the world had been taken off his shoulders instead of put back on. “Hey, can we get a bite to eat? I missed breakfast.”
Pete swiped the tears from his eyes with a broad thumb and nodded. The kid had never ceased to amaze him and apparently never would. “Sure thing. How about a deviled ham sandwich? Your mom made up a bunch this morning.”
Peter made a face. “Those things’ll kill ya, Dad.”
“Come on, now, they’re an acquired taste. A manly taste.”
“Whatever you say, Dad.”
----
A Time to be Silent
Peter sat in the pew beside Neal, a hand on the younger man’s knee that he hoped would keep him steady through this. They were at Kate’s funeral, and to say it was heartbreaking to see the grief the man was going through would be to miss the point. It was heart-stopping and all-consuming, palpable and awful, and it scared the hell out of Peter.
He was suddenly somewhat grateful Neal was currently in prison where he couldn’t do himself harm; not that Peter thought he was suicidal, but he was certainly prone to rashness and Peter didn’t like to think what he’d have done if he’d gotten anywhere near Fowler. Not that Peter was thrilled with the idea of Neal in prison either – he’d ranted in Hughes’ office for over an hour when he’d learned of it. At least his boss was able to pull some strings to get Neal compassionate leave to attend the funeral. And pretty short strings they were, as the row of six Marshals in the pew behind them and the ankle and wrist restraints that weighed Neal down were ample proof.
Peter glanced over at Elizabeth, sitting on the other side of Moz. She met his eye and he saw the same worry and concern for Neal reflected there, though she gave a small smile that was just for him that said, “Don’t worry. It’ll all be OK.” He wished he could believe her.
Elizabeth got up and made her way to the pulpit. Neal had asked if she’d give one of the readings and she had been honored to agree. She opened the book to the marked passage and began, her voice clear and strong, “A reading from the book of Ecclesiastes. There is an appointed time for everything, and a time for every affair under the heavens. A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to uproot the plant…”
As she read, Peter noticed how Neal paid such rapt attention, taking comfort in the words and the ceremony, a comfort Peter didn’t think he’d feel himself if their positions were switched.
And there it was – the thought he’d been resisting for days, the one that he dared not think about even thinking about. What would he do if it was Elizabeth who was dead, how would he go on, how could he? It was unthinkable, unimaginable and yet now that he was thinking and imagining it, it was like he couldn’t stop the feelings and images. Elizabeth, lifeless, pale, gone. A funeral. Tons of flowers. But no mums, she hated mums. Then the house, empty. His bed, cold. And his future…over.
A wave of heat suddenly emanated from within him. It started somewhere inside his gut and moved upwards until he could feel the sweat breaking out at his hairline. He gasped, suddenly anxious and overcome and he choked on a whimper that rose in his throat. He chewed on his lips and looked up at the ceiling, trying to get his breathing under control, to stop the tears, but they came and he couldn't stop them and he thought he might have to get out of there in a second if only to stop this tightening feeling of panic in his chest and –
Neal placed his hand over Peter’s where it rested on his own knee and squeezed, the handcuffs rattling slightly. Peter looked over at his partner and when their eyes met, they shared a moment of complete understanding. For in that moment, each man recognized the other’s despair. In that moment, Peter conveyed to Neal all his regret and sorrow for his pain and grief and a silent promise to help him find justice. In that moment, Neal conveyed to Peter his gratitude and trust in him to get him through this, and a silent vow to do the same for him if it ever came to it.
The reading concluded, Elizabeth returned to their pew in the front row, entering on Peter’s left and sitting with her hip touching his. She reached over and put her hand over Neal's where it rested on Peter’s, hooking her thumb underneath to caress Peter’s palm. And in her way, she added her own strength to their silent communion, turning their bond outward to include her, adding her own promise to protect it and them.
At her touch, Peter’s panic subsided, because Elizabeth was there and she wasn’t going to die, not anytime soon, and he suddenly felt silly for even contemplating it. And he could feel some level of tension drain out of Neal too, because with her support and attention he knew he wouldn’t be alone in this, not while he had such friends.
----
The Strong One
Peter got off the elevator of the parking garage’s third level and took a right. The Taurus was not parked far. He unlocked the door, got in, and gripped the wheel tightly to quell the shaking in his hands. Soon, hot tears were welling in his eyes and he swiped them away with the heel of his hand, but they wouldn’t stop and he found himself choking on a sob. He covered his mouth with his hand to suppress the sounds he made that alarmed even him, but nothing he did could stop the onslaught of emotion that had taken control.
This breakdown was coming at the end of the worst two weeks of his life. A routine sting on an identity theft ring had turned ugly fast when Neal's cover was blown by an old acquaintance. Before the team could extract him, he’d been subjected to a vicious beating that had left him in a coma. The doctors had used words like brain contusion and intracranial swelling and craniotomy.
It had been wait-and-see, always wait-and-see. Wait for the drugs to have an effect, see if surgery was necessary. It turned out that it was, and Neal remained in a coma while he healed, while they waited to see if and how he would recover. And it had been two weeks since Peter and El had been with him, had been with Neal, and not a broken body in a hospital bed.
Peter stood by – well mostly sat by – and was the strong one. Had to be the strong one. Because he was the Boss, the Husband, the Partner. It was his role. A role he was proud to have and one he wished he could shirk sometimes. Because as the holder of Neal's medical power of attorney, he was expected to make decisions about Neal's care that would be in keeping with his wishes. And it wasn’t something he wanted to think about, but was constantly on his mind these last several days. The hospital administrator, the morbid, fucking freak, had been the one to put it there, had brought it up with him while Neal was in surgery, with Elizabeth in the room.
“Does the patient have an advance directive, Mr. Burke?” He could tell she was reading from a form on her clipboard, like all of this could be boiled down to checklists.
“I’m his proxy.” Peter had gotten up and left the waiting area, so their conversation would not be overheard by El. She lay on a couch with her head on Mozzie’s lap, arms curled around her pregnant belly and staring blankly into the middle distance.
“I’m sorry, but is now the time to be having this conversation?” Peter asked.
“I’m afraid it is. What are Mr. Caffrey’s wishes regarding heroic measures?”
He stared at her for a beat. “Be heroic.”
And then he blew her off and returned to the waiting room, lending what little strength he had left that day to his wife and their friend.
Thankfully it had not come to a point where Peter had had to make any tough decisions. Neal came out of his surgery well enough, and was breathing on his own. So they just had to wait and see, and Peter kept lending out his strength to everyone else.
Today, at last, Neal opened his eyes. Today he came back to them, and after a battery of neurological exams, it looked like there would be no lasting complications. So overwhelmed was Peter at hearing the news that he had to get out of there, had to be alone, because at last his strength gave out.
So he sat in his car and wept the tears of frustration and anger and fear he’d been keeping bottled up inside for two weeks. Then he cried tears of thanks and relief and exhaustion. It took him several minutes to bring himself under control, and he sat with his head lolling against the seat and his hands limp and impotent in his lap.
Tap-tap-tap. He looked over and saw his wife peering in at the passenger side of the car. He flicked the lock on the door and she got in, handed him a handkerchief and looked at him.
“Feel better?”
He didn’t even try to pretend he hadn’t just been bawling his eyes out. “A little.”
“Good. It’s not good to keep it all inside, you know, not healthy.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. Because this…” she gestured in his direction vaguely, “feeling? It never stops. The worry and the feeling sick to your stomach with dread every single time you and Neal leave the house to go to the Bureau. I take it with me everywhere.”
He looked at her, shocked. “Really?”
“Mm-hmm. It has to go somewhere, Peter. That’s why I take karate classes; helps me deal with the anger and the fear.”
“Sweetie, I had no idea. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. It’s a part of the deal, being an FBI agent's spouse. Just remember it whenever you go out there, risking yourself and your safety. It’s not just your life on the line.”
He picked up her hand and kissed it, closed his eyes. Now he realized who the strong one really was, and had been all along.
----
Happy Birth Day
How did it take so long and yet go so fast?
Peter sat on a couch in El’s birthing suite. Neal slept with his head on Peter’s shoulder, Peter’s hand hugged to his chest. El dozed in the bed, finally able to sleep. The baby – their son – lay in his bassinet, swaddled to within an inch of his life. He looked as wrecked as his three parents.
It had been 32 hours of labor, all-told, and if he had to admit it to himself, he could barely recall any of it. El was a petite woman, the baby a whopping 8 pounds, 1.5 ounces, and they all feared a C-section might be called for. But luckily it wasn’t necessary; with Peter and Neal propping her up and holding both her hands, she had managed a natural delivery. Now he sat in a warm, happy buzz, watching over his people – his family – and hoping this feeling would never, ever stop.
There was a knock at the door and one of the nurses entered, a big smile on her face and a clipboard in her hand. “Hi, Dad,” she whispered to him.
He just grinned like a sap in return.
“I’ve got the birth certificate forms here for you all. Just fill them in before you leave.” She crossed the room and handed them to him. The slight movement jostled Neal, who woke and sat up, rubbing his scalp and smiling winningly at the nurse. Peter watched him, bemused, though if he was ever pressed for an opinion, he’d have to say he hated Neal's hair that way. Since his brain surgery, he had opted to keep it short, but Peter much preferred the long, floppy forelock he’d favored previously.
The nurse returned the smile, her eyes twinkling from her first dose of the patented Caffrey charm, eliciting a huge grin from Peter. Some things never changed.
“What’s this?” Neal asked, yawning and stretching.
“Birth certificate form. Cool, huh?” El started in the bed and looked over at them, a sleepy smile on her face.
“Yeah, let me see.” She held her arm out to him.
Peter went to sit on her bed, Neal sat at the foot on the other side. Peter put on his glasses and started filling in the form, calling out the field labels as he did.
“Mother’s name. Elizabeth Frances Burke. Father’s name. Neal Eoghan Caffrey.” He smiled up at them both. “Oh, they already filled in the date and sex and other info. Baby’s name. Ryan Thomas Burke-Caffrey.”
“Honey, wait.” El’s hand stayed his as he began to write and he looked up at her over his glasses, confused. She reached for Neal's hand and they both smiled at him. “We decided on a different name,” she said tentatively.
“What? But Ryan took us months to agree on. You know how long it takes three people to find a name they don’t hate?”
“Seven months and ten days, I know,” she replied.
“But we had a better idea,” Neal added.
“We thought we’d name him after your dad.” El said.
Peter was confused. “I’m named after my dad.”
“What a coincidence,” Neal said with a smile. “I hadn’t realized that.”
“But, we agreed.” Things were still not computing for Peter, which drew a laugh from El. She leaned forward and gave him a kiss.
“Well, he’s gotten half his DNA from me, half from Neal; he should get his name from you, don’t you think?”
“Oh, OK,” he said, a bit dazed, and then the realization set in and he felt his eyes fill with tears. “Oh. My name. My name,” he kept repeating as he wrote in Peter John Burke-Caffrey and the warm, happy buzz set back in.
----
At My Most Beautiful
Peter caught a glimpse of himself in the hall mirror and flinched. He looked horrible. It had been nearly two days since he’d last slept, his hair was sticking up in literally all directions and he had what had to be vomit smeared across the shoulder of his favorite Harvard t-shirt.
He’d been up through the entire previous night taking care of a flu-stricken Neal and by morning, Baby PJ had (another) raging ear infection, so he’d had to get him to the doctor’s office first thing (stupid Saturday hours). This was followed by a day spent doing laundry, cleaning up puke – everyone’s puke, it seemed, even Satch had to get in on this – and trying futilely to check on his emails. El was out of town at an all-girls weekend with her college friends, and he didn’t want to bother her, so when she called to check in he’d told her everything was fine.
So here he was at 3:00 in the morning, a frantically crying 10-month old screaming in his arms, pacing back and forth, spinning, rocking, begging and pleading for him to please calm down. At one point, he offered him a new Corvette, fully loaded.
“Shh, buddy, shh. Shh, buddy, shh,” he chanted over and over, tears of exhausted desperation filling his eyes. Eventually he found a position that seemed to make the baby comfortable; he held him upright, with his little arms around Peter’s neck, chin on his dad’s shoulder. He continued murmuring in his ear, “Shh, buddy shh,” over and over, which seemed to soothe. It eventually was truncated down to “Buddy, buddy, buddy,” and finally, “buddeh-buddeh-buddeh.”
When it seemed PJ had finally tired himself out and was drifting off, Peter walked him to the overstuffed easy chair in the corner and sat. Still he only seemed comfortable with his little blonde head over Peter’s shoulder. When he was settled in the chair, Peter took up his chant again. “Buddeh-buddeh-buddeh-buddeh.”
Neal found them like that three hours later, Peter passed out in the chair with the baby sprawled over him. When he crossed the room to remove Peter’s glasses from the top of his head, Peter stirred but did not open his eyes. “Buddeh-buddeh-buddeh,” he whispered.
Neal smiled, kissed the baby’s head and put the glasses on the small table beside the chair. “Beautiful,” he whispered and went downstairs to make coffee and prep a bottle for the baby.
----
Thank you for your time