Later, no one can really say who spoke; it's like a collective thought, expressed aloud. It's almost as if those were Bobby's words, being the conscience of the 118 one last time. Bobby.
Maybe it's the absurdity of it all, or this place. First Presbyterian, where everyone was taken—Tommy doesn't know who's responsible, who’s pulled out all the stops. Just a moment ago, they were still in military custody; somewhere out there, Hartman must be seething. Tommy tries not to think about what it all means. What it means for him, for his career. Over there sits Evan, slumped on a plastic hospital chair, and Tommy’s heart just aches looking at him. What does it mean that he reacted so quickly and in this way to a single phone call from his ex-boyfriend? Why did he jump into a helicopter without hesitation, his heart pounding a rhythm that seemed to scream, EvanEvanEvan.
What if he risked everything for this man who doesn't even want him? But in the end, Tommy tells himself as he half-heartedly sips bad coffee from a paper cup, he did it for Howie. And Howie will be fine, they said. Well, as fine as you can be when you survive while someone else dies before your eyes. That’s a pain Tommy knows, even if it becomes dull over time. It fades, but it will never go completely.
He looks back at Evan, who, with his hands on his knees, stares blankly at the worn linoleum floor. His hair is disheveled, as if he’d run his hands through it in despair, as people do when something is just unbelievable. Evan's cheeks are glistening, tears have carved grooves into them – deepened by dust and dirt, just as time will do. He looks incredibly young and hurt, even though outwardly everything seems fine. Nevertheless, he’s devastated. He looks… raw, as if his insides have been turned outward. Evan is an open wound, bleeding and festering, and it will remain that way for quite some time. Tommy wishes he had words for him, words that heal, that comfort, but right now he seems miles away from even reaching out his hand.
Bobby is gone.
Such a thought, such a truth, is impossible to fathom. Tommy blinks, even though there’s no dust in the hospital’s air. He’s quickly glancing at the white wall opposite of him, but that’s not making things better. Ravi leans against the wall, his gaze as empty as Evan's. Tommy hardly knows him, but he knows what he sees: a young man who’s lost something very precious. Somehow, Tommy’s glad it’s just the two of them, at least for now. The air in the tiny waiting room may be dust-free, but it’s filled with grief. Tangible sadness, it's like wading through smoke without knowing what lies at the end. Tommy knows, though, and his skin tingles at the mere thought of what lies ahead. Not the military and all that, he couldn't care less about that right now. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance – the five stages of grief. No one tells you that they don't necessarily follow a linear path; it's not a checklist that your body and mind have to work through. But they will work through it, all of them.
It’s a bit of comfort to think that none of them will have to be alone. Especially not Athena – Tommy can only vaguely imagine how she must feel right now. He glances at Evan, who looks like he has no tears left, but that's not true; it's never true. He'll cry until it chokes him, maybe until he’ll throw up, and he won’t feel better afterwards. Evan has lost someone who meant more to him than his own father. It's another feeling that Tommy can't quite comprehend. Athena, however, has lost a piece of her life. It’s a wound that will take a lot of effort to heal, if ever. Bobby will leave a scar on all of them, even on Tommy: one of the scars that hurt when the seasons change. The unshed tears behind Tommy's own eyes sting painfully. This is a pain he understands. And maybe, one day, he'll tell Evan about it.
Evan clutches the seat of his chair, his knuckles white. But only with one hand. The other is picking at a small cut on his chin; he’s scratched off some fresh scab, it’s bleeding. Tommy switches off his brain, not for the first time that day, puts the disgusting and now cold coffee on a small table and moves over to him.
“Evan,” he says softly, “stop that. You need to stop that.”
Evans' eyes are red and heartbreakingly empty as he looks at him.
“Stop what?” he asks, the bitter tone in his voice cutting into Tommy's heart. “B-Bobby is... damn it, Tommy.”
What is there to say? Tommy's heart is crying out, I know, honey, I know, but he can't say it out loud. There’s not a single word to comfort Evan now, is there? So he says nothing. He simply takes Evans' hand, gently guides it away from his face, while he searches for a handkerchief in his pockets with his other hand. There's nothing there except a cleaning rag; he's still in his turnouts. That thing probably isn't very clean, but what’s their motto? Who cares. Gently, he pushes a somewhat smooth edge of the tissue against the cut in Evan’s chin.
Somehow, it brings some life back into the man; a simple little gesture, but Evan stirs – in the worst possible way. Tommy recognizes the signs, he sees the sparkle in those sky-blue eyes that he never wanted to see so sad. Then, at first it's just his hands, Evan starts to shake. Like someone who’s been thrown out naked in the cold, realizing that the door is closed forever, shivers rattle his entire body. He lifts his head to look at Tommy, it feels like there’s something breaking inside Tommy, too. The part of him that was reserved for Bobby is already in ruins. But the part of him that belongs only to Evan, even if he doesn't know it...
“Tommy,” Evan stammers, and all he can reply is, “I know.”
He's not prepared for Evan to throw himself into his arms, wrapping around him like Tommy’s his last lifeline.
“Stay,” Evan says, trembling, his eyes wide open.
Tommy wouldn't leave now, he wouldn’t leave anybody in this state, especially not Evan. He clears his throat, grief weighs heavy on his vocal cords. But Evan needs an answer, and Tommy has only one.
“Of course… Evan. As long as you need me.”
It’s a promise.
[thanks to @li-nox for you know what!][Sorry not edited due to time issues][All my BuckTommy on AO3]
"Rose's eyes, full of warmth and stars and love, reveal the actual truth of his soul. Despite the carnage and darkness that cast shadows over his hearts, a woman as compassionate, clever, and kind-hearted as Rose - Rose, who once convinced a Dalek to feel mercy purely by touching it - sees him as he is and still loves him so completely that she crossed countless universes to find him. The raging fire in his soul cannot possibly compare to the undeniable truth of her light."
A Journey's End fix-it in which the metacrisis Doctor is never made, Jackie Tyler isn't there so Rose can stay forever, and Rose and the Doctor have a proper reunion scene.
Part 1 of 4 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
A/N: It's hard to call me a Doctor Who fan because I've never seen Classic Who nor Chibnall onwards, and I've only seen Moffat-era episodes once or twice. But MAN, OH MAN have I seen RTD1-era episodes dozens of times! So "canon compliant" is beyond my actual knowledge, but this pretty much follows the canon of this singular adventure with some changes.
I'll be posting this in parts each day for 4 days.
MILD SPOILER / WARNING: While this is a fix-it, Donna's memories are still erased in the end. But I think I've written it in a way that ends better for her. There's also fully a time skip of when Donna (and Tentoo in the show) are supposed to save the day. I just couldn't figure out a way to write that with the changes I made, so please just use your imagination to fill in that blank. I'm here to write sappy character beats, not sci-fi plots! I just can't be bothered with it too much lol.
-----
When you met Rose in that parallel world, what did she say?"
"Just... the darkness is coming."
Surely there was more warning than that. "Anything else?" the Doctor presses.
Donna hesitates as her eyes focus on something behind him. A small smile tugs at the corner of her lips. "Why don't you ask her yourself?"
What?
She says nothing more, instead responding to his stunned silence with a simple nod of her head. The Doctor's hearts leap into his throat, already jumping to conclusions against his better judgment. Does she mean what he thinks she means? He turns around to follow her gaze, and his hearts stop altogether when his eyes lock onto the target.
Impossibly yet unmistakably, at the end of this abandoned and Dalek-torn street, stands the woman who, until this very moment, lived amongst his most precious dreams. Even from this distance, Rose Tyler's smile radiates across the space between them. And maybe it's a trick of the light, or maybe it's his own lovesick hearts bending his perception, but the Doctor swears there's a glow around her as if she had descended from the heavens itself. She may as well have, because there is not a chance any of this is real.
She starts jogging towards him, confirming that she isn't just a cruel mirage his mind conjured to fabricate hope. His legs start moving before his mind can process anything beyond the impossibility of her presence. She's certainly in this current space at this current time, and there's only one reasonable response to this information: run.
The Doctor runs flat out towards her in the fastest sprint he's ever ran in his life. Yet it still isn't fast enough. Two years and a universe apart, and this short distance between them is all too much to bear. His feet fly off the pavement. His lungs strain from the effort. His hearts scream her name.
In the final few metres of their sprints towards each other, Rose slows down to brace herself for the crash of their bodies, but The Doctor has no intention of slowing down. When at last they meet, he grabs her waist and uses his momentum to lift her into a twirling hug. Rose's delighted squeals fill his ears, and his hearts threaten to explode out of his chest. He laughs giddily. He laughs so much it almost feels like crying. Maybe it is crying. He feels so much in this moment that the only emotion he can truly identify is soul-deep relief, as if there was a tension knot deep within him that has finally loosened and freed itself from its tangles. Daleks and stolen planets and voids all melt away around them until it's just the two of them swinging in this hug, laughing hysterically into each other's shoulders.
Reluctantly, the Doctor puts her down and pulls slightly apart so he can really look at her at last. She glows even now, with their faces mere centimetres apart, the radiance of her smile nearly overwhelming up close. Both his hands lift up to gently cup her face and verify once more that she is, in fact, not a dream. It can't be. Because dreams are but a de-saturated imitation that pale in comparison to the actual, Technicolor, and intoxicating experience that is Rose Tyler within his arms. His thumbs swipe across her tear-stained cheeks, his own face undoubtedly as wet as hers, and he's completely awed by how warm and solid and real she feels beneath his fingers.
"Rose," he gasps, still only half-believing this is his reality. Before she even has a chance to reply, he smothers the words forming on the crest of her lips with a crash of his own, desperate to drink hers in with the fervour of man discovering water in a desert. He entangles his fingers in her hair as Rose tightens her grip around his shoulders in the near impossible task of bringing their bodies even closer together. No void could stand between them now. He pours into this kiss with the strength of the past two years he was robbed of her presence, plus the power of all the days he let slip past when they could have had this all along.
One thing becomes abundantly clear in this reunion: the Doctor has been a fool. He had been denying himself happiness for so long and for no reason. The carefully constructed rules he kept for himself feel so pointless now, especially when the seemingly endless gulf of his despair could so instantly be shrunk by the blinding joy of embracing the only woman his hearts ever ached for. Why should he obey rules that separate him from the one thing that keeps him fighting? Sod the rules! It's clear they do nothing for him. Because despite the desolation surrounding them, the only thing that matters now is the softness of her lips, the urgent pressure of her tongue against his, the synchronised beating of her single heart against his two, and the feeling that the ever-present void in his life that opened the day he closed the universe's has finally, finally, been sealed.
After a moment that seems both indulgently long and agonisingly ends too soon, Rose pulls away with great effort to catch her breath. A dazed look briefly passes over her face before she breaks into the widest, tongue-tipped smile he has ever had the privilege to witness. Though he could (and would) have kept that kiss going for hours with his respiratory bypass, her smile alone causes his breath to hitch in his throat. She breathes out the sweetest sentence to grace his ears: "Hi, Doctor."
Suddenly, Donna's voice tinged with terror punctuates the air. "Doctor!"
Still gripping Rose to him, he whips his head around to heed Donna's warning. His stomach plummets before his brain can even register the danger his eyes catch sight of. Why does it always have to be a Dalek every bloody time? The Doctor pushes Rose behind him just as the wretched creature screeches "Exterminate!"
*****
"I'm sorry, it's too late... I'm regenerating."
An inferno rampages across every cell in the Doctor's body, torching everything down to the base molecules and forging new configurations between them. The one thing he holds onto in the firestorm is the shattered look of desperation on Rose's face as she pleads with him not to change. His literally burning hearts twinge as he remembers how hard his last regeneration was on her at first. But this body was made for her. He had died out of love for her last time, and from those ashes rose a man whose every fibre was encoded with that love and sacrifice. This body is the body that felt her loss so deeply in the hollows of its bones because it had imprinted the memory of her wrapped in his arms. Losing it would feel like forgetting after he'd only just got her back. So why tamper with a good thing? Surely he can stay the inevitable course of change.
The thought hits him like lightning. The hand! He knew he kept it around for a reason.
As soon as the winds of the inferno point towards the path of restructuring, the Doctor fights to gather all of the randomised regeneration energy and direct it towards a single point outside of him. His disembodied hand siphons all of it so forcefully that it feels like a creature whose tendrils are buried within his veins is being ripped away from him. At last, the final bit of regeneration energy is pulled out of him, throwing him backwards and nearly flat on his back. The fires within him die down to a simmer, and everything remains how he last left it. No need to look in a mirror or pull on his face to check; this is the same body that Rose loves and that loves her back.
"Now then. Where were we?"
The Doctor leans down to blow the excess regeneration energy from his spare hand. When he looks up, the faces of his three friends still look completely gobsmacked, huddled together as they are. The explanation he provides for his unchanged face sounds a bit convoluted as he says it, and their continued silence makes him a bit nervous. Especially Rose's. He gets up, not wanting to feel like he's begging for acceptance yet still desperately hoping she'll approve.
"Remember? Christmas Day, Sycorax. Lost my hand in a sword fight? That's my hand." The concern in her eyes still does not dissipate. He has no choice but to straightforwardly ask, "What do you think?"
Rose steps tentatively closer to him. His hearts beat a deafening thrum in his ears while waiting for her evaluation.
"So… you're still you?"
A smile tugs at the corners of his lips. "I'm still me."
They meet in the middle to gather each other into another crushing hug. It's a hug he's felt hundreds of times before when he last had Rose with him, yet now it feels so novel. His cells must have regenerated enough to feel tingly and fresh despite his appearance remaining the same. His body takes in every sensation in detail to re-memorise the topography of her curves and scent of her hair. He could keel over from the absolute ecstasy of reacquainting himself with the essence of Rose, and he isn't even done yet. He is determined to not follow the same foolish patterns in this new version of himself.
So, for the second time in twenty minutes, the Doctor kisses Rose Tyler.
This time around, he tries to take his time with it. In this moment, there's no need for a long-awaited passionate kiss in the throes of a mid-battle reunion. His new cells in a technically new body will gladly luxuriate in the opportunity to familiarise themselves with every dip and swell of her lips and will mould their shapes to match. Overcome by the inherent romanticism of their union, he cradles her neck and dips her back for dramatic flair. Rose giggles around his lips but does not dare break apart.
Unfortunately, someone interrupts by loudly (and rudely) clearing their throat.
The Doctor pulls them back upright and begrudgingly tears away from the moment, growling in frustration. He glares daggers at Donna and Jack. The captain, for his part, has his hands up in surrender and appears genuinely apologetic for the interruption.
"Listen, Doc, I'm happy for you two crazy kids, but we're kind of in the middle of a universe-wide Dalek invasion here."
Rose, still entangled in their embrace, bites back, "Oi, give us a mo', will ya? I've just found him after five years of looking and only now saw him literally die in front of me."
The Doctor looks down at her, eyebrow raised. "Has it really been that long for you?"
Before Rose can reply, Donna marches up to them and plants a hand on either of their shoulders to physically pull them apart. A whine escapes out of the Doctor. "The pair of you can speak without being all over each other, thank you. You're making the rest of us well uncomfortable."
Suddenly, the lights dim around them. The TARDIS cloister bell rings one measly ring and falls silent with the rest of the ship. Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no. The Doctor runs to the console. "They've got us!" None of the buttons or levers responds to his touch. "The power's gone…" Panic rising, he runs around the console to test other buttons along the way. "It's some kind of chrono loop!"
As soon as he says this, the ground shifts beneath his feet. All four of them flail to grab hold of the closest object.
The Daleks are taking them.
-------------
A/N: Thanks for reading to the end! The next part will come out tomorrow.
Also, this is legitimately the first fanfic I've ever managed to finish enough to post, so please be gentle 🥺
A post season 2 episode 16 "Under The Radar" fix-it fic by @mel-mcz.
Season two's end left me fuming, so here's a fix-it fic with a bit of whump and hurt/comfort. Posting here first, but soon I'll upload it to Ao3 with the subsequent chapters following up from here, including Peter's side of the events and how he found Neal, and a lot of comfort as he recovers with the Burkes' help.
English is not even my second language, so forgive me for any mistakes, I did try to proofread it, but there's only so much I can do by myself.
Hope you enjoy this thing I wrote in a couple of hours!
After practically spitting at Peter's face to prove that he'd taken the treasure, Neal only had enough anger to fuel his energy reserves to get him around the next warehouse before he had nothing left.
His knees buckled and he collapsed to the ground. Chest heaving, lungs burning with the exertion, ribs aching with every breath that didn't seem to fill his lungs, Neal tried to calm himself.
With his eyes stinging, throat burning with ashes, nostrils filled with the smell of smoke, ears ringing from the deafening sound of the explosion, he curled on himself, bracing his chest to try to avoid the pain that seemed ready to burst through his heart.
It hurt. Everything hurt so much and yet the worst pain was in his mind, seared in his memory.
"You took it!"
Peter's accusation seemed like shards of glass piercing through his mind, slicing, scratching deeper, embedding itself in his brain forever.
Despair mixed with the sting of Peter's distrust and his mind was stuck in a loop of hurt and fear. Images kept jumping to the forefront of his mind's eye.
The barrell of a gun.
Flames and the heat of an explosion...
Peter's face, filled with so much rage.
He didn't- he couldn't make himself do anything. He felt trapped in his own mind.
The deafening sound of the explosion, the hot feeling of flames on his back, the sensation of the concrete underneath him as the shockwave knocked him down.
Adler's face when he told Neal was the closest thing to a son he ever had, moments before the gunshot rang through the place.
Peter's eyes... his eyes when he grabbed Neal and spat out that he was certain Neal had done it.
It hurt deeper than he thought anything ever would. Neal hadn't realised, or rather had chosen not to acknowledge, that Peter had begun to mean so much more to him than simply a friend. Ever since Kate's death, or even years before while he was still in prison, Peter was there for him, offering words of advice, of comfort, promises that were actually fulfilled... He was there when no one else was, filling that space in Neal's heart that once had been occupied by the man who was now a cooling corpse on the ground.
Neal didn't know what to think. Didn't know what to do. Now that everything he'd been working so hard to make, the trust he'd been trying to build between Peter and him, the new man, not con, that he'd been trying to create, had blown up into nothing.
As his mind spiraled into an ever growing abyss of despair, he felt himself disconnecting from reality. He stared at his shaking hands and in his mind he thought that those couldn't possibly be his, he was a con man, he was sly and precise with his every movement. This wasn't him.
The pain that seemed all encompassing before, was now dulled by something awfully cold. His breaths were ragged and his heart was still beating wildly, but, as he blinked and raised his eyes beyond the fixed stare on his hands, laying still over his lap, he imagined that maybe this was all a dream.
The numbness that was creeping over his limbs, spilling from the emptiness that hurt his chest, was beginning to terrify him. While he felt freezing up, tension wanting to make his muscles lock and his breaths speed up to match the adrenaline flood, instead he felt his body swaying. His legs had gone numb a long time ago, but he couldn't attempt to stand even if he wanted to. He was tilting backwards, ever so slowly, untill he reached a position where he couldn't sustain himself anymore and he ended up colliding with the hard ground with enough force to knock out all breath left in his lungs.
Neal laid there, feeling the numbness reaching every last limb of his body, covering him with a blanket of cold. He stared up at the dark sky, absently noticing that it was almost fully night.
Neal watched the dark and polluted sky of New York City and wondered if he closed his eyes, he'd disappear in the fog too, just like the stars...
Neal came to his senses feeling warmth all around his limbs. It was so strange to his foggy brain, that it took him a long moment to identify that he was laying in a bed.
Not his bed, though. The mattress underneath felt a bit too hard on his back and the sheets over him were scratchy and too light to be comfortable.
But he was warm again and it felt wonderful for a whole minute, untill his mind began to catch up with him and memory after memory began to invade the peaceful state of mind he had hid himself in.
The kidnapping, the drugs.
The U-boat. The dynamite.
The treasure.
The explosion.
Adler.
Peter.
Involuntarily, Neal sucked in a breath at the memory, and then harshly started coughing. His throat felt painfully dry but each cough made him spasm and brought a wave of pain to his chest. He curled up on the side that hurt less, holding his breath in an attempt to stop the pain, even when his lungs protested the lack of oxygen.
The shift in position didn't help with the pain, instead, it made everything that wasn't hurting yet begin to ache.
He couldn't hold his breath forever, so he gasped when he couldn't hold it any longer, and the searing pain it sent through his ribs made him bite down his lip hard to stop a whimper from escaping.
Neal thought this torture would never end, every breath hurt and every cough that escaped from his throat felt like a stabbing straight into his chest.
Then, just as he thought he might lose the will to keep his pain to himself and cry out for help, the sharp edge of it began to dull. The ache in his ribs started to lessen to a manageable level and the stabbing when he took in a breath nearly disappeared.
That's when he noticed that he wasn't alone, wherever he was.
Someone's hand was travelling up and down his spine, the touch light, mindful of where it was hurting more. They were speaking, talking to him, but the words weren't making sense in Neal's brain. Something touched the tip of his lips, pressuring slightly, encouraging him to open up, and Neal had enough mindfulness to seal them in a thin line.
He wasn't going to take anything from whoever that was!
Even though he knew it hurt, he turned his body so he was laying on his back again, successfully dislodging the hand on his back and the paper straw that was being pressed on his lips.
He had to get a grip on himself. 'Cowboy up' as Peter so often said to him, but it was just so hard. His whole body was hurting, he felt weak and disoriented and his head was spinning even though he had yet to open his eyes.
Neal knew it wasn't an option. Knew that it was wishful thinking, just like he knew it was back when he was sick as a child and wished for a father that was dead, but he wanted Peter. He wanted Peter to tell him it was going to be alright, that he was safe, that he would protect him like he did after Kate's plane exploded and Neal was in the hospital.
He wanted Peter, but Peter didn't want him anymore. Peter didn't trust him. Didn't believe him.
All this brought fresh tears to his eyes and he found he had no strength to fight them. His chest was already heaving, as panic clawed at him from the fear of having been taken by Adler's men, and then the first sob erupted from his throat, shaking his whole body.
Hands were touching him again, one caressing his hair and the other cupping his cheek. They were speaking again, voice soothing and gentle, asking him to calm down, to take a breath and hold it for a few seconds.
For a moment Neal thought the voice was Peter.
The touch on his head felt familiar and the hand gently wiping his tears was rough and gentle at the same time, the way he would recognise anywhere.
Without meaning to, Peter's name escaped his lips. He knew it was wishful thinking, but he'd live in the illusion for as long as it lasted.
But the voice answered to it with eagerness, praising him for something he wasn't aware he was doing and encouraging him to continue taking longer breaths.
Neal frowned, for the first time feeling like he was missing something. He did what the voice – Peter's voice? – was saying, calming down enough to not feel like he might lose himself in his mind again.
And then he opened his eyes.
Fluorescent lights assaulted his pupils and he closed his eyes tightly, controlling his breathing to lessen the headache pulsing behind his eyelids. He sensed the light of the room dimming and risked reopening them a slit. Everything seemed foggy in the near darkness so he blinked a few times to clean his sight.
Neal immediately noticed that he was in a hospital. Nowhere else was as barren, sterile and white as hospital rooms were.
The second thing he noticed was the hand still on his face, cradling him like he was the finest artifact ever found. Following the arm of the person to the chest and to their face, against his better judgement, Neal sucked in a sharp breath again.
"Peter!" he managed to say, before the words scratched his throat and he fell into another coughing fit.
This time when Peter pressed the straw to his lips he opened them without a second thought. He drank the cool water as if he hadn't had it in days, which maybe was exactly what had happened, only slowing down when Peter asked him to take it easy. Half the glass was gone by the time Peter pulled it away, promising more in just a minute.
"Hey." Peter's voice sounded hoarse so he cleared his throat before continuing "How are you feeling, bud?"
Neal found he couldn't do anything but stare. He was so certain that Peter would never be there for him again, so certain that whatever had made him accuse Neal of stealing the art had created a rift between them that would never be mended...
"Neal?" Peter called, a worried frown replacing the relief in his expression "Are you okay? Are you still in pain?"
Neal numbly shook his head, feeling at a loss of words. His answer, though, brought back the relief to Peter's face. His eyes softened and a small smile appeared on his lips.
"Good, that's good." he said, still staring at Neal like he was important "You've got me really scared for a moment. I thought you couldn't breathe."
Neal just blinked in response, feeling his drug-induced sluggish brain two steps behind the current conversation. He knew his lack of responsiveness was making Peter begin to worry again, but he just couldn't wrap his head around the fact that he was actually there, that he really cared. That he cared enough to stay with him.
Peter still cared.
The realisation hit Neal like a freight train and he felt his vision grow blurry with tears. He let them fall, not minding that Peter was seeing him crying (again).
The worried frown was back full force. Then Peter was saying something about calling the nurse back, beginning to move away and removing his hands, and Neal couldn't bear to be left at that moment, so he snatched his own hand up, faster than he registered it and thought he could move, and held Peter's hand, guiding it back to his cheek. The movement hurt his bandaged wrist, but everything still felt distant enough that he didn't care.
Peter had gone silent after his sudden action and focused on him, waiting for something to tell him what to do next. To help was Peter's most predominant trait, and Neal could say he had seized the opportunity to use it plenty of times before.
But never like this.
"You're here." was the only thing he said, voice scratchy and thin from disuse.
Neal opened a smile, letting his hand slide down to his bandaged chest, and feeling all leftover despair leaving him with every calming breath he took.
Peter still seemed worried, but was trying to hide it for Neal's sake, so he opened a smile that looked like a strange mix of amusement and sadness.
"Of course I am. I'm not leaving your side." he said, sounding so honest, face open in a manger that Neal had only witnessed whenever Peter looked at his wife and rarely saw directed towards himself.
"Thought you were mad at me." finding the proper words to string a coherent sentence was a task, and to speak was hard, but he'd push himself regardless, because he needed to know.
Neal felt his heart accelerating, despite the calming breaths he was still taking, because Pete's answer could shatter the moment or change their lives for good. His fate rested in Peter's hands and now more than ever Neal understood that it didn't mean only prison and freedom.
"I was." Peter fought to find the right words for a moment and Neal thought that he was done, that their partnership was over and their relationship would never be the same again "I was. I'm not anymore."
Neal sighed in relief, feeling a weight being lifted from his chest, making breathing a little easier despite his injuries. He opened a wider smile, not filtering the joy it brought him.
Peter stared at him for a long moment, smiling too, but his looked a bit sadder.
"I'm sorry for what I said." he started, becoming serious again "I should've believed in you. I was harsh and stupid and I am truly sorry. I hope you can forgive me."
Neal was frowning again. He wasn't expecting such a heartfelt apology for a discussion that, at least on Peter's side, wasn't so heartbreaking.
"I... Okay." Neal simply answered, too bewildered to say anything else.
Peter shook his head, not seeming to accept his words, but thankfully he didn't push.
"We'll talk about this again later." and his smile was back "How are you feeling? And don't even think about lying." he said, pointing a warning finger to him before Neal could open his mouth.
"Honestly? I feel like I've been hit by a truck." he said, laughing a bit at his joke but stopping short when it pulled at his ribs.
"Yeah, that's a fair equivalent to the pressure release of God knows how many TNTs exploding inside a submarine." he smiled, but his eyes were pained again "You could've died. You could've died so many times that day and still I-"
Peter cut himself with a deep breath, calming down for Neal's sake. He resumed scratching at the back of Neal's head with one hand, to have something concrete to focus on instead of what ifs. Elizabeth only knew how many nightmares he had woken up from, with the horrible images his mind had conjured when he-
"Hey, I'm okay now." Neal said, noticing the distress growing in Peter's eyes.
Peter chuckled, smiling at him "How come you're in the hospital bed and still you're the one comforting me?"
Neal matched Peter's smile with the brightest he could muster in his state.
"That's just how good I am." he said, knowing that Peter would scoff and remind him for the nth time who was wearing a tracking anklet.
But he didn't. Peter's smile disappeared and Neal saw pure honesty in his eyes as he stared at Neal's with unwavering intensity. Neal swallowed dry, suddenly very nervous with Peter's mood change.
"You are." Peter said, voice low and heavy with emotions he was trying hard to keep to himself.
To Neal's slightly confused face, he continued.
"You are a good man and I couldn't have asked for a better partner and friend than you."
For the second – or third? – time that day Neal felt his eyes watering. He didn't know how to answer to that declaration. He was sure that if he opened his mouth right then he'd embarrass himself by confessing a four letter word that started with an 'L' to Peter, so he shut his mouth and opened a smile, hoping, no, knowing that Peter would understand it.
Neal still didn't know what had happened to him after he marched away from Peter's accusation, he didn't know what had caused that in the first place, or what had made him change his mind, but he was grateful for the moment of peace they were sharing.
It would end, Neal knew. Eventually he'd have to face whatever had happened, but for now everything was just right.
As Peter's hand was still running through his hair, his eyes kind and soft, Neal let himself drift off. The safety Peter's presence brought him every time was enough to send him back to sleep without a worry in his mind.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Wes just learned his half-sister existed and now she’s in Budapest, courtesy of Dean Bartlett and his manipulative ways. Now Wes must decide how to handle a complex family situation that interrupts his hunt for a serial killer… and when his two worlds collide, the Fly Team must race to stop a tragedy before it's too late.
An alternate version of 4x22, “Gaijin.”
Because @cajun-fangirl and I miss FBI: International and wanted to see the show dive deeper into the situation with Wes's family
An alternate version of the finale episode "Gaijin," which assumes Dean left Budapest after meeting with Wes and telling him about his half-sister and that Ty is still around to help with the ongoing case
(COMPLETE) Autocorrect Bridgerton Season 2 Chapter List
This fic is a fix-it for the beginning of episode 6. Anthony changes his mind and ends his betrothal with Edwina so she is back on the marriage mart. There is a bit of scandal but not much. How is Kate going to deal with new suitors with a certain Viscount constantly lurking? Will Anthony finally tell Kate he loves her? Whole Story on Ao3
