re·cov·er·y rəˈkəv(ə)rē/

noun 1. a return to a normal state of health, mind, or strength.

2. the action or process of regaining possession or control of something believe to be lost.

If you haven't guessed yet, I am a hurt/comfort fan. Its what I like to read and what I like to write. My Neal is more open; my Peter is kinder. So if that's not your thing, then my stories may not be for you. This is less hurt/comfort than some of my stories, but still, Neal WILL be hurt and Peter WILL comfort him. That's just how I roll.

I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility.

Chapter One

"Do you have any idea the kind of trouble I can get into for this?" Dr. Martin knew it was a rhetorical question and that his protest would fall on deaf ears. And he was correct. The look that Jacobs gave him told him there would be more trouble for him if he didn't cooperate. He had unfortunately been down this road before. Not the exact road, but one that followed the same general direction. It always ended with Dr. Martin trading his professional integrity for his personal security. He sighed, bag in hand, and approached the man on the bed who needed his attention.

Even though there had been efforts to stench the flow, the man had lost a lot of blood. He was suffering from a gunshot wound in his shoulder; a gunshot wound that Jacobs couldn't chance being reported. Jacobs was a bad man and Dr. Martin regretted having ever fallen under his control. For this reason, he withheld his own judgement of the injured man. Sometimes trouble had a way of sneaking up on a person, especially when dealing with the likes of Jeffrey Jacobs. Jacobs had recently made enemies with his former partners and had been desperate to liquidate a certain asset for cash to make his escape. The bright side for Dr. Martin was that Jacobs would be out of his life, once and for all. But there had obviously been complications; now local law enforcement was also hot on Jacob's tail and the man who had been going to turn the asset into cash was unconscious. Dr. Martin began to check his patient's wound and spoke to the lady still standing in the doorway. "Margo, I need some hot water and towels."

It was through Margo that he had gotten involved with Jacobs. She worked at the Clinic with him and when he had gotten in over his head with some gambling debts, she had found a way to get him out. It was a simple trade, she said. She knew someone who occasionally needed someone patched up and who had the power to make his debts disappear. She had helped him with small stuff, but Martin could help with the more serious things. Plus, he had access to medicine and equipment that she did not. Martin had declined the offer at first, but when collectors began threatening with physical violence it seemed like a reasonable trade. He would be using his skills to help people, after all. He just wouldn't be reporting suspicious injuries to the local authorities. A small compromise to keep his fingers in working order seemed like a good idea.

With Margo's return and assistance, he removed the man's blood-soaked shirt and began to clean the wound. He was young and reasonably well fit; that was a plus. There was no exit wound; that was not. The bullet was still lodged in the man's body and would have to come out. It wasn't the same as cleaning and stitching up minor wounds or setting broken bones which had been the extent of his assistance to Jacobs in the past. He expressed his concern, just as he had when Jacobs had shown up at his house to fetch him, but Jacobs didn't care then and he didn't care now.

After the cleaning and disinfecting, Martin spent the next forty five minutes digging the bullet out of a man who occasionally groaned in spite of the shot of pain killers he had been injected with. When it was done, Martin bandaged him and washed his hands.

"He needs a IV to replenish his fluids and antibiotics to fight infection," he looked at Jacobs. "This wasn't the most sterile place to perform this procedure."

"When will he wake up?" Jacobs was looking impatiently at the still man. He only had one thing on his mind and it wasn't the health of the injured man.

"When the tranquilizers wear off," Martin answered, "but he will not be in any condition to do what you needed him to do. My best advice is to keep him sedated, continue to inject him with antibiotics, for at least the next twenty four hours." He shrugged his shoulders. "His body has sustained a shock. It needs some time to recover. If he gets though that without complications then maybe, and I say maybe, he will be able to do what you need him to do." Dr. Martin reiterated that the man needed hospitalization, but started his prescribed course of treatment, starting the IV line in the man's arm. Injecting someone with drugs with no idea of allergies was a dangerous thing to do. He stayed with the man for nearly an hour, past the time he would have expected any adverse reaction, before he gave Margo his parting thoughts.

She was given a schedule for administering medications, an extra saline bag and supplies for wound care. Martin also gave her clear instructions on what to watch for in case the man's condition worsened. "I don't care what you do to me, Jacobs," he said to Jeffrey Jacobs, "I will not be responsible for the death of this man. If he gets worse, send him to the emergency room. Do not call me." He was afraid, as usual, that his warning carried little weight. If the man took a turn for the worse, his body would probably be found dumped somewhere.

But the man's vitals seemed amazing strong; If all went well, he would have improved in twenty four hours. At that time Martin would return for a reassessment. He pursed his lips and looked at the ashen man on the bed. He wanted the man to recover; not only because he genuinely cared about people, but because if he did, perhaps he could broker a deal that would make Jacob's go away for good. Dr. Martin wanted his life, and his integrity, back.