Neal repeatedly blinked his eyes as he awoke into a bubble of haziness and pressed his fingers against the bright spots behind his eyelids. Someone had moved his heart muscle into his head and he could feel every forceful pump. He lowered his head back to the ground but there was no relief from the angry thudding. He stared at the smudged orange-red colour, painted rust on his skin; he was bleeding. Neal assessed himself, trying to let his eyes do the work without moving his head. Correction; he was bleeding badly. And he could barely move- he needed help.
Neal remembers being on the roof of a museum filled to the top-hat with police. He wasn't stranded then; he used his lithe athleticism and physical prowess to slink and slide down and across buildings and away into the darkness.
"Hey, I need some help over here." Neal winced as his shouted words echoed in march formation through his head, stomping in the salt.. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to call out again, and again. No one came. Neal was alone in this place.
Neal remembers being on a plane with marshals combing through it; for a young brilliant blue-eyed art thief. He wasn't stranded then; he used his charms, charisma and wiles to blend right in with the in-flight crew; making it appear as though he had been with them for years.
Ideas sink too quickly, losing solid footing in the haze-softened undergrowth. What happened? And where is he? How is he hurt? How stop pain? How get help? What do? Do something? Peter, need Peter.
Neal remembers, Neal remembers, remembers Venice- trapped- reds, gold's; rug; two-hundred thousand dollars- trapped. He wasn't stranded then; he used his skilled mind to get him out of the situation.
He sits on the cliff-edge of sleep; lying idly in a cloud of fuzz- drifting, except pain registers- nudging insistently against the will to slip off of the edge into blissful slumber. He is going to die; it is an absent thought flitting away almost as quickly as it came- no room for processing in the hazy struggle for survival.
Neal has never been stranded because he has always had an array of tools at his disposal. At this moment his mind is barely usable- sitting sticky and soft like mash potatoes, his body can't sit up let alone run or climb or jump, and there's no one around to hear his gentle cajoles. His tools are gone but he still refuses to be stranded now- in this abandoned parking lot.
Focus, just need to focus. What first? First Peter. Get Peter. Peter will know what to do.
"Peter."
No, Peter's not here. What do? What do? Phone! Phone Peter. Where's phone? Phone gone. No Peter. Need Peter. Need sleep.
No! Focus! Get somewhere. Get to people. Get help. Where now? I'm here. Where's here? Look, it's here. I remember here. Parking lot of diner. Diner with turquoise stools. Mary's, no Marcie's. Marcie's diner.
Neal remembers going to Marcie's diner for an early breakfast, after spending all night on a case. He was being lead to a table against the East wall and suddenly his anklet started beeping shrilly and blinking bright red. He had taken a seat on the west side of the place and just smiled charmingly at the staff- who eyed him with wary suspicion- throughout his meal.
He smiles. At the edge of radius. Get out of radius. Peter will come. Which way? That way. Move. Move now.
Neal thrusts himself forwards along the ground. His head and torso protest violently- sending agonising tendrils out to wrack his entire body. He takes a few shuddering breaths and forces himself to move again. The radius edge is eight feet away- maybe ten; it feels impossibly far.
He continues to pull himself along, one small haltering movement after the other. Staring at the invisible line he needs to reach; failing to take comfort in getting closer.
Move right arm. Move left arm. Move right leg. Move left leg. Shove self. Breathe. Breathe. Wait for stampede in head to calm. Repeat.
Pain engulfs him; whitening out his vision and freezing his trembling limbs. He lies there motionless.
Four feet from help and Neal has never felt so stranded in his life.
"Peter." He whimpers. The thought of Peter drives him on; he makes another half-drag half-crawl motion.
Then pauses. It's only a pause, he's not going to stop; he has to be almost there by now. Except he's more dizzy and tingly and weak than he has ever been before; and it's not like Neal hasn't had some rough moments; it's almost like he has fallen out of his own skin. He moves again, ignoring the screaming in his head, the monster green anklet light glowers fiercely, taking over his vision and he gives himself one final push before everything fades away.
Peter rushes to call the nurse as Neal's eyes drift open.
"Peter! You came!" Neal says with the same excited voice he used when he was drugged up in the Howser clinic; clearly showing the effects of the pain meds he's on.
"Fourth time I caught you." Peter jokes.
Neal chuckles; taking comfort from the old bit.
"That was impressive thinking- pulling yourself out of your radius."
"You think that was impressive?" He asks incredulously.
"Not for fit and healthy you, but considering what the doctor said; that most people with your head injuries wouldn't remain conscious, let alone be able to string together a cogent thought; yeah- damn impressive."
"I guess." Neal replies, falling back to sleep he mutters a few simple words;
"I knew you wouldn't leave me stranded Peter."