Damaged
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: This is meant to be set shortly after "Countdown". I'm not sure if I'm going to continue it or not – I kind of like it as is, but feel free to chime in and let me know what you think. Reviews bring good karma.
When Keller pointed a gun at Peter's wife, he froze. Everything he had learned at Quantico fled his mind. Keller's finger tightened on the trigger, and all Peter could think was Not Elizabeth.
Neal came out of nowhere, surprising Keller as much as Peter when he flew in front of Elizabeth.
Keller got off two shots before Peter put one between his eyes.
Peter looked to Elizabeth, and saw her, whole but terrified as Neal stumbled before her, and began to fall. She reached for him, and Peter raced towards them, taking her place behind Neal and slowing his descent to the floor.
Two red stains were spreading across his torso, and Peter tore off his jacket, pressing against them, trying to stop the bleeding.
It wasn't working.
Peter pressed harder and clutched Neal closer at his pained whimper.
Elizabeth was beside them, brushing Neal's hair from his face. Diana was behind them, calling for an ambulance, and Jones was checking Keller, kicking his gun away.
All Peter saw was Neal, bloody and pale and so very afraid.
"I didn't-" Neal gasped out, and something inside Peter turned cold at the sight of the blood staining his lips.
"Shh, Neal, it's not important."
Neal jerked his head and grabbed onto Peter's tie with one clenched fist, and Peter began to understand that perhaps it was important. At least, it was to Neal.
"I didn't steal the treasure." He coughed, flecks of blood decorating his face. "I didn't run." His grip tightened on Peter's tie. "I didn't let you down." His chest spasmed beneath Peter's hand with a breath he couldn't quite take. His eyes were impossibly large and artless as he stared straight into Peter's. Entirely to honest and innocent for a criminal's.
Entirely too young for someone so close to death.
Neal's voice was shattered – more broken than when he screamed for Kate on that tarmac, or Mozzie on that park bench – bare and terrified and desperate for someone to save him. Someone to believehim.
Peter remembered that voice.
"Don't turn out the lights Daddy! There's a monster!"
"There's no such thing as monsters, bud. Now c'mon, cowboy up and go to sleep."
"But Daddy-"
"Sleep, Peter."
"Daddy, please!"
Neal trembled in Peter's arms, his eyes fluttering closed, and with that broken little boy voice told Peter "I wanted to stay. Please Peter, I wanted to stay."
That's all Peter wanted too.
Peter felt numb.
Neal died in the ambulance.
He died.
The paramedics had shocked him, and his body jumped, liked a puppet who's strings were being jerked. They shocked him three times.
Peter nearly cried when they got a pulse.
When they reached the hospital it was all frantic movements and frenzied shouts, and they wheeled Neal away.
Peter didn't know how long he stood in the hallway feeling numb and hollow and lost.
"Sir! Sir! Are you hurt?" Peter barely even heard the nurse. "Sir, you're bleeding."
He waved her away. "No, it's Neal's blood." He looked down at his hands. "Neal's blood," he whispered, it finally hitting him. Somuch of Neal's blood. So much. Too much. "Oh God." He ran for the bathroom and barely made it to a stall before he hunched over, retching.
When he managed to drag himself to his feet, he stumbled over to the sink, shaking. He scrubbed the blood from his hands until they were pink and raw, and still didn't feel clean. He couldn't get it off of his shirt, or out from under his nails. He couldn't get clean.
He couldn't get clean.
Peter clutched the sink and sobbed.