Disclaimer: White Collar belongs to Jeff Eastin, USA Network et al. This is for fun, no copyright infringement is intended.

Author's note: Written for the Hero Fest prompt "Underwater rescue breathing" by kanarek13 over at White Collar Hurt / Comfort Community.

A traitorous, carefully unacknowledged part of Neal had always known that he would probably die a pretty freakish death. Like, falling head first on some museum floor after his climbing harness snapped or a parachute not opening at the right moment or missing a jump from one rooftop to another. Or – even more studiously ignored – the possibility of getting gunned down by some incompetent, startled security guy, offed by some gangsters he crossed or shot in the back while trying to escape the FBI. Ignored and Unacknowledged being keywords here. And so Neal thought it patently unfair that – see, I knew it – should be what flashed through his mind as he was shoved over the edge of the swimming pool and the rising fork of the fork-lift truck tipped two tons of metal sculpture named Imperfect Atom in after him.

Water closed over his head with a crash like thunder. Thousands of air bubbles obscured his view for a timeless moment while he was still clinging disoriented to the arm-thick, slightly asymmetrical metal rings symbolizing Imperfect Atom's electron orbits which had shielded him against the oncoming vehicle only seconds ago. Then he realized with a jolt that the 12-foot-something sculpture was coming down right on top of him and tried to push off, away, rowing frantically against the powerful suction of the sinking giant. The tiled floor of the swimming pool met him and all he could do was twist desperately sideways into a gap between the crossing orbital rings. An oddly dull, clunking sound rang out as Imperfect Atom struck the bottom; accompanied by a sharp, piercing, terrible pain in Neal's right ankle.

He clamped down on his involuntary yell as hard a he could; with crystal clarity aware that he must not waste any precious air now. Turning and wriggling in the limited space between the thick, intertwined orbital rings and the more thinner braces of the central core he managed to get a look down his leg. With almost unbelievable luck the sculpture had not come down directly on his limb but trapped his ankle in the triangle formed by an "electron" ball, its orbit ring and the swimming pool floor. Knowing he had no choice if he wanted to survive Neal gritted his teeth and pulled, nearly blackening out from the pain. He pulled again and again in growing panic when his leg refused to come free, jamming his free foot against the ball and grabbing at the surrounding rings for leverage, white-hot pain exploding up from his ankle and engulfing his whole body as he twisted and bucked like a fish on a line. And his foot wouldn't come free. His foot wouldn't come free! Wouldn't come –

The sound of something breaking through the surface jerked Neal momentarily out of his panic, and flinging his head up and around he saw Peter diving towards him in a silver cloud of bubbles, sans jacket and shoes. Waving and pointing wildly Neal could have wept with gratitude as the other man understood and adjusted his angle, a quick arm stroke and kick of stockinged feet bringing him to the bottom by Neal's trapped limb. Reaching between the rings he ripped off shoe and sock in one fluid motion then planted his feet and hauled upwards at the hulking sculpture while Neal started struggling madly again, trying to pull his naked foot through the too tight gap. But more than two tons were more than two tons even in water. Imperfect Atom didn't even budge at Peter's efforts and realizing that he still couldn't get free Neal started kicking wildly and desperately against anything within reach, the ball, the rings, even Peter's thigh when he missed his intended targets. His lungs burned, burned, oh god, he needed to breathe and Peter had given up and was rising to the surface while lack of oxygen had black spots dancing in front of Neal's eyes, he was abandoning him, was abandoning him and he needed air, he didn't want to die, didn't want to die like this, needed air, had to inhale, now – now –! Hands grabbed Neal's head, wrenching it around and through a black-flecked tunnel he saw Peter's face right in front of him before the older man closed in and molded his own mouth over Neal's, exhaling sharply. Neal was so startled that most of this first, sweet, unbelievably wonderful stream of air went to waste before he thought to inhale it. Peter's lips closed against his for a purposeful heartbeat until he was sure that Neal had shut his mouth securely. Then he was gone, slithering backwards out of the cage of metal rings, discarding his shoulder holster as he went and kicking off for the surface.

Neal watched with burning lungs as Peter almost immediately turned again, made one stroke, two and wound his way through the rings, reaching greedily for him and pulling him in the last few inches until their lips met… Air, wonderful, wonderful air, soothing his aching chest as little as it was and Peter pulled away all too soon, wriggled backwards and pushed off for the surface, breathed and came down again. This exchange went much more smoothly now, the fusion of lips and breath already following an established rhythm. Peter slid in along the bottom the next time because there they could avoid a pesky little brace of the central globe and Neal released the old breath in perfect timing before receiving the next. His lungs still burned, panic still lurked at the corners of his mind but he was able to watch with a measure of control as Peter stayed longer at the surface this time, taking several deep, heaving breaths before coming down again. This round he squeezed Neal's neck hard just before letting go and instead of going straight up he kicked for the edge of the pool, swinging himself up and out of sight.

And Neal understood. Of course. Peter had thought he was unconscious, floating at the bottom of the pool and had jumped in to drag him out without calling for help first.

He could picture him vividly, lunging for his discarded jacket and his cellphone, despite all hurry careful, oh so careful, not to drip too much water on it, calling 911, gasping into the phone "My CI is trapped underwater..." Or would it be "my partner"? Would he say "my friend"? Neal didn't know if it was possible to cry underwater without drowning but if it was he was probably doing it now. He had once held his breath for 6 minutes and 20 seconds during a heist but that had been after intensive training and careful preparation. And it had been nothing like these endless, endless seconds, trapped as he was at the bottom of the pool, helpless to do anything but watch and wait (and drown but no, no he wasn't thinking that) until Peter dove back into the water, swimming towards the sculpture with wide, desperate strokes, winding through the rings with fear in his eyes and fear on his face. Fear he might have taken too long, might have lost the race against time; fear that turned to blind, terrible, bone-weakening relief as Neal reached for him and hauled him close, clumsy in his haste. Lips met and breath and Neal had not been aware how desperately he clung to Peter until the other man caught his wrists and wrenched his hands forcefully away so he could slide out again and rise back to the surface.

Up and down, up and down, again and again and again. In the crystal quality of the swimming pool water Neal saw how drawn Peter's face had become and the next time he came down he banged his head so heavily against one of the rings as he tried to slip inside that he had to pause and reorient himself before finding the right opening again. Up and down, up and down, breath for life-saving breath. Each time he wound his way inside the sculpture he looked older, and grayer. An old, exhausted man whose movements became more and more sluggish and uncoordinated, who now hit his head and shoulders and elbows frequently against the unyielding metal of the rings as he fought his way inside and out again.

Neal saw it, saw it all and knew that the heroic, the noble thing to do would be to shove him away, to signal him to save his own life lest they both drowned in the end. He knew it and he couldn't do it. Couldn't stop himself from reaching greedily for him every time he was close enough, from clinging desperately to the only lifeline he had until Peter forced off his hands. Couldn't help resenting each additional breath Peter took at the surface, each additional second he got to spend there and breathe – breathe! – while he was trapped here, waiting, waiting, scared, so terribly scared…

Shadows moving at the edge of the pool, grotesquely distorted by the water. Muted sound like shouting, the dull splat as Peter turned again from the surface and kicked to propel himself down towards the sculpture. Neal grabbed for him and received his lips as eager as always but his heart drummed suddenly with new hope. This time Peter didn't need to wrench away his hands and it was just as well because he seemed barely able to gather enough strength to kick off from the bottom. Hectic activity had broken loose at the side of the pool, irregular shapes flitting and jumping. Neal couldn't make any sense of it and he was too out of it to try any longer. Peter was coming down again, laboriously dragging himself close but the stream of air he blew into Neal's mouth reliable as ever. Pulling away his hand squeezed the back of Neal's neck infinitely reassuring just as a loud splash signaled the arrival of a diver.

The man oriented himself, shot forward with a flap of his flippers and Neal almost sobbed with relief at the sight of the oxygen tank on his back or the second mouthpiece he was holding out to him through the bars of his prison. And then unlimited air was filling his lungs for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. Sweet, free air that finally, finally chased away the black shadows from his vision and the tightness out of his chest. The diver tapped his wrist warningly to keep him from breathing too fast and with an enormous effort Neal restrained his greed and giddiness and gave the man a thumps up.

His gaze was drawn past his rescuer as a second diver entered the water then searched the place where Peter was bobbing at the surface, his feet kicking feebly. Right then he seemed to react to something called to him because he started paddling slowly towards the edge of the pool. But he also went under twice within the first few seconds, sending a jolt of alarm through Neal's stomach. The diver with him had seen it too and was signaling sharply to his partner who immediately reversed direction and assisted the exhausted FBI agent. Blurred shapes stood ready to drag him out of the pool and yet the worst moments for Neal were the few seconds Peter was lying half in and half out before he was pulled out completely.

For some reason this was the image he kept seeing, in those long minutes while the second diver inspected Imperfect Atom and then started rigging up a complicated system of nylon straps running up out of the pool: Peter's long legs floating horribly limp and lifeless in the water before vanishing over the edge clearly not of their own accord.

He didn't even appreciate the irony that the straps were obviously secured to the fork of the very same fork-lift truck that had landed him and the sculpture in the water in the first place. He did wonder – briefly – what had happened to the greedy contractor driving it whose tax manipulations and other illegal activities had brought them to Max Andrews's former-warehouse-about-to-turn-luxury-apartments-i ncluding-sculpture-lined-swimming-pool in the first place. For that matter he wondered also – equally briefly – what Max Andrews would have to say about his favorite sculpture he had presented them so proudly on their first visit taking a bath. Had to be the prolonged lack of oxygen talking. Or maybe the cold because he was starting to get really cold although the water was supposed to be heated. Then they were not so much lifting Imperfect Atom as tilting it and he yelled despite the mouthpiece as the first diver hooked a hand under his knee and pulled his foot free.

Through a haze of pain he became aware that they were rising, the surface that had been oh so distant for so long rushing towards him and then his head broke the silver mirror and air slapped in his face. Air! And sound. A huge wave of sound; of voices, shouts, rumbling engines so unbelievably loud after the stillness at the bottom of the pool. Neal could only blink dazedly as the two divers towed him the short distance to the edge where many hands pulled him finally out of the water. And try as they might to stabilize his ankle as they did, the pain it caused still propelled him in a tunnel of whirling black and white spots.

He came to again, nauseous and miserable, lungs working frantically and absolutely ecstatic about that. He was breathing. He was breathing! He was alive! Drunkenly rolling his head from one side to the other his silly smile abruptly faded as he caught sight of Peter through a gap in the people surrounding him. Peter, lying a few steps away under a blanket, his feet elevated and a fireman holding an IV bag squatting at his side. Neal would have struggled up then but right at this moment they probed his ankle and his vision washed out again, not returning until he got loaded into an ambulance.

The trip to the hospital was absolutely terrible. Neal had had no idea streets in New York were so much in need of repair. But at least he got some reassurance from the guy sitting with him that Peter was supposed to be alright, just exhausted and dizzy. He didn't know if he believed him. Arrival at the hospital meant more rattling and shaking but also finally some real, heavy-duty painkillers and – after an agonizingly long time of prodding and probing and X-rays and doctors talking to him as well as about him as if he wasn't there – the by then more than welcome oblivion of anesthetic.

Later…

Neal blinked and opened his eyes, vaguely aware that he had been awake for some time but also not. He remembered talking to some nurse and the fascinating procession of ceiling lights above him as he was pushed down corridors and taken in and out of elevators. The nurse had had very nice dimples when she smiled. There was also the dull discomfort of a strapped up leg, the dim recollection of a doctor informing him happily that the whatever bones and so-and-so tissue in his right ankle had suffered this something-or-other damage they had been able to repair and that he would regain full use of his leg but might have acquired a fine detector for weather changes. The doctor seemed to have thought this a great joke. He also remembered a second voice, asking the questions he was at the time just thinking but somehow not able to ask, a voice that…

Neal abruptly turned his head. The room was dim but the reading light of the bed beside his own was on and fell on the man sitting up in it and working quietly through a crossword puzzle. Having noticed the movement Peter looked up and around and smiled.

"Hey, Neal. You fully with us again?"

For a moment Neal was absolutely and completely at a loss for words. Then he swallowed and nodded.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. But what about you? When they pulled me out I saw you and … and you…"

Peter grimaced.

"Hyperventilated for too long, apparently. Knocked me flat the moment I was out of the water. You know, I've heard about feeling like your body has turned to jelly but experiencing it was kind of enlightening."

"Oh," Neal made not very intelligently. He hesitated but the images ghosted again through his mind – Peter's legs drifting in the water, the fireman with the IV bag – and he simply had to ask, "But now you are OK, aren't you? You didn't have – have had a heart attack or something … right?"

Peter gave him a funny look then his eyes softened.

"I'm fine, Neal, really. Agreeing to be observed overnight comforted El and besides, this way I got first-hand knowledge how your surgery went. Well – by the way, I don't know how much you took in while the doctor was here."

"I got the gist of it." Neal smiled. "Apparently I'll still be able to jump tram cars in the future."

"THAT," Peter insisted quietly, "is not funny."

"Sorry." Neal was silent for a time, looking at the scratches from fingernails faintly visible on both sides of Peter's neck and jaw in the dim light, then he abruptly choked out, "Peter –"

"It's alright, Neal," Peter interrupted him very gently.

"But –"

"It's alright."

And inhaling a deep, wonderful breath that would take a long, long time to be ordinary again Neal knew that it was.

The end.