Disclaimer: I do not own White Collar or any of its characters.
This is my first attempt at White Collar FanFiction, so please be gentle!
For now, this is only a one-shot, though it might eventually turn into more. I have a pretty lengthy backstory that leads into how Neal wound up here. If you'd like to read it, feel free to review and tell me!
Summary: Neal is dying, yet he's never felt more alive.
The Irony of Life
It shouldn't have been peaceful, lying there on that solid, icy pavement with rain falling steadily down from the night sky. The headlights from the distant highway should have reminded Neal of the places he would never go and the people he would never meet instead of making the empty parking lot feel like home. The foul smelling river rushing by a few feet away shouldn't have been luring him to a deep, never ending sleep. The blood seeping out of his once pristine white shirt should have alarmed him more.
Neal's life had always been full of should haves and could haves. Never once had he made a decision and didn't regret it later. There was no one moment in his life that he could look back on and not remember a slew of mistakes that either came before or after.
At least, not until now. Lying on the ground, feeling his life essence seep out of him and watching the rain splash against the frozen sidewalk felt real in a way nothing else ever had. It was ironic that it took dying for him to feel alive.
Neal had never been a hero. Not once in his brief life on this planet had he felt inclined to help someone or do anything remotely good. It was almost as although he had been building up his entire life to this one moment. Every single time he had looked the other way when a crime was committed, every time he committed a crime—it was all leading up to this one moment.
The scene around him was beginning to grow fuzzy on the edges, fading into a deep, unceasing darkness. It should have alarmed him, for it meant the end was near, but all he felt was an overwhelming sense of peace.
He could still make out distinct images—the harsh light from the parking lot light, a single rain drop falling quickly toward his face, the dark shadow of a person making his way toward him.
The last thing shattered the illusion of peace, ripping him from his blanket of detachment and forcing him back into a world of fear and cold and pain.
Neal let out a soft whimper as the pain in his chest roared back to life, looking for vengeance for being ignored for so long.
The person crouched down beside him, brushing a gentle hand against his neck, checking for a pulse. Neal hoped there wouldn't be one, that this person—whoever it was—would just leave and allow him to go back to the unfeeling, peaceful state he had been in.
He arched in pain as the person grazed a finger over the wound in his chest. It was feather-light contact, but it was enough to send lightning bolts of pain shooting through him.
The world went black momentarily, but it was a different type of darkness then the one he was looking for. This was an angry, painful darkness that only offered interminable suffering.
There was a sharp yell, muffled slightly by the darkness, and it took Neal a minute to realize that the cry had belonged to him.
Whispered apologies sounded above him, blending with the rain and the distant sounds of the highway.
The pain began to recede, enough for the darkness to abate and for him to be able to open the eyes he never realized he closed.
His unwanted rescuer's face swam into focus above him, illuminated by the harsh light of the street lamp nearby.
A faint chuckle forced his way past his lips. He should have known. There was only one person who would come in search of him on a night like tonight.
Peter.
His savior was talking again, saying words that he couldn't quite make out. It didn't matter—none of it did, anymore. It was too late for him. Neal had made his choice and now, it was his time to die.
At least he would die remembered.