Chapter 1: Wrong End of a Loaded Gun
Everything felt surreal to him. Peter began to question every action that led up to this moment. Question every choice and bad decision that ended him on the wrong end of a loaded gun. He should've trusted his instincts. He should have called for backup when he had the chance.
The New York City night air felt cold and dead against his skin. A stillness in the night made the world seem frozen in unearthly calm. Lights from the buildings surrounding them burned brightly, yet didn't shine down on them. Dampness clung to the concrete and metal, wetting the pavements and streetlamps. The alleyway where Peter was, smelled of rotting trash soaked through with two day old rain water. In a city that never slept, tonight was uneasily calm, as if it knew violence lingered close by.
Footsteps echoed in the darken alley. The man holding the gun pistol whipped him across his face. The force of the impact knocked him off balance and he stumbled backwards against the side of the building. The man hit him again, this time with a fist the size of a sledgehammer. Peter slumped limply into the trash littered alleyway. He took a hard breath, his lungs trying to retain oxygen for his depleted body. Simply breathing hurt.
Warm blood began to trickle down the side of his cheek from the gun lashing. It burned achingly. Peter gazed up at the barrel of the gun from the cold, wet ground. He had been in this kind of situation before. He knew what it felt like. Except it never felt more real to him than now.
The bad guy having the upper hand, a gun pointed at him, usually with the potential shooter looking for a quick escape. Not too many cold-blooded killers were suspects in the white collar division of the FBI. So Peter was lucky most of the time, without bullets, without bloodshed.
Except this time, it was no conman or thief holding a gun on him. It was a ruthless killer. The tattoos on his knuckles and trailing up his neck symbolized that. The loaded revolver glared at him in the sheen of the nightlight. The killer's cold eye glittered with malice.
"You don't want to do this…" Peter rasped out. His jaw aching from the blow to the face as he hissed out through gritted teeth, "I'm an FBI agent. If you kill me…" he hesitated, stressing every syllable, "there will be consequences."
The killer cocked an unimpressed eyebrow, "I hope so, Agent Burke."
The gun shot blast scared him more than the bullet that was fired. Peter felt his body jerk back uncontrollably, his head slamming into the brick building behind him. His body went limp and useless from the sudden shock. Peter had never been shot before. He didn't know what to expect. Maybe to have his life flash before his eyes before greeting death? Images of the people he loved and cared for more than anything else in the world. He saw his wife's face for a heartbeat, seeing a glimpse of her soft smile and remembering her warm, gentle embraces.
Then Peter saw another face… one that he responded to instantly. His heart sparked to life in his chest, willing him to live just a few moments longer. He breathed out through broken, bloody lips, fighting for air. Fighting to stay strong, fighting to stay alive. Blood began pooling from the wound, seeping through his shirt.
Images of those brilliant blue eyes and handsome face were instilled in his mind. Neal…
A sudden feeling of regret and fear washed over him those final moments. He wanted to tell Neal so much. He wanted to see him, hear his voice, talk to him one last time but he feared he would never get that chance. Peter didn't want to leave this world without being with Neal… His heart ached with a longing he'd never experienced before. It pained him more than the bullet in his chest.
He clutched a desperate hand over his heart, bunching his bloodied shirt in his hand, trying to resist the urge to faint from the pain overwhelming him. The taste of blood was metallic and bitter in his mouth. Damnit, he should have listened to his gut. He should have known not to trust so easily. Neal warned him not to do pursue this case… Neal tried to stop him…
Peter's last moment of life were thinking of Neal. His partner, his friend… and yet he had become so much more than any of that. Peter didn't understand fully from the weakness and pain overcoming his senses and judgment.
He gazed up one last time, locking eyes with the killer, wanting to remember the face of the man who killed him. The dark eyes gleamed down on him and the gun blast echoed through the alleyway, sending Peter off into the black oblivion of nothing.
He dreamed of Neal. It was so vivid and real, that Peter could smell him. Neal's crystal blue eyes were intent with a determination and strength looking down on him. Peter only stared back, unable to respond, unable to move. He felt powerless. He struggled, wanting to reach out and grasp the face of the man whom he considered more than a friend. But he couldn't. It hurt too much… Darkness blanketed him and Peter slipped back into nothing.
Neal waited. He watched as doctors, nurses, FBI agents and countless other people swarm and gather around Peter's hospital room. First, just the doctors and Elizabeth were allowed to see him. He was in critical condition in the ICU and any further people in the room could complicate an already delicate matter. So Neal waited in the lobby. Mozi sat besides him, unusually quiet for the normally talkative conman. Except now, neither of them had anything to say.
People in FBI jackets flooded the waiting room, including Jones and Diana, both of whom looked anxious and miserable. Neal felt stone-like. A statue made of marble as he sat, quietly and patiently with the others, waiting to hear news about Peter's fragile condition.
He wouldn't let himself feel anything. Neal couldn't. It hurt too much to feel at the moment. All he could do from breaking down was imaging himself elsewhere- somewhere far away… anywhere but here. Anywhere except where the unbearable pain was. And the fear… God, he was terrified. He was scared of losing the one man he'd come to rely on and more importantly trust. But he couldn't think that, he wouldn't, not now, not yet.
A few hours ago Peter had been taken into surgery where doctors planned to remove two slugs from his chest. Now everyone waited in breathless anticipation. Dreading the outcome yet hoping for a miracle.
Neal, the statue, waited.
Suddenly a nurse from the surgery came through the double doors. FBI agents flanked her, Neal and Mozie jumped to their feet.
"He's out of surgery- still in critical condition…" the nurse took a deep breath, calming herself as she addressed the worried on-lookers. "But the doctors' are hopeful. Very hopeful," she smiled weakly. "He's a fighter."
The whole room seemed to fill with a sigh of relief. Mozie too relaxed slightly. Neal on the other hand…
He excused himself from Mozie and the others. Mozie tried to stop him but he brushed his friend's hand away and left the lobby.
Neal found a private bathroom to an empty hospital room. The moment he turned the lock to the bathroom every single emotion he had felt in the past hour overwhelmed him.
Knees buckling, Neal sank to the bathroom tile like dead weight. Back slumped against the door, legs outstretched, hands fisted against his mouth, preventing the cry from escaping him. Instead a low, whimpering moan came out as tears streaked down his face.
He almost lost Peter. Another cry racked his body. Peter's broken ad bloodied body haunted him. Seeing the thick red blood staining through his clothes as Peter's body was rolled past him to surgery. Neal could only watch in horror and disbelief. He never thought in a million years that he would see Peter strapped to a hospital bed, covered in blood, inches from death. Deep down, Neal had always thought he would be the first one there, covered in the blood, about to die- not Peter. Never Peter.
But it was Peter. The man who had completely changed his life for the better. The man whose commanding presence and easy smile could calm or take charge of a crowded room. Neal had always been able to pull off a charm or two. Peter on the other hand, though he tried to fly under the radar, had an unusual ability to draw a person in, pull them in just by his natural charisma. Maybe that was what Neal found exciting about working with Peter.
Everything that happened tonight- Peter's near death, to the emotions crushing Neal now, crystallized something important for him. He was irrevocably and had unintentionally fallen in love with Peter in the course of their partnership.
He always knew he had feelings for Peter. After the death of Kate and the realization that Peter had become an important person to him, made Neal question everything. Right down to his sexuality. He'd always been irresistible to women and on occasions, men. Yet Neal was never drawn to anyone like he was to Peter. The way he moved, spoke, acted… everything fascinated and allured him. He had surprised himself when he realized his sudden new physical attraction to the FBI agent as well.
He became aroused just by the slightest touch or smile sent his way. At first it drove Neal mad, and he did everything in his power to resist- but now, he'd grown used to the heat he felt towards him. The chemistry always sparkled between them. Peter just chose to never acknowledge it. And Neal wanted him with a blistering intensity he had never felt with anyone in his entire life.
The heel of Neal's palms pressed into his closed eye-lids. He had never felt this out of control. But he needed to be honest with himself.
He needed to step away from this. He needed to get away from the raw emotions that kept bubbling to the surface.
Neal bit back another groan. He knew he had to make a choice right now in order to save whatever partnership and trust he had earned with Peter. He couldn't and wouldn't jeopardize that, it had become too important to lose. Neal just hadn't realized how deep his emotions ran until this moment. The idea of loosing Peter… Neal's body trembled, clenching his teeth, holding back another burst of emotion.
He sighed heavily. Peter would be angry- possibly downright murderous. But Neal made his choice, sitting on the cold tiles of the hospital bathroom.
He would separate himself from Peter entirely- including their friendship. He would be there when he could for Peter in recovery but until he was fully recovered- Neal would have to slowly detach himself. He needed to do this for his sanity. And for his heart because the truth was Peter would never see beyond their friendship. Neal couldn't delude himself any longer on that hard fact. Loving someone who could never feel the same made another tear slide down his face.
TBC