"No, Neal. Hey. The hard part's over; we made it through the hard part. Eyes open, Neal. I need you to keep your eyes open."
Peter's authoritative voice masks how terrified he truly is, and in any other situation, Neal would be proud of him for conning him, but Peter doubts Neal is fully tracking.
"Neal. Eyes open, okay? Eyes open."
Peter applies more pressure to the gunshot wound in Neal's abdomen, using his balled up suit jacket to try and stop the bleeding. With the added pressure, Neal's face screws up in pain and he scrunches his eyes tighter. The whimper he lets out cuts Peter to the bone.
"Neal, open your eyes, please. Stay with me, Neal. Eyes open."
Neal gasps as he tries to inhale, his breath broken by a sob. He opens his eyes, and his gaze drifts a bit.
Peter can't help the panic that seeps into his voice this time.
"Neal. Neal."
Neal's eyes snap back to his, and Peter's got his full attention.
"The plane?"
Peter's heart sinks. It had been three years since the plane had exploded with Kate on it.
Neal must be able to read something in Peter's eyes, because he weakly clears his throat and mutters an apology. Peter can tell that the simple act of speaking is trying for Neal… and it's as if the young man is so damaged that he can't even think about words.
"It's okay. It's okay."
Neal licks his lips and takes a half-breath, his white, white face lined with pain and a sheen layer of sweat. Peter pushes Neal's damp locks out of his face but leaves his hand on Neal's head.
"Ju-" Neal is interrupted by a jagged breath, and he grips at the faded carpet beneath him for any sort of purchase, anything to alleviate his pain. Peter keeps one hand on the balled up jacket and removes his hand from Neal's forehead, instead taking the man's hand in his. He squeezes Neal's hand once to signal that Neal can squeeze back, that he can do anything if it helps.
Peter is expecting a bone-crushing grip because it is clear that Neal is in a lot of pain… but instead, he's met with a weak squeeze.
And this is definitely not making him feel any better.
"Julian?" Neal questions, his voice clipped. Peter involuntarily clutches Neal's hand tighter at the mention of the man..
"It's a shame we can't do business together, Julian." "Save it, Burke. Your FBI friends aren't here, and there is no reception in this building." Peter's heart was racing now as the man before him raised his gun. His gut told him that Julian wasn't bluffing, that Julian wouldn't hesitate to kill him. And facts about the man, about the mission, supported his claim. Evan Julian, 32, antiquities dealer. Julian, it appeared, was trying to build an underground railroad of sorts for stolen antiquities. He wanted the best of the best, demanded it. His business tactics were ruthless, and word on the street was that the kid felt he had something to prove, that he had a very violent disposition and was even sadistic in his methods of punishment. He left you either rich or bleeding. Arrogant, handsome, and sadistic, he'd been too busy trying to one-up Neal to hire him, and so Peter had stepped in. The mission was simple; get the job, plant as many bugs as possible, and get out. Somehow, and Peter meant to find out as soon as this was all over, Julian had discovered that he was FBI. Things had rapidly deteriorated from that point. Peter fought to keep his voice calm and his gaze level with Julian and not at the gun. Julian cocked his gun, and the bastard smiled. Peter knew he was going to die. He wished he could see Elizabeth one last time, tell her that he loved her. Wished he could tell Neal that- The gun went off, but strangely, Peter felt no pain. Because as suddenly as the gun was fired, he was face to face with Neal. Neal's blue eyes widened, shock apparent. His body tensed as he gripped on to Peter's shoulders. He gasped, a horrible sound, as he began to sink to the ground. Taking advantage of Neal's sacrifice, he pulled his gun from his waistband and fired two rapid shots at Julian, one striking him directly in the chest. Julian dropped just as Neal was dropping. Peter could only control Neal's fall, could only sink to the floor with him with both arms locked around the man. "No-no-no-no. Not you. Not you, Neal, not you.."
Peter's own gun was tucked into the back of his pants- if he could just get to it…
"No, no-no-no," Peter pleaded, his eyes wide and despairing in their shock. Neal had jumped in front of him. Neal was here and Neal had saved him and oh god, Neal. Peter used his left arm to grab on to the younger man.
"H-He's dead, I shot him," Peter rushes, the words tumbling from his mouth.
"Are…" Neal struggles for his breath, and his pain is palpable. "Are you okay…?"
Peter shakily exhales, clutching Neal's hand tighter. He realizes now that Neal isn't squeezing back at all.
"I'm fine, Neal, but you've lost a lot of blood. I can get us out of here. We can leave, I can get us out."
Peter is aware that he is rambling, but Neal has grown so quiet that he feels that he must fill the silence. And maybe if he keeps talking, if he convinces himself that it isn't that bad, he can convince Neal too. So again, he starts.
"I can get us out—Neal, hey, hey. I just can't do that if you're going to slip away as soon as I go."
His response is a watery smile from Neal, a smile so very out of place on Neal's pained and pale features.
"Trying… I'm trying. So hard, Peter… s'all cold here…" And with that, Neal's eyes slip shut, a brilliant sea of blue hidden.
"Neal?" Peter squeezes Neal's hand.
"Neal. The silent treatment isn't making me feel any better here. Come on, answer me. Answer me, Neal."
But Neal doesn't move, and dammit, there is so much blood. Peter thinks he's going to be sick.
"Neal!"
The sheer desperation in his voice must have frightened Neal because he pries his eyes open.
Peter huffs, letting his hand rest on Neal's chest for a moment.
He's terrified to leave Neal, but Neal is going to die if he doesn't get help.
Peter forces himself to take a deep breath. This can't be happening. Neal is on the floor in front of him bleeding out, and they have dinner plans with El tonight, and so Neal can't be bleeding out.
Not you, he thinks again.
"Why don't you talk to me? Just let me hear you while I'm fixing our way out of here, that way I don't have to double back and keep checking on you, huh?"
Neal nods minutely, and Peter can already tell that this is a horrible idea.
He takes Neal's bloody hands in his own and positions them over the balled-up suit jacket. He then covers Neal's hands in his own, using his own strength to guide Neal's in a desperate attempt to staunch the bleeding.
Neal cries out, his throat hoarse and the sound god-awful and weak. Peter curses.
"Neal. Look at me Neal."
Neal looks up at him, and there is such unwavering trust in those eyes that Peter has to look away.
The building is isolated from Julian's headquarters, and so it stands to reason that no one will come looking for them. It also stands to reason that the FBI van is by the main quarters which can't be more than a block out. All Peter has to do is get them here. Dammit, he doesn't want to leave Neal alone and vulnerable.
Dying.
Peter tries to push the thought from his head, but it's there and stubborn. Neal is bleeding out, could be dying, and Peter cannot leave him here to die.
The door to exit the building is locked with a keypad, and the windows are lock-and-key.
"Neal, how did you get into this building? Neal. Neal."
Neal thinks for a moment and takes a shuddering breath.
"Window," he explains. "Lock-picks… in- in my shoe."
Peter feels for the tools. He can pick his way out of the building and phone for back-up, and then he can stay with Neal until help arrives.
"Keep talking to me. I swear to God Neal. Keep talking to me. I don't care about what."
"'Kay," Neal huffs, his voice weaker than ever. His hands are slipping from their position over the bullet-wound, and Peter repositions them. He squeezes Neal's hands and reluctantly stands up, away from Neal. His hands are shaking as he spares one last glance at Neal. He then runs over to the window and makes to hoist himself up.
"Talk to me, Neal," he calls, his voice shaking now.
"'m not the…. best…. conversationalist at- at the moment," Neal responds.
"I'm sure that's not true. I'll deny saying this if you ever ask me about it, but your confidence skills and conversationalist skills terrify me on a daily basis."
Neal chortles at that one and then whimpers as his breath catches.
"Sorry, sorry," Peter laments, still working to pick the lock. His hands are shaking so badly.
"Dammit!" he exclaims.
And so Neal, bleeding and dazed on the floor, proceeds to give him instructions on how to pick the window. About two minutes later, the window is open and Peter has wedged his upper-torso outside. Like a miracle, his communication is back up.
He's met with Diana's throaty voice. "Boss?"
"Diana! I need EMS up here stat. Man down, Neal has been shot. Location is temporarily secured. We're in a back building about a block away from headquarters."
He hears typing in the background.
"I'm tracking Neal's anklet. We'll be right there."
Diana sounds like she wants to say more, but Peter doesn't give her the chance. Neal is inside, and Neal needs him. He rushes back inside, struggling to climb down the window. A part of him is waiting for Neal to make a joke about how old Peter is or something, but Neal is silent.
Peter sees him now as he finally makes it inside, and what he sees makes his blood run cold.
One of Neal's hands is still holding onto the balled up jacket, but the other is at his side, reaching for where Peter's hand was, his fingers curled in as if they were seeking Peter's
And Neal's eyes are open and unseeing, facing the ceiling above.
TBC. _
NOTE: I took an unintentional hiatus from writing for a while! I was in the midst of student teaching (oy!) and when holidays happened, and then alcohol and New Years happened. ;)
I'm trying to update and finish a lot of my stories though. See you all soon.