I do not own White Collar, regrettably. All recognizable characters belong to Jeff Eastin. Please review and comment!

Two men took the elevator to the third floor of the apartment building at 2:25 in the afternoon. One wore a tie with a hidden microphone transmitter, the other a tracking anklet tucked under long pants. The man with the anklet flipped his hat off and then back on before picking up a nondescript briefcase and following his partner out of the elevator, expressing his wish for a cup of coffee. The man with the tie snorted and then tapped his tie. They went to the third door down and knocked on the residence of one A. Smith. Outside the building, a block away, a white van was parked alongside the curb. It was full of monitors, recording equipment, and two federal agents listened in on the conversation taking place, waiting for something to happen.

They didn't have to wait long.

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Peter raced down the last flight of stairs, out the front doors, and around the corner of the building, hearing shots ring out behind him. A bullet winged the edge of the building, shooting brick and plaster shards into his face even as he brought up a hand. He rounded the corner, cursing his suit pants and coat.

Damn this sting operation!

He looked behind him for a moment to see Neal several feet behind him.

"Diana, we're rounding the south entrance."

"We have people ready and Jones and I are pulling up now. Take the alley to your left."

He heard feet behind him, and he sprinted down the narrow alley, seeing police cars and the van ahead. Something streaked past him to his right, and he turned his head to see Neal racing past him, suit barely hindering the kid. Peter swore as his dress shoe caught on a cobblestone, and Neal slowed for a moment to grab him before he fell.

"Move!" Neal yanked him forward, blue eyes slightly panicked as a cluster of guys came around the corner with guns in hand. Peter automatically reached for his handgun before remembering it was in the van.

More gunshots rang out as they reached the blockade, and Neal vaulted a barrier with only a slight stumble before reaching out a hand to Peter, the other clamped firmly around the wrapped painting. Peter made it over and turned to see their armed pursuers stop dead as they saw the three police cars and the handful of FBI vehicles blocking their path. It would have been funny if his heart weren't still racing. Jones and a group of other agents cuffed them before tucking them into police cars.

"Let's see...Attempted murder of a federal agent, larceny, and-" Peter watched as one of the guys attempted to kick Diana as she stuffed him in the backseat. "Resisting arrest. Not to mention a handful of other things." He turned to look at Neal, who was perched on the edge of the barricade, one hand tucked under his suit jacket.

"Caffrey, anything you'd like to add?"

Neal shifted on the barrier and looked up at Peter.

"Painting's there." He touched it lightly with a foot. "Young Woman with a Water-" He coughed and then hunched over. "Classic Vermeer." He raised his fingers up to eye level and Peter saw the tips were coated in blood.

"Neal!" Peter grabbed Neal's arm and eased him to the ground. "Somebody call a bus!"

"They're already en route, we called after we heard the first shot." Diana was hovering over his shoulder.

"Good," Peter muttered distractedly, peeling back Neal's suit jacket. The crisp white shirt underneath was marred with a deep red stain creeping along his friend's left side. He finally managed to locate the source of the bleeding, which was just under his partner's ribcage.

"Damnit, Neal."

Neal blinked slowly. "Guess it winged me when I was getting over. S'not-" He coughed again, deep and wet. "Not so bad."

"Not so bad?" Peter said, incredulous. He grabbed Neal's jacket and pressed it down, hard. Neal grunted and curled in on himself.

"Two minutes out, Peter." Diana pushed Neal down so he was flat on his back. "Hang in there, Caffrey."

Neal looked up at Peter with confusion. "You're bleeding."

"I'm pretty sure you are right now, buddy, not me." Neal's arm came up, one bloody finger hovering around Peter's temple.

"There."

Peter wiped his face on his sleeve and saw red. "Must've caught some debris with the side of my face. It's fine." He lifted the jacket to look at the wound.

"It's slowing." Peter looked at Diana. "That's a good thing, right?" She pursed her lips.

"It depends on how much blood he's lost." Both of them looked at the ground, which was staining rust red. They sat in silence for a moment until Peter looked down and saw Neal's eyes slipping closed. He tapped Neal's face.

"Hey. No sleeping." One bleary blue eye peered up at him.

"Wasn't sleeping. Resting."

"Right now there isn't really a difference. Talk, Caffrey." Neal's head rolled back against the ground.

"About what?"

"I don't care," Peter said in desperation. "Tell me about painting."

"S' great. You should... try it sometime. There's just you and your thoughts-" Neal choked on a breath- "and the brush. I like oil best, but it's so...fussy."

"Why?" Peter asked, desperate to keep Neal conscious.

"...All the details. The process." His eyes slipped shut for a moment and then refocused on Peter, who realised that Diana had disappeared.

"Sorry, I might have bled on the painting."

Peter felt the corner of his mouth twitch up in a smile. Trust Neal to be worried about the art more than himself.

"We'll figure something out. I don't think this is coming out, though." He gestured to the ruined shirt.

"No," Neal said, relaxing as the sound of sirens wailed in the distance. "I doubt it will. I liked this tie." He paused for a breath.

"June won't be-"

"I think she'll just be happy you're alright."

"Don't count your chickens, Peter." He winced as Peter pushed down harder abruptly, giving his partner a glare.

"I'm not going to let you disappoint June."

Neal coughed again, wet and deep, and a trickle of blood crept up the fabric between Peter's fabric and onto his fingers. He tried to adjust his hands but Neal winced. Peter froze.

"Neal?"

"What, Peter?"

"Lie still, okay? Keep breathing." Peter's voice shook and he cursed himself as Neal looked alarmed. He hadn't come this far with Caffrey just to loose him to stupid art thieves and their sloppy work escaping.

"You're the one...mashing my side…" Peter didn't find the sarcasm reassuring.

"You act like you want to bleed out."

Neal smiled like his mouth weighed a couple pounds more than usual.

"Listen, Peter…I just want to say thanks."

"Ah, nope." Peter removed a hand just enough to tap a clean finger on Neal's nose, startling the consultant. "Cowboy up, Neal, because you're not dying here today. I'm not going to hear any more of whatever you're going to try."

Tired blue eyes met blazing brown ones. A war of wills.

Peter tried not to think about the opposition.

Neal's head rolled back onto the gravel as an ambulance pulled to a stop at the curb and two EMS workers jumped out with a gurney, led over by Diana. Peter moved out of their way as they surrounded Neal in a bustle of activity, ignoring the dampness of drying blood between his fingers.

"What've we got?"

"Male, late 20's, GSW to the left side. Bleeding is controlled for now. Patient is unresponsive to stimuli."

Peter felt as though his heart was suddenly and abruptly filling with icy water. He pushed back over to Neal, who was pale and still.

"Neal?!"

No no no no no no no

Someone caught his sleeve. It was the female paramedic, whose nametag said Mary.

"He's just unconscious right now. We need to move him to the ambulance, quickly, to get him set up with a blood transfusion." Peter walked with the gurney until they reached the bus, where he stopped to take in the name of the hospital.

"Sir, he's awake. And asking for you."

Peter went to the back of the ambulance, where Neal was being loaded. Neal looked half-buried amongst the numerous tubes and wires, but his chest rose and fell reassuringly. Peter let out a sigh.

"Neal?"

"Peter?" Neal tipped his head back as Mary joined him. "What's happening?"

"You were shot, Neal, remember? They're taking you to the hospital and I'll be behind you as soon as I can."

"Could you-could you call Mozzie for me?"

"Sure, Neal."

The other paramedic moved to the front of the ambulance and climbed in the driver's seat. "You can ride with us and get that gash looked at. Come on."

Peter waved to Diana and then climbed up inside, taking a seat across from Neal, who looked half-asleep as the doors closed behind them. The ambulance started up and then set off, siren wailing. Mary took a seat next to Peter and began cleaning his gash.

"He's unconscious but stable. Is there any family members you'd like to call for him?" Peter looked at Neal, illuminated by the harsh lighting.

"No, there aren't any to call. Just my wife and his friend."

Mary frowned and then considered Peter's head. "You shouldn't need stitches. I'll tape it up for you and we can take it from there." She looked at Neal, who was now sleeping.

"He's lucky. The bullet went between two ribs." She affixed a butterfly bandage to his forehead and went back to Neal. All he could see of his consultant was a swath of dark hair and the lax side of his face, looking drawn and flat, a far cry from his usual animated self.

His hands felt numb as he flipped through his contacts to call Elizabeth and Mozzie. The sound of the siren wailing loudly pushed away all feelings of luck Peter might have had.

Neal shouldn't have gotten shot at all.