In case there's any confusion: I don't own White Collar
A man's dying is more his survivor's affair than his own.
Thomas Mann,
German novelist, short story writer, social critic, philanthropist and essayist
How did I not see this coming? Special Agent Peter Burke wonders as he stares down the barrel of a gun. One second he and Neal are talking to their informant, the next the man draws a gun and points it straight at their faces. Peter lifts his hands in a placating manner.
"We can talk about this. There is no need for violence."
The guy only smirks. His gloved fingers twitch on the trigger.
Peter jumps aside on instinct, seeking cover behind a couch, and draws his own weapon.
Unfortunately, the other man is faster. Peter hears a muffled shot and the thud of a body hitting the ground, followed by quickly receding footsteps. His eyes widen in horror. Neal!
Peter looks around the corner of the couch and tries to aim at the fleeing form. His line of fire is blocked by some kind of sculpture. Damn it!
"Freeze! FBI! Drop the gun and lift your hands so I can see them!" Peter shouts, but the man doesn't react. He just keeps keeps striding towards the balcony doors. He's almost out of sight when Peter pulls the trigger.
The man yelps, but disappears from view before Peter has the chance to fire again.
Diana and Jones are the first ones to burst through the door, guns first and faces determined.
"Freeze! FBI! Drop your weapon!"
Peter has never been more thankful to see his team, yet he barely notices the agents that storm into the room. His eyes are focused on Neal, who lies prone on the floor, half hidden behind another monstrous sofa.
Neal, who has yet to move again.
"Neal?" Peter tries.
There is no response.
"Neal?" he tries again, louder this time.
Nothing. Not even a stir.
Peter's heartbeat quickens. He crawls over to the motionless form of his partner and hesitates a moment, to brace himself for the worst before he grabs Neal's shoulder and rolls his limp body very carefully onto his back. He presses two fingers against Neal's throat and sighs with relief. The steady pulsing beneath his fingers is barely perceptible, but it's there.
His elation, however, is short-lived as he discovers a ragged hole in his partner's suit jacket, right below the ribs. He swiftly unbuttons the jacket and pushes the fabric aside. Damn!
"Somebody get a doctor in here!" he calls out to his agents without averting his gaze from Neal. He swallows hard, when he takes in the dark crimson stain that is steadily spreading on Neal's pristine white shirt. Absurdly, it reminds him of the time someone spilled a glass of red wine on Neal during a sting, who then had to walk around in a stained suit the whole evening. Neal was not amused and sulked about with a petulant look on his face.
Diana and Peter had a good laugh about that...
This time it's not funny. Not in the slightest.
And this is definitely not the right time to be thinking about such trivialities, Peter reminds himself.
He shakes his head and tries to focus on what he knows about the treatment of gunshot wounds. He has to stop the bleeding. That much is obvious.
Peter presses his hands on the wound as hard as he can. Neal's body twitches slightly.
Peter tries to address him again. "Neal?" Pale eyelids flutter. "Neal? Can you hear me?"
Neal groans and his eyes open slightly.
"Everything's gonna be okay," Peter tells him.
Another groan. Neal's eyes are still half-closed.
Peter feels Diana's presence behind him, but he doesn't turn around.
"Help's on its way, Boss," she announces in a slightly shaky voice. Peter doesn't answer her. His attention is too focused on the warm, sticky liquid that's briskly coating his fingers. His hands don't suffice to keep the blood loss at bay. He needs something to absorb the blood. A towel, a cloth...The first absorbent thing within reach happens to be a fancy little sofa cushion. That will have to do.
Neal gasps out and squeezes his eyes shut, as Peter presses the pillow against his oozing wound.
"Look at me, buddy!" Peter implores him. "I need you to look at me."
Neal pries his eyes open again and holds Peter's gaze, albeit with obvious difficulty. Peter's breath hitches in his throat. He can practically see life leaving his friend. It's rapidly fading from those usually bright and vibrant blue eyes. Now they're dimming, struggling to focus.
They're running out of time.
All too soon the pillow is soaked; Neal is bleeding too much. Peter grabs another one and Neal's eyes drift closed again. This time the young man doesn't even wince, when Peter uses all his might to press the wound shut. Somewhere in the background he can hear Jones' booming voice shouting orders.
"Hang on kid. You're gonna be okay," Peter tries to soothe Neal, and himself for that matter, although the ever-growing pool of blood beneath them indicates otherwise. How long since Neal has been hit? Two minutes? Five? A lifetime? With each passing second he's slipping further away.
"Where are the goddamn paramedics?" he barks at no one in particular. Now is not the time to be diplomatic.
"I don't know," Diana whispers and gets down on her knees beside her two colleagues. Her two friends. She takes one of Neal's hands in both of hers and gasps. Peter throws her a questioning look.
"His skin is so cold," she explains in a whisper. Peter reaches out to touch Neal's cheek. Diana is right. Neal is cold. In fact, he's almost as cold as a- No! Peter wills his mind to not go there. He lets his fingers slide down Neal's damp skin, towards his throat, and checks his pulse. Frantic, but weak. Neal's heart is pumping like crazy to make up for the lack of oxygen due to blood loss, only to cause even more blood to spill out of the wound. A classical vicious circle.
Peter frowns. Rapid heartbeat, shallow breathing, cold and clammy skin... The pieces fall into place. Those are typical symptoms of a-
"Shock!" Peter gasps out and removes his jacket. He drapes it over Neal's shivering form. "He's going into shock! We need to keep him warm!"
Diana sheds her jacket as well, and places it under Neal's head. She strokes a few strands of hair out of his damp forehead. "You're gonna be okay, Neal."
Her voice sounds unusually soft.
"Kkk..Ka...Ka...Kate?" Neal croaks, breath rattling in his throat. "Kate?"
Peter and Diana exchange a look. "No Neal. It's Diana and Peter," Peter explains, distress obvious in his voice.
Neal talking to dead people is not a good sign.
"P..P...Pet'r? Where's Ka...te?"
The weak, barely audible whisper of Neal's voice is accompanied by a strange gurgling sound that sends chills down Peter's spine. Before he can come up with an answer to Neal's question, the young man starts choking and twisting. He coughs up blood, lots of blood, that's bubbling on his lips and trickling down the corner of his mouth. Peter shivers.
He tries to sit Neal up so he can breathe better, but the twitching body complicates the matter. With Diana's help Peter manages to hoist Neal into a somewhat stable position against his chest. Neal's fingers clench weakly into the fabric of his sleeves in the desperate need to hold onto something, as agony passes through him.
After one last, heavy convulsion Peter feels Neal's body slacken in his arms.
"Neal?" No reaction. "Come on, Neal! Answer me!" he growls and suppresses the urge to shake his friend till he responds. "Damn it! Don't you die on me!"
Diana leans forward and puts two shaky fingers on Neal's throat. It takes Peter a moment to realize that she's searching for a pulse.
"Peter, I-," Diana starts, but the paramedics come rushing in before she can finish her sentence. Peter is thankful for that. He's not sure he wants to hear what she has to say. Ignorance is bliss.
Peter struggles to his feet and takes a few steps back, to make room for the paramedics, but his eyes never leave the horrid spectacle in the middle of the room. There's a lot of blood. It spreads everywhere, seeps into every corner and sullies everything on its way.
A dozen frenzied FBI agents leaving bloody footsteps on the white carpet.
A handful of bloodied paramedics working on a lifeless body.
A few blood-soaked pillows lying around.
A single fedora sitting faithfully next to its owner.
Peter averts his eyes from the bloodbath and looks down his own body. He's covered in blood. Neal's blood.
Jones appears next to him, seemingly out of nowhere, and puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. Peter lifts his head looks at his agent. He can see Jones lips move, but all he can hear is the frenetic beating of his heart behind his eardrums.
Babum.
Babum.
Babum.
Peter feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. He loosens his tie, not caring about the blood stains he leaves on it, and opens a few buttons of his already bloodied shirt. It doesn't help. He cannot breathe. He's suffocating.
Damn it! Peter draws in several deep breaths to calm his erratic heartbeat and get rid of the constricting sensation inside his chest.
That's when the smell hits him full force. The nauseating reek of blood fills his nostrils and clouds his thoughts. Coppery and penetrating. Neal's blood... Peter grabs a chair for support, when he feels his knees weaken and his stomach churn. An acid bile is slowly rising up his throat, burning his oesophagus. He futilely tries to swallow it back.
Ultimately, he doubles over and heaves up, again and yet again.
There are hands grabbing him, pulling him, pushing him.
He doesn't care.