The sound of gunfire was ringing in his ears, reverberating in his skull to the steady rhythm of his heart. He felt sick, worse than he had in his entire life, his face hot and his body cold, his lungs heavy but his heart heavier. His stomach flipped at the sight of his partner. Said partner was out cold, bleeding out on the concrete in the basement of a deserted warehouse that hadn't seen life for decades. The condemned building seemed to beget darkness and death, and it seemed fitting that the place for Peter's life to end would be the place that seemed to have swallowed its own history and absorbed its past into its walls.
Neal couldn't think. There was so much blood, he knew that was bad. But he couldn't react, couldn't scream, couldn't breathe. His chest ached and he felt dizzy, and he fleetingly thought he was going to vomit. He huffed and wheezed past the lump in his throat, tears streaming down his cheek like they were in a race. He fell to his knees, unable to move, and sobbed. Too much time had passed; the team wasn't coming.
Neal doubted very much that it would matter. It was already too late.
He woke to moonlight drifting between the sheer curtains of his hotel room. The snow had accumulated on the windowsills overnight, casting a shadow over the white walls and grey sheets. The light in the kitchenette was on a timer, and as the clock ticked to eleven the light flickered out. Neal didn't miss the way his heart fluttered at that, the way it felt at home in the cold room sitting alone in the dark.
Ever since Peter had died, things had been different for him. At the office, at home, inside of his own mind. Hughes was brusque and the others were pitying. Elizabeth was angry that he didn't do more. No one understood him the way his partner had, and he'd eventually left. It was for the best, he'd memorized, that he left. He couldn't hurt anyone else.
There were storms inside of him. Some days he was windy, capricious, restless. Others he was thunder, angry at everything, everyone, himself. Most days, though, he was a blizzard. Snow fell all around him and numbed him to the things he didn't want to feel just yet. He blew around like a blustery wind, gusting here and there like a nomad with no place.
He must be the worst mourner, he thought one night to himself, sitting alone on a park bench in Prague. But he'd shut himself up quickly. He didn't miss Peter, he couldn't. It wasn't his right to miss the man who he stole everything from. He just had a little trouble with that.
After all, everyone had holes. His hole, was Peter Burke.