Drowning: - A White Collar Fic

Disclaimer: - I own no part of White Collar

NB: - I'm English, therefore I quite unapologetically write and spell in English. I'll do my best to keep these characters American. A quick thanks to everyone who alerted, favourited and reviewed. It's always nerve-racking debuting in a new fandom.


Drowning


Part Two

He fell backwards, hitting the surface hard, and the force of it took his breath away. The drop from the boat was maybe ten or twelve feet, but it felt like he had landed on concrete. There was shock and a moment of panic as the brown waters folded around him, dragging down at the wool of his suit jacket as the wake of the boat sucked him in. Peter fought it for a few desperate seconds, tumbled around by the churn of the river, trying hard not to inhale the dirty water as it shot like a jet up his nose. He was lost in a nightmare of confusion and darkness, pulled down by the force of the tide.

The cold was stunning.

No – make that unbearable. His muscles were trembling in agony. There was no room for any form of self-delusion here; nobody could last long in this. If he was fit, wearing the right type of clothing, then he'd be fortunate to last fifteen minutes. Instead, he'd been beaten. He was hurt and concussed. He had five minutes tops, if he was lucky.

The draw of the tide was relentless, sucking him deeper into watery blackness. The pressure of the current was more powerful than he'd thought and he felt his lungs aching for air. Get to the light . . . he tried to kick for the surface, the fear of drowning more vital than the danger. The waters wrapped around his shoes and suit trousers and the weight of them tugged him down again. It was as though his legs were set in concrete and he was fighting a losing battle. At any other time, he might back himself. All in all, he was a pretty strong swimmer, but his broken arm was worse than useless, although oddly, he wasn't feeling any pain. He twisted his body and tried to toe off his shoes. In the end, he got rid of one of them. It was enough to give him purchase in the water and he thrust upwards and broke through the wake.

Gulping in air, he let his head drop backwards and tried to free his legs from the undertow. He choked on another mouthful of Hudson as the water washed over his face. The waves settled as the tide swung him clear of the boat, long enough for him to gain some composure. He turned around and struck out with his good arm, but the shoreline was a lifetime away. He tried to keep the half-stroke fast and determined but it felt as though the river was against him. The waters had become his adversary and developed a life of their own. The idea was crazy and fanciful, and he half sobbed, half laughed out loud, like a mad man. Although right now the Hudson was his nemesis, it didn't harbour any malevolent intent. The real problem was lack of oxygen – he was still able to recognise the deadly symptoms. It was changing his sense of perception and making everything dreamlike and surreal.

He had to stop gulping in water or else he would surely die.

The boat was circling and Peter's heart sank. He'd hoped that Sobek would make a run for it. That the man would cut his losses and use what commonsense he had, and head for some means of escape. The sky was getting darker and the river icy cold, so the odds were in his favour, bigtime. There wasn't much point trying to finish the job. He ought to leave any loose ends to the tides.

Thank the lord, it looked like Neal had done as he was told, and decided to carry out his instructions. Diana would have called out the NYPD Harbour Patrol, and scrambled an urgent rescue alert.

Anytime soon, guys . . .

For now, Peter knew he was still on his own, and he had to get to shore to stay alive. At best, he had another minute or so before the vessel came about alongside him. At which point, he would be an easy target if they fired a few pot-shots his way. He swam harder – but he was already flagging, his weakening muscles sluggish and reluctant. The cold stabbed at his lungs like a dagger and caused a sharp wheezing pain in his chest. The sky was considerably darker, either that or his eyesight was fading. He tried to fixate upon maintaining a straight line and heading in directly to the shore.

Not easy – it wasn't easy.

The Hudson seemed determined to thwart him. He was so tired and his muscles were screaming with pain. Peter could feel himself starting to drift. The black ribbon of safety at the waters-edge began to seem like impossibility. For every few strokes he swam forwards, the grasping tides pulled him away.

Sobek's boat – for a brief second, he'd forgotten the boat. The current changed as it ran alongside him. In a strange way it did him a favour, and he surfed the wake some extra yards towards land. He heard a yell, and it brought him to his senses, restoring a semblance of clarity. Either Sobek or his murderous passenger; he wasn't going to hang around to find out. He took a rapid breath and dove beneath the surface, as bullets peppered like lethal raindrops around him. He could feel the deadly rush as they whizzed past him, more than one far too close to his head. He thrust his legs like a jack-knife, as he kicked some eight feet down under the water. The swift flowing river was muddy and opaque and made it impossible to see.

There was no way he'd be able to do this for long. Maybe for twenty – thirty yards, if he was lucky. If his shrieking lungs could hang onto some oxygen, and his muscles score a little extra strength. It was like being tumbled on spin-cycle in the drum of an industrial washer. The tide tossed and turned him like a paper doll, the power of it rough and exhausting. Had to try . . . he gritted his teeth and forced himself forwards, but the darkness was beginning to press in on him. Black spots danced on the edge of his vision and Peter knew he was running out of air. The pain in his chest was unbearable now and everything was fuzzy and dreamlike. His eyes were blind and aching with cold and his weary limbs refused to cooperate. He really should be breaking the surface again, but he was sinking slowly instead.

Sobek was the least of his worries as he tried to kick himself upwards. The river wrapped its frigid fingers around him and he felt clumsy and unable to focus. He was losing it – losing it big-time. It was over, and he knew he was drowning.

Tired . . . he was just so damned tired.

It was easier to simply stop struggling. He let go and started drifting with the undertow. The tide nudged and pulled at him gently and immediately, the river ceased to fight him. Of all the times and potential means . . . of all the ways he'd pictured himself dying – a stray bullet perhaps, or even a coronary, but never in a million years, like this.

They say your life flashes before you.

His mind was filled with disjointed images which flickered like old-time cine-film. The faces and voices of people he loved, imploring him and calling his name. He knew he should try to answer them. He was being unfair and selfish, letting down the folk who depended on him to be there at the end of the day. Giving up . . . he was giving up . . . he didn't want to, but the river had beaten him. The pain relaxed as his lungs filled with water and he gave in to a darker embrace. Never an angel, he'd done his share of troublesome things, and there were some actions he was downright ashamed of, but when it came down to checks and balances, he hoped the scales would weigh in his favour.

This whole thing was going to be rough on Neal. Would he have the mental strength to get through it? Was he tough enough to call on his inner goodness and resolve, and stick to the straight and narrow?

In his heart, Peter felt he knew the answer. Or, at least, he hoped he did. Of all the things in his life he was proudest of, Neal was close to the top of the list. It was good to know he would be there for El. Peter didn't doubt it for a second. She was going to be so sad and lost for a while. She would need all the help she could get.

"El . . ."

He spoke her name out loud and choked down water. This time there was no feeling of panic. The pressure on his chest was crushing, but oddly, it didn't hurt like before. She was so close he could reach out and touch her, hear her voice, smell the musk of her perfume. Her sweet face was laughing and merry, with that look he adored in her eyes. That particular look had been there this morning as she'd turned her head towards him on the pillow. The fleeting memory of their subsequent lovemaking was both comforting and bittersweet.

He really didn't want to leave her. He only hoped to God she would know that. That she'd remember he'd told her he loved her, as she'd shaken her head and straightened up his tie. She was beautiful both inside and outside. He loved every dazzling thing about her. Every time he saw her, he couldn't quite believe his luck. She was his everything. She was his life.

There was regret and a sense of sadness, so poignant, it stole the last of his air. Or maybe that was the river. He no longer knew or cared. His body floated down through the dark water and a multitude of bubbles danced around him. Peter closed his eyes and surrendered, and strangely, he felt totally at peace.

This then . . . this then, surely, was death.


Neal swam valiantly against the current, trying to keep his strokes steady and in rhythm. Even though the river was reasonably calm, he was up against the swell of the tide. He was only two hundred yards from the shore-line, and already he had painful pins and needles. His feet felt leaden and heavy and he was becoming disagreeably numb.

Way to go, Caffrey, you knew this was nuts.

The cold was eating into his bone marrow. He strove to keep his head out of the water after the first unpleasant ducking he'd had. There was one good thing – the only good thing – he was trying his best to keep positive. Sobek's boat was a shadow in the distance, and Neal was pretty glad to see the back of it. Once he'd told Diana what they'd done to Peter, he was sure the bastard wouldn't get far.

Peter.

It had all gone so wrong, so quickly, but he was smart enough to realise it was random. There had been nothing to suggest any danger, as Vinny Sobek wasn't even a suspect. It was so typical of Peter to insist on one last stop in-spite of the icy-cold evening. The man couldn't just go home like normal people did - he always had to play Super-Fed. Nonetheless, Neal couldn't help feeling guilty, it was easy – so easy to blame himself. He'd been freezing and fed-up and cranky; if he was honest, sulking a little. Looking forward to plotting and planning with Moz and a rather large glass of Merlot. Neal guessed there was some news about the music-box, but right now, that was not very helpful. God, he should have gone down to the marina instead of opting for the warmth of the car.

Stupid – he was a whole lot of stupid.

Who's to say things would have been any different?

If he'd been there, and Sobek had pulled a gun, then it could have been a whole lot worse. Peter might have been forced to play hero in an effort to save both their skins. Damn the man, what was he thinking? He had no right to put them through this. He had commitments and obligations, and people who relied upon him. He should be sitting at his dining table even now, smuggling surreptitious morsels to Satchmo. He should be at home drinking red wine with El, instead of taking crazy risks with his life. Neal gave another huff of annoyance. He didn't understand why he felt so angry.

Nope – he added a caveat - better make that downright livid. Right now, it was almost a good thing, as it kept the blood alive in his veins.

It certainly made him swim faster.

Either that or the frigid water.

He exhaled, treading water on the surface for a moment, as he tried to gauge his distance from the riverbank. He needed some idea of his position so he could work out where Peter should be. This was it, or as near as damn it. The last place he'd seen his partner in the water. He flipped his body and scanned the surface around him, but there was nothing at all to be seen.

He swore long and hard with frustration, risking mouthfuls of dirty water. It was one way of venting his panic and it helped take the edge off his rage. No amount of charm would get him out of this one, and he could hardly bat his eyelashes at the elements. He was way, way out of his comfort zone, and he hated the lack of control. Right now, it was him against nature, the impervious heart of the Hudson, and if the cruel river failed to kill him, it was a sure bet the freezing cold would.

"Peter?"

The silence mocked him. All he could hear was the sound of his teeth chattering. One of his calf muscles spasmed, and he knew he was seriously cold. It couldn't have been more than minutes – but it felt like time was sealed in a vacuum. A bare maximum of ten deadly minutes since he'd promised to take care of El.

"Peter!" he called out more desperately.

Again, there was nothing. No answer. There was no sign of anyone in the water, just a few bubbles popping on the surface approximately ten feet or so away.

"Damn it."

The river was darker, more forbidding, and looked almost purple in the twilight. Neal took a deep breath and tried to swallow his fear. There was only one viable option. Peter was drowning – dying. The rescue craft was never going to make it. He knew he had to dive beneath the surface. He stood the only chance of saving Peter's life. His own situation was perilous enough. The drop in temperature was making him irrational. Neither one of them had very long now, but Peter had less time than him.

Neal smiled wryly and took a last glance at the sky. If time was precious then he'd better not waste it. He turned in the direction he'd last seen the bubbles rise, and dove with a strong kick beneath the waves. It was a lot blacker than he'd imagined and hard to see that much of anything. The fading light was losing any power to penetrate very far beyond the surface. He looked around and took note of his bearings. There it was – the rising column of bubbles. He hoped and prayed he wasn't clutching at straws, as he turned and followed them down.

It grew colder as he got deeper. He was finding it hard not to panic. Any vestige of light soon greyed out and died. It was impossible, he couldn't see a thing. Please . . . he realised his lips were moving. He was pleading but no one was listening. Let me find him . . . please let me find him. Neal reached the brink of despair.

It was too late and he was out of oxygen.

His hand brushed something soft in the blackness.

Neal reached out again and made a grab for it.

His fingers grasped hold of Peter's hair.

He gripped tightly, though his lungs were bursting, hooking his arms around his partner's chest. He realised then how much trouble they were in, as Peter's weight dragged him down like a stone. The water pushed against them, heavy and dense, as he kicked hard and fought to yank them both upwards. Every muscle in his body screamed with effort and pain as he broke through the surface at last.

He was shouting or maybe he was crying. He was delirious with cold and lack of oxygen. He pulled Peter's head in close to his chest, but the current tried to rip him from his arms. Neal held on tighter and began to thrust for the shore, and at long last, the tide was in his favour. Peter hung against him, frighteningly silent, as their legs kept getting tangled in the water.

"Come on, Peter, you can do this."

Neal adopted the life-saving position and let the shore-bound waves nudge them forward. He knew he shouldn't waste energy talking, and he definitely shouldn't use up his air. Right now, the rules didn't matter. Nothing mattered unless Peter answered him; but Peter stayed unnaturally quiet, his white face slack and inert.

Red and blue lights flashed near the marina, and the sound of the sirens split the frozen evening. The beam of a searchlight bisected the water as the helicopter swooped overhead. The waves seemed to surge and pick up some extra swell which pushed them closer to safety. A boat – there was a vessel approaching, he could hear the steady throb of marine engines. A small part of him hoped it wasn't Sobek returning, but by now, he was too far gone to care.

All that mattered was getting Peter to shore.

To where he knew there would be medical help waiting.

He clung on through the mind-numbing shudders of cold and the deep relentless pain. For a moment, he almost lost it and he struggled, spitting out water. Neal half-turned and pulled Peter closer. He would not let this man die. His eyes stung with salt and other things – maybe tears and polluted river. He blinked in an effort to clear them and tried to focus on the red flashing lights.

Twenty yards – he was getting closer.

His shoulders were burning in agony.

There were figures, dark shadows on the edge of the bank and voices calling his name. Nearer. He was getting nearer. Neal no longer knew if he would make it. His limbs were heavy and useless. His heart felt like lead in his chest.

So close, but his body was failing him, and worse than that, failing Peter. His hands were so frozen they were losing their grip and he could feel Peter slipping away. The world was black – even blacker than before – and then suddenly he was under the water. He flailed upwards in a last burst of panic, his gasping lungs frantic for air. He spun around in despair but Peter had gone.

It had won.

The river had taken him.

There were hands on him, steadying him, helping him, but he twisted and fought against them. He had to go back . . . had to save him . . .

He was calling out Peter's name.

TBC

Lisa Paris - 2011