Author's note: Thank you so much to everyone who has supported this story, especially to those who took the time to review. I love to hear from people and will always reply if I can, so please keep the comments coming! This probably isn't the chapter that everyone wanted, since Peter and Neal are still in limbo. This explains how they got there, but it's my favorite chapter for sheer fun between our boys, so I hope you enjoy!

Sidelined Chapter 2

In the beginning, it hadn't seemed substantially more dangerous than any other undercover assignment. A large and potentially priceless art collection that had been stolen from a middle-eastern magnate the year before was rumoured to have surfaced. Peter was posing as a potential buyer with Neal as his suave consultant, there to substantiate authenticity and value.

Neal had objected on the grounds that the sellers were still an unknown quantity, and he was too well known in the fraudulent art world. He was going in under an unbroken alias, but that didn't mean he wouldn't be recognised, and, thanks largely to Keller, his association with the FBI had become public knowledge in certain criminal circles.

Peter had backed him up, but they had both been overridden by the powers-that-be who were, in turn, being pressured by the state department. The magnate, apparently, had large oil reserves, and any country that had a hand in returning his artwork would be looked upon favourably in the trade of that commodity.

Contact had been made and an invitation issued to meet and view the merchandise. The FBI had solemnly assured them that they would be safe. The area of the meeting would be saturated with agents and surveillance, and they had each been issued a watch that would double as tracker and transmitter. Neal was relieved to see that they were two different brands, although of a similar clunky size. Going into a sting wearing matching jewelry would definitely lead to erroneous assumptions.

It was almost amusing to Neal how easily the art thieves circumvented all these precautions. A sweep of their persons for electronic devices had been expected, and both watches turned off for the duration of the scrutiny. However, the criminals then collected all jewelry and electronics - cellphones, watches, rings, tie pins - citing security concerns and promising to return them later. They were then loaded into one of six identical vans, which all proceeded to leave the warehouse in different directions. If the FBI decided to intercept any of the vehicles, it certainly wasn't the one that transported them.

With one very slightly elevated eyebrow, Neal silently asked his partner if they were now on their own. With a miniscule nod, Peter indicated that they almost certainly were. Neal absently scuffed a toe on the far-from-clean floor of the van, suggesting they should ditch the operation at the first available opportunity, but Peter's hand tapping lightly on an upholstered seat told Neal that they would play it out. There was no suggestion that their cover had actually been blown. It was merely the paranoia of the thieves that had them covering their tracks so thoroughly.

Peter was right that an escape attempt at this point was the more dangerous option. Their two guards, happily oblivious to the communication going on around them, were well armed, if civil. Trying to excuse themselves on the grounds that someone had forgotten a dentist appointment would only cause suspicion and put them in greater danger. They had to play out their hand. Their situation was still not dire. They had access to a computer-generated bank account that would indicate their great wealth and willingness to use it to purchase the art. If they did access it, the transaction would immediately be traced, and their location identified.

When they reached their destination - a warehouse in a shipping container storage yard, they received a second unpleasant shock. This wasn't the viewing and sale to which they had so fondly supposed they had been invited. It was an auction, and they were only one team of bidders among several.

Ironically, it wasn't Neal's cover that was called into question; it was Peter's. One of their rival bidders recognised Peter, not as an FBI agent, but from a previous undercover assignment when he had used another identity. Neal admired Peter's smoothness, as without appreciable hesitation, his partner explained that on that previous occasion he had been using a soubriquet, keeping his true identity secret for fear of blackmail.

Not for the first time, Neal wished he could entice Peter over to the dark side. They made such an incredible team. Peter could improvise and think on his feet faster than anyone he knew, picking up on Neal's cues flawlessly. For a man who was emotionally transparent in his personal life, he could lie masterfully when undercover.

Despite this convincing performance, the seeds of suspicion had been sown, and they were escorted politely, but firmly, to a room in the basement and locked inside while the facts of their cover story were verified.

There were no signs of visual or auditory surveillance devices in the room, but with the improvement of technology, that didn't mean that they weren't being watched. Nothing needed to be said. As blue eyes met brown, the understanding between them was unequivocal. Now was the time to part company with their hosts.

Escapes were Neal's area of expertise, so with a nod, Peter tacitly passed the lead to his partner. That was how they operated, a subtle give and take, their strengths and weaknesses meshing, shoring up their partnership from every angle. For the benefit of potential watchers, Peter relaxed on a ratty sofa while he watched Neal who, under the guise of jittery claustrophobia, moved around, carefully assessing the room for all potential points of egress. It wasn't like there was a lot to assess.

The room was obviously used for maintenance. It wasn't small, but it was full of piles of junk. There was a small boiler in one corner with rusty pipes leading away from it. Abandoned nearby were two engines of uncertain origin, and next to them, as if someone had been tinkering a decade ago, lay some filthy half-broken tools. To complete the trifecta of a workman's space, there were scattered heaps of oily rags that, if joined dot to dot, probably formed some arcane symbol. The only thing that looked like it belonged to this century was a microwave on a rickety wooden table surrounded by coffee-stained mugs.

Given the materials, Peter thought that Neal could probably MacGyver his way out of the situation half-a-dozen times. However, it wasn't the young conman's preferred style. Through the early years of Neal's career, the FBI had been baffled by his ability to appear and then vanish from crime scenes, slipping through their fingers like a wraith, the only evidence of his presence being the concurrent disappearance of some object d'art. In more recent years, Peter had realised that Neal's apparent thaumaturgic disappearances could actually be credited to the young man's superb athleticism and daring. He could jump, climb or swing his way to safety.

With that knowledge, Peter wasn't surprised when Neal's attention focused on a small window high up on the outside wall. It was the only source of natural light, which proved that it was above ground level. However, Peter could only hope that it was larger than it looked from the ground. Neal's lithe figure might be able to squeeze through, but Peter was fairly convinced that he would not be so lucky. He would hate to end his career doing a Winnie-the-Pooh impression, presenting his wedged-in rear-end for their jailers to shoot, or ogle, depending on their inclination.

Despite his reservations, he gave Neal a nod of encouragement when his partner cocked an enquiring eyebrow in the window's direction. He wasn't sure what he expected, but he found himself watching with fascination as, without delay, Neal swung into motion. He ran towards the side wall, his strides fluid and seamless, then leapt up, hitting the bricks at about waist level with the ball of his foot, pushing off, twisting in mid-air and seeming almost to run up the wall under the window, He caught hold of the slight ledge underneath and pulled himself up, still hanging by his fingertips, to examine the frame and lock. After a minute, he kicked off and dropped down, knees absorbing the impact as if he'd merely stepped off the bottom stair.

Peter surreptitiously checked with a finger to make sure his jaw hadn't actually dropped. "Okay, Jackie Chan, what's the verdict?"

"Piece of cake. However, in order to expedite the process, I'll need the use of both hands." His eyes teasingly raked Peter up and down. "Think you can handle hoisting me up there and keeping me supported while I do that?"

"Piece of cake," Peter parroted nonchalantly, wondering how that was supposed to work.

Both men had independently come to the conclusion that there was no surveillance on the room. Their imprisonment had been unpremeditated, and the choice of the room dictated solely by its ability to be securely bolted from the outside. This fortunate state of affairs was likely to be very temporary, so there was a tacit agreement between them that speed was essential.

Neal maneuvered Peter into place and showed him how to interlace his fingers. "I'll take a short run, place one foot here, then the second one in your hands," he instructed. "Heave upwards in this direction, just as my foot arrives."

Any doubts of the efficacy of this maneuver were removed when Neal went flying over his head with what seemed like minimal effort on his part. However, his opinion concerning apparent weightlessness underwent an abrupt transformation as Neal shifted his weight from his own hands to stand firmly on Peter's shoulders. He might look slight, but his muscular frame made that deceptive.

"Neal, you've been eating too many of El's canapés," he complained, his partner's shoes uncomfortably grating against bone.

"Yet apparently they do less damage than deviled ham. Stop moving, you're wobbling."

"Well, excuse me if I'm not accustomed to being used as a step ladder," Peter grumbled, holding himself as steady as possible, grasping Neal's calf with one hand to give his partner more stability and bracing himself against the wall with the other.

"It's a noble occupation," Neal responded absently, his fingers busy. A moment later he announced, "Got it!"

"Great job." Peter could already feel the downward swoop of temperature in the room, and he tried to glance upwards at the now open window without dislodging his friend. "Okay. Go. Get out of here."

"Nope. Let go, I'm coming down."

Neal's weight disappeared from his shoulders, and as Peter moved away from the wall, his partner swung down beside him again. "What are you doing?" Peter asked, genuinely puzzled, and slightly impatient at the waste of time.

Neal dusted himself down with a quick sweep of his hands. "You need to go first, or do you think you can get up there without my help?"

Peter assessed the distance. He was a good athlete, but it was excellent hand/eye coordination rather than speed or flight that made him so. He shook his head honestly. "Neal, I don't even think I can fit through there. It's probably best if you go and get help."

Neal simply ignored the latter comment. "That's why you need to go first. If you can't, we'll find another way out."

Peter cast around for inspiration. "I could use the table to get up there."

"Too noisy to move, and too likely to turn into a pile of splinters under your weight."

"You think you can do better?" Peter suddenly felt large and clumsy next to his slight partner.

Neal's confidence remained unabated. "You're going to have to trust me. You saw what I did. You do exactly the same thing. Push off my hands as if they were another step and reach for the ledge."

Peter nodded, allowing his doubts to be submerged by his partner's reassurances. He backed away, giving himself the space for a run-up. After one last deep breath, he took four long strides towards Neal, launching himself upwards. Maybe it was just a matter of timing, but he was astounded by how much lift he got from Neal. With no problems, he was hanging off the ledge. "If you do get me fired, maybe we could join the circus as an acrobat act," he puffed.

He eyed the window with trepidation. He'd hoped it would look larger from up close, but if anything, it seemed to have shrunk. "I swear this is smaller than El's handbag, and I've never felt the desire to dive headfirst in there."

"You know, there are people who do this as a form of art." Neal sounded way too calm for someone with two feet still balanced in his hands, even if Peter was holding most of his own weight as if he were performing a perversely-timed version of a pull-up on the ledge.

"What, squeeze through windows? Yes, it's called burglary, and I arrest them for it."

"No, you philistine. It's a form of contortionism, called enterology. People squeeze themselves into small spaces."

Peter tried to wrap his mind round the concept. "These people - would they have the flexibility of a snake but be one twist short of a slinky?"

"Actually, it can be a remarkably useful skill." Peter dipped slightly, his nose almost crashing against the ledge as Neal relaxed his hold, caught up in the conversation. "I remember once when...well, you probably don't want to hear about that."

"Sure I do," Peter reassured him sweetly. "When we get back to the office, I'll pull out the cold case files, and you can tell me which ones I can put down to enterology. Enterology," he grumbled as an afterthought. "It sounds like a stomach upset."

"Peter, it's a nice inoffensive window or the men with guns. Your choice." Neal's voice was a little strained from supporting much of Peter's weight for so long.

"Is there a door three?" Peter didn't want to admit it, but men with guns were looking better all the time. At least he'd be on his feet, facing the enemy and able to fight back, instead of ignominiously stuck in a hole.

"No, there's only one door, and that's the one with the armed men behind it. Now, if you don't hurry up, I'm going to tell Elizabeth that you should go on a diet. You'll never see a dessert again."

"Traitor." El was already annoyingly over concerned with his sugar consumption. "Okay, okay, I'm going. Just don't let me do a Taft here."

"Peter, you're not 330 pounds and this isn't a bathtub."

Peter knew he was procrastinating. "The potential for humiliation is identical. You can be President of the United States, but all the world knows about you is that you got stuck in the bathtub."

Neal's patience was definitely forced. "Forget Taft. Think Clark Kent."

"Now I'm Superman? I like the way you think. Only if I was Superman, I wouldn't bother with the damn window, I'd go straight through the wall."

"Peter, concentrate; I'm going to be a foot shorter at this rate. On the count of three, I'm going to heave upwards, and you pull yourself up and into the space. Aim for the window like Superman flying. Get your head and one shoulder and arm out. That allows you to use some leverage from the other side."

Peter only had time to take a deep breath, realise that expanding his rib cage was the opposite of what he needed, and expel it violently, before the countdown reached three. He heaved himself up instinctively, remembering at the last moment to extend an arm. He slid smoothly through at first, his spare hand guiding his passage, but then he ground to a halt.

The choking constriction around his chest made it almost impossible to breathe, and the sharp edges of the window frame cut brutally into his ribs and right arm, especially where his weight bore down on the bottom rim. He kicked out frantically, instinctively trying to find something to push against to assist his progress. As his foot struck something yielding, he stopped, afraid he'd just kicked Neal in the face.

A strong hand grabbed his ankle. "Peter, relax." Neal's voice was muffled, but the words came through clearly enough. "Tensing up is the worst thing you can do. Breathe out, then push on my hands. Progress might be slow, but you can do it. Keep your body straight and don't muscle through it. Muscle mass is your enemy right now. Just wriggle your hips from side to side."

Peter's face was exposed to the chilly fresh air, already half in freedom, but the claustrophobic sense of captivity was literally inescapable. This might be a different tight situation to those he was used to, but he did know how to set aside panic and follow directions.

It would have been easier if he could find better purchase for his feet, but Neal's pushes were vertical and he needed to move horizontally. Moreover, as he scraped inch by excruciating inch outward, he lost contact with his partner too far below.

He was very aware that Neal was vulnerable, trapped in the room below while Peter blocked the only practical exit, and that knowledge endowed him with an extra incentive to move. Bracing his left hand on the outside wall, below the window, he threw himself from side to side, worming his way painfully forward. "I'll never look at toothpaste the same way again."

Progress became easier once he successfully extricated his chest from the window, and he finally slithered out onto the frozen concrete. After a quick glance around to make sure no one had noticed the wall giving birth to an FBI agent, he knelt back down at the window just in time to watch Neal make another gravity-defying leap to catch the ledge under the window. Peter extended a hand, grabbing hold of Neal's wrist, and it only took Neal one boneless wriggle and he was through.

Every one of the numerous bruises presently forming on Peter's ribs protested the unfairness of that maneuver. "Show off," he muttered, only to receive a sunny, slightly smug, smile in response.

Both of the men stuck close to the wall, having spotted the surveillance camera aimed out over the yard, attached to the corner of the building above their heads. Neal rested a hand restrainingly on Peter's shoulder for a second, telling him without words to stay put while he checked out their options. He sidled along the wall, until directly under the camera, then risked a peak around the corner.

Their escape route had fortunately taken them out the back of the building, if the complex of warehouses could be called a building. Neal's quick glance showed him a hive of activity around the front, trucks being unloaded and contents examined. It was possible that the activity was legitimate, but they couldn't take that chance. He returned to Peter and indicated with a shake of his head that no escape was possible in that direction.

They both looked out over their only remaining route to safety. The square metal peaks of container mountains beckoned them forward, but before they could reach the protective security of their bulk, the two men had to cross the piedmont region, a 200-yard swathe of concrete with not as much as a bicycle to offer concealment.

"Don't run," Neal offered professionally. "It immediately attracts attention."

"So we just..." Peter walked his fingers illustratively.

"We are just two innocent..." Neal looked down at himself in suit and tie, "Well, dockworkers isn't going to work, but two random bystanders going about their business. We walk casually across and lose ourselves among the containers. Let's go, we saunter and we chat."

"I can do that. I can saunter and I can chat." The two strolled away from the wall, but Peter's steps were tense. "Why do I feel like there's a big spotlight on me?"

"You're doing it wrong. Your body language has to say there's nothing to look at over here."

"These aren't the droids you're looking for. Seriously, Obi Wan? You're telling me your secret of concealment is Jedi mind tricks?"

Neal smiled approvingly. "That's better. Now we're sauntering and arguing, and what could be more normal. We're almost half-way there."

The optimism this statement generated was quickly dispelled as a strident shout came from the building they had just left. Peter turned involuntarily to check; his ingrained response was always to investigate, to answer a challenge, whereas Neal merely maintained his pace towards his destination, not reacting by as much as a twitch.

Peter recognised the face of one of their erstwhile guards peering through the window they'd just vacated. It wasn't clear whether he was standing on the table or utilizing Neal's 'step ladder' method, but there was no way he'd fit through the window. However, Peter realised such physical exertion wouldn't necessarily be required when a hand protruded through the opening holding a gun.

"Peter, this is when you run." The FBI agent followed Neal's advice and example, instinctively placing himself between his partner and the threat. It wasn't a conscious decision, a deliberate choice, but the younger man had always brought out his innate protectiveness.

A bullet slammed into a container in front of them with a musical clang, then Peter's leg was hit by what felt like an invisible hammer blow, sending him sprawling, the freezing concrete scraping his palms as he tried to catch himself. There was no pain, so he tried to scramble to his feet, only to have his leg give way once more. A whirling funnel cloud of vertigo seized him, flinging limbs asunder out of his control, spinning his head and ripping away all sense of direction and his ability to focus.

"Peter! Oh God, Peter!" As the world spun about him, Neal's blue eyes, wide with horror and fear, offered an anchor. Neal had come back for him...the idiot. A bullet whanging past them reminded him that this wasn't the time for a lesson in personal survival techniques or a lecture on a CI's responsibility to stay out of the line of fire.

Without pausing for any type of discussion, Neal grabbed him under the armpits, dragging him unceremoniously back towards the secure shelter of the containers. Bullets might not follow them around the corners, but it wouldn't be long before some sort of pursuit did. Peter was about to make the suggestion that, since haste was imperative, Neal needed to leave him, but he was distracted by the sight of his partner hurriedly stripping off his beloved tie. Kneeling beside him, Neal looped the tie around Peter's upper thigh, pulling it viciously tight before knotting it.

Up until this point, Peter's pain receptors seemed to have been on sabbatical, gloriously absent in their numbness, but this simple act of constriction re-awoke them, and pain soared up, coursing through him like water surging up a blowhole. He bit back the cry that reared up alongside it, seizing his lip between his teeth as if trying to shake it into submission.

Neal wasted no time on sympathy, slipping his arm around the other man's waist, pulling Peter's arm around his own shoulders and hauling his partner upright. Peter was able to give some assistance by levering himself up, although pain fissured through him at the movement. It increased exponentially as they staggered on, so Peter was forced to concentrate solely on staying upright, trusting his partner to not only support most of his weight, but also to guide them in the most advantageous direction.

Neal was more than conscious of the responsibility resting on his shoulders. He tightened his grip, pulling Peter closer to make it easier to act as his impromptu crutch.

A glance behind had shown him Peter's efforts to shield him from the gunfire. He remembered asking Peter once if the agent 'had his back,' and he'd been satisfied with the affirmative answer. He hadn't expected that it would extend to such sacrificial lengths. It created a medley of emotions that he didn't have the leisure to explore even if he wanted to.

He thought back to Copenhagen and leaving an injured Alex there because it was 'who they were'. It wasn't who he was any more. Peter had seen to that. He might not buy in to the absolute authority of the law, but he'd learnt a lot about teamwork, loyalty and trust from the man stumbling beside him.

He promised himself that he wouldn't leave Peter behind. He would do whatever was necessary to save him.