Peter's legs aren't carrying him fast enough. He feels an ache in his bones from the awkward position he'd been forced to take in the window; the cramps from that are distant. He runs to Neal, sliding to his knees in a sick parody of his almost-baseball career. He takes a shaky breath, suddenly unsure what the hell he is doing, how he got here.
"N-Neal?" Neal's eyes are a pale blue, and they are staring up at the ceiling, unblinking. His left hand is still covering his bullet-wound; it is just as Peter left it. Peter grabs the blood-crusted hand and holds it tighter against the wound. Neal doesn't react.
"Neal."
No, no, this isn't happening.
With trembling fingers, Peter feels for a pulse. It's not there. Neal's lips are a juxtaposition of lifeless grey and a sickening blue. He's not breathing. Neither is Peter.
He reaches for Neal's other hand, the one that had been reaching for him, searching for him. He knew… knew he was dying. Knew and all he did was reach out for me… There was no one at his side. No one.
Peter feels bile in his throat but forces it down. This isn't over, not by a long-shot.
Peter's hands hover for a moment, and then he begins.
Chest compression. Chest compression.
He belatedly wonders how much this will help; Neal's lost so much blood. Can his weakened body even handle this? Is he forcing Neal's heart to beat only so it can pump that very blood out onto this dirty floor?
Neal needs air. Peter takes a deep, deep breath. He breathes for Neal.
His eyes are burning with unshed tears, but he isn't going to cry because Neal isn't dead, not yet.
He keeps going.
His lungs are burning now, and it's hard to breathe for someone else when every breath is a near-sob.
This isn't working. It's been too long, too fucking long.
So he pleads.
"Come on, Neal. Come on. Please, Neal, please don't do this. Don't you dare. Please, Neal, please please please."
Peter's own voice dies out, and he hiccups. His body is tired, and he know that physically he can't keep this up for much longer. But he isn't willing to quit. His tears threaten to spill over, and Neal is just a blurry form before him now.
Chest compression. Breath. Chest compression.
Dammit, nothing is working! Shouldn't Diana be here soon with the Harvard crew?
"Please, Neal. Please stay."
Neal always did pick strange times to obey orders… and so when he gasps for breath, Peter nearly has a heart attack.