It had been a year. A whole year since Neal's sudden disappearance. Peter had searched, from the beginning, and had never lost hope. He had to find Neal. He would spend all of his hours working to find the CI, his partner and best friend. Although annoying even on his best days, Peter missed the ex-con, his designer clothes, his sarcastic comments, his vibrant personality, his value of life. He missed having Neal make fun of his classic suits.
Most had believed that Neal had run. And who, without really knowing him, would think otherwise? He'd been off anklet for the case he and Peter had been working on, and once it had been wrapped up, he'd disappeared. Unlike the time after the Lindsey Glenn case, he had never come back to Peter to get his anklet put back on. Peter had gone to find Alex, thinking that she might be the reason for this, but she had a solid alibi in Thailand at the time.
Then he'd gone to look for Mozzie. He'd found Mozzie waiting at Neal's apartment and drinking Neal's fine wine, and it had been immediately and abundantly clear that Mozzie had no idea that Neal was missing.
Peter knew that Neal would never leave without at least telling Mozzie, let alone leaving without him, and he'd tried to explain that to the higher-ups who came to question him, but they didn't believe him. This was probably due to the fact that Peter evaded the topic of who Mozzie was, but still. He would never leave without his best friend.
And Peter was certain that Neal would never leave without at least dropping a few hints that would clue him in on Neal's intentions. But Neal hadn't left any hints or clues - nothing. He'd just vanished.
So Peter, sure that Neal was in trouble, searched in vain for anything that would lead him to Neal's whereabouts. His team had helped him a lot at first, staying on weekends and working overtime to find the boy who had planted himself so firmly into all of their hearts. But after a few months, it was clear that they didn't believe that it had been foul play that made Neal disappear. They searched, as it was Peter's wish, but they often looked at him with pity as they did so. After all, after they found Neal, he would be going straight back to prison, because he must've run. There had been a warrant out for his arrest ever since the third week after the case. None of them wanted Neal back in prison, so they didn't want to find him. But they tried, for Peter's sake, just in case Peter was right.
And after a year of Neal's disappearance, Peter had found that he was right. As he drove up to the one-story villa at the edge of New York State, he couldn't even fully remember now how he had figured out that Neal was here. But that didn't matter. They'd gotten the evidence and the warrant had been issued, and as soon as the warrant had gotten through, Peter had rallied his team and taken off.
Peter pulled himself together as the team got out of the cars and started storming into the house, guns drawn and ready.
As soon as Peter got inside, he shouted over all of the other voices, "FBI!"
They arrested several of the men with little struggle, and Peter was satisfacted when he saw the apparent leader, a man he didn't quite recognize, being arrested and read his rights. But then he looked around. Someone was missing.
Peter stormed up to the sick bastard in charge and said, "Where is he? Where is my best friend?"
The man just smiled, cold and creepy yet still eerily peaceful. "He is at peace now."
Without a thought, Peter reached out and struck the man's face with the butt of the gun. One of the agents moved to stop him, but Diana Berrigan held him back. Peter hardly noticed as he roared, "Tell me where he is, you fucking little son of a bitch!"
The man glared up at him as blood dripped down his face from the cut in his temple. Then, without a word, he nodded to the door behind him, one that oddly none of the agents had kicked open.
Without another moment's thought, Peter turned and shoved the door open, sure that he would find Neal tied up in a chair and beaten to a bloody pulp.
Instead, he saw no one. The room was empty, save for a desk and a furniture set.
But then Agent Jones, who had followed him in, said softly, "Peter."
Hearing the tone in his friend's voice, Peter quickly looked to him and found him standing on the other side of the coffee table. And it was then that Peter noticed the still, silent form of his best friend.
Peter rushed over, and saw that Neal was almost unrecognisable. His entire body was swollen, though there were no bruises. He was completely still, and there was no telltale rise and fall of his chest to show that he was breathing.
"It was a bee sting," Jones said. "We all know Neal's allergic. I guess the guy out there knew that, too."
Suddenly weak-kneed, Peter fell to the ground, kneeling beside Neal's head.
"He's gone," Peter whispered, so in shock that he didn't even shed a tear. His brain just couldn't comprehend the fact that he would never see Neal's engaging smile again.
"I'm sorry, Peter," Jones said solemnly. "We were too late."
Then Peter realized something.
"No," he said suddenly, putting his hands in the pockets of his suit, looking for something. "This is a bee sting, and he's still swollen. If...if he was dead, his body would've shut down, and the swelling would be going down. He's not dead yet...shit, where is the goddamn EpiPen?!"
Then Peter found it in another pocket of his, and without hesitation, he took the cap off and stuck it in Neal's thigh, pushing the syringe down. He pulled the needle out and put it on the coffee table, watching Neal's face intently.
Neal's expression was blank, but the swelling went down substantially, showing that Neal's body was indeed functioning, albeit a little slowly. After what seemed like too long to Peter with no response from Neal, he started to wonder if Neal was going to pull through it. Even as the swelling was completely gone, Neal didn't wake up.
Immediately Peter began CPR, compressing Neal's chest several times. As he did so, Jones tilted Neal's head back, plugged his nose, and breathed air into Neal's lungs. After a couple of times of this, they switched so that neither would get tired or dizzy.
Then, when Peter was about to give up, Neal gasped in by himself, his body stiffening for a moment as he involuntarily lifted his head.
"Neal," Peter almost cried with relief.
It was a moment before Neal responded, though what he said shook Peter to the core.
"Master," he wheezed, his eyes only partially open. "You said that I was supposed to let it sting me. Why would you save me? I was supposed to be free."
"You are free, Neal," Jones said, seeing that Peter was now incapable of forming words.
Neal took in a shuddering breath and whispered, "Then why don't I feel free?"
Then, before either of them could respond to Neal's weighted question, Neal laid his head back and lost consciousness.
