Peter hated meetings. He hated filling higher ups in on what was going on only to receive looks of doubt and confusion. They didn't get the team's train of thought, didn't understand their course of action, blah blah blah. Peter would rather be at home, unwinding from the day, relaxing with Elizabeth in his arms. But he was here. Listening to the windbag express his doubts. Bored out of his mind.

He half wished Neal was there, if only to see what the conman would do. But the director didn't trust Neal, with good reason. Apparently, the meeting was an exclusive badge flashing party. No art thieves allowed.

Peter felt his phone vibrate on the clip attached to his belt. Probably Elizabeth wondering how much longer he would be. Peter discreetly unclipped the phone and flipped it open under the table. Neal's number stared back at him and Peter hit ignore.

It could have been the excuse he was looking for, but the director wouldn't be happy about him taking a call from the man he didn't even want in his presence.

Peter sighed and leaned back in his chair. Just as he was wondering if he could fake a sudden stomach virus, Jones walked into the conference room.

"Sorry to interrupt, sir," Jones apologized then looked at Peter, "We have a situation, Peter."

Peter could have smiled. He could have kissed Jones in front of half a dozen FBI agents. Instead, he nodded and turned to the audience, "Excuse me. I'll be back."

He practically leapt from his chair. Damn meetings.

"What is it?" Peter asked as he shut the door behind him.

"Caffery is on the move," Jones said.

"So?"

"He's headed out of range, and we have a witness that says he stole a Jag."

"Damn," Peter grumbled and ran a hand through his hair, "Damn it, Neal. What's his last location?"

"Headed south." Jones answered. He followed as Peter started down the hall.

"Get all personnel out and get me his exact location. I want to know where he's going and-" Peter stopped abruptly, a sudden thought entering his mind. He turned to Jones, "You said he stole the Jag?"

Jones nodded, "Yeah. Homeless guy huddled in the alley saw him break the window with his elbow and hop in."

Peter frowned, "Neal doesn't 'steal.' He cons, he lies and manipulates people. And he sure as hell doesn't break windows to do it. Something's up."

"The homeless man didn't say anything about other people," Jones said, "No one was pointing a gun at him."

"Maybe it wasn't him the gun was pointing at," Peter muttered, "I've got a hunch. Get those teams moving. I'll call if this plays out."

Jones nodded and Peter ran down the hall. Deciding the elevator took too damn long, he ran down the stairwell taking them two at a time. He'd reached the parking garage when he felt his phone go off. Remembering Neal's earlier call, Peter immediately grabbed the phone and flipped it open.

"Peter!".

"El, I can't talk now, honey-"

"Peter! Someone's in the house!"

Peter froze. A hundred scenarios of in home invasions ran through his mind. News stories, case files, obituaries-his heart hammered faster with each passing thought.

"What?!"

"He has a gun and I think he's trying to kill me!"

Peter felt like he'd been sucker punched. The breath left him as his stomach dropped. Thoughts of Neal running fled his mind as he ran for his car. He clutched his cell tightly in his hand.

"Neal needs to talk to you."

Peter stumbled and caught himself against his car, "What the hell is Neal doing there?"

"Hello to you too," Neal said tiredly in his ear, "Peter-"

"What the hell are you doing in my house, Caffery? And why is someone shooting at my wife?"

Peter opened his door and slid behind the wheel.

"It's the Scarecrow. He knew I was working with the FBI. He sent someone to kill Elizabeth as a warning."

Peter cursed a thousand obscenities in his head, each one worse than the first. He started his car and pulled out, cursing himself and the FBI the entire way. Elizabeth wasn't supposed to be involved in his work. Nothing was supposed to happen to her just because he decided to work with criminals.

Any other time, Peter might have laughed at that statement.

"How'd you find out?" Peter asked.

"From the unexpected guest I had tonight."

Peter frowned. Something was off with Neal's voice, though Peter couldn't quite place it. The toll booth appeared as Peter took the final curve in the garage. He didn't slow down as he hit the speed bumps and ignored the shouts that followed him.

"What are you doing there?"

Peter knew Neal. He ran from danger and responsibility. He didn't dive into it. Unless he had no choice.

Damn it.

"Bleeding."

Double damn it.

"What the hell-"

"Are you on your way now?"

"Of course I am!" Peter yelled, indignant. "I'm five minutes away. Back up's not far behind."

Or it wouldn't be once he called them. He needed to end the call and-

"Good, cause I think our new friend is trying to break in."

"Neal-"

Peter heard the faint sound of glass shattering. He heard Elizabeth's terrified scream.

"NO!" Peter shouted.

Something thumped on the other line and Peter held his breath, waiting to hear more, hoping the next sound he heard wasn't a gunshot.

"Run!"

Peter could have cried at the sound of Neal's voice. Knowing that listening wouldn't do him any good, Peter reluctantly hung up and dialed Jones. His heart hammered as horns blared around him. Yeah, he thought, go ahead and yell at the man trying to save his wife's life. Damn drivers.

"Burke, we got Caffery's location. He's-"

"At my house, I know," Peter interrupted, "Wolfgang sent a hit man after my wife."

"He what!?"

"Neal's there," Peter went on, "Send the units my way and an ambulance."

"Elizabeth's not-"

"No, it's Neal."

Peter flipped the phone shut and pressed his foot to the floor. He didn't know if Elizabeth was hurt or not, and that scared him the most. Not knowing if at that very moment the killer was pulling the trigger. Not knowing if she'd already been hit and was bleeding out as Peter ran three stop signs and barreled down the street.

And then there was Neal.

Damn the ex con man. Damn him and Wolfgang and meetings and windbag directors that don't know a damn thing.

Damn it all.

Peter slammed on the brakes and swung into the driveway, barely noticing the Jag that sat idling on the street. Before the car was even in park, Peter flung open the door and ran for the house, pulling his gun out of its holster as he went. His stomach clenched when he saw the door off its hinges.

"Peter!"

He slid to a stop and looked frantically for his wife. When he looked up, he thought he might just pass out there on the front lawn. Neal and Elizabeth sat on the roof, looking for the world like they were just star gazing. Peter ran to the back.

"Elizabeth, are you alright?" Peter called.

"I'm fine," she said, "but my shining knight is a little worse for wear."

Neal muttered something Peter didn't hear. That worried him. Neal always had something to say and he always made sure everyone heard it. The fact that he was leaning heavily on Elizabeth and looking like he hadn't slept in a week twisted Peter's stomach.

"What are you doing on the roof?" Peter called up, "And where's the shooter?"

"Knocked out in the attic," Neal answered, "We'd like to get down now please."

He sounded like a petulant child. Peter half felt like leaving him up there to freeze. The little bastard.

"Hold on," he said with a sigh, "I'll secure the guy and-"

For the second time that night, Peter's heart stopped beating. One second, El was smiling down at him and the next she was screaming as she lost her balance and fell forward. Peter jerked forward, tossing his gun behind him as he dove for his wife, knowing he would be too late. And then she stopped, suspended in mid air as if she'd suddenly developed the ability to fly.

"Get under her, Peter!" Neal yelled, "I can't hold her."

Peter rushed forward, holding out both arms like a football receiver. Neal's grip slipped and Elizabeth screamed again as she fell down. Peter barely made it under her in time. They both fell to the ground.

Peter tightened his arms around her, holding her close, feeling her reassuring warmth and breath on his cheek. He laid his head on the grass and was content just to breathe in her scent. Elizabeth looked up at him and smiled. He sighed, intending to kiss her then and there.

"Excuse me."

Damn Neal, master of impeccable timing.

Peter looked up at him and narrowed his eyes when the con man waved cheekily at them.

"Not to ruin the moment, but I'd really like to get down now."

Peter opened his mouth, ready to tell Neal he could just stay up there for all he cared.

"Neal, look out."

The man appeared out of no where. He grabbed Neal by the collar and then Peter couldn't see them anymore. He was already scrambling to his feet. His hand went to his holster and he froze.

"My gun," he said, searching frantically across the yard, "Where the hell is my gun?!"

Elizabeth crawled on her hands and knees patting the grass, anxiously. Peter followed. He stole a glance over his shoulder. The sight of Neal lying on the roof being choked to death fueled his search.

"Damn it!" he cried.

"Got it!"

Elizabeth tossed the gun to him. Peter caught it and fell back on his back, taking aim. He saw Neal's hands fall from his killer's arms, heard his heart pounding in his ears, and fired.

The man jerked to the side. For a moment he stood still, frozen for one moment as his life was caught between this world and the next, hanging on the strings of a marionette. Then the threads snapped and the man tumbled over Neal and crashed to the ground. Elizabeth choked on her scream, and covered her hands with her mouth.

Peter holstered his gun and went to her. He pulled her to her feet, smoothing her hair from her face and trying to hide the grisly sight from her eyes.

"Let's go," Peter said, leading her to the house.

Elizabeth stopped suddenly, "Wait, the attic is blocked."

"What?"

"I put the oak desk over it," Elizabeth said, "You can't get to the roof that way."

Peter stared at her incredulously, "How did you move that thing? It took three U-Haul movers to get it up there."

"Forget about that. How are we going to get to Neal?"

Peter looked up at the roof and did a double take. Neal hadn't moved. He hadn't even flinched.

"Oh no," Peter whispered, "Damn it."

"Peter!"

But Peter didn't hear her. He ran to the rose trestles and started climbing, ignoring the pain from the rose thorns digging into his hands. He grabbed hold of the gutter, found his footing on the siding of the house and pulled himself up on to the roof.

"Peter!"

"Get in the house, El!" Peter called back as he crawled across the shingles to Neal's inert form.

"Like hell I will!"

Damn stubborn woman.

"Neal," Peter said as he tapped the man's cheek, "hey, open your eyes."

Neal didn't respond.

"Neal!"

Even Peter's angry voice did nothing.

Fearing the worst, Peter reached for his neck and pressed two fingers to the artery. The rapid pulse thumped against his finger tips.

"Thank God," Peter sighed.

"Peter?"

He looked down at Elizabeth, "He's alive."

"His side," she called back, crossing her arms over her stomach, "He was bleeding really heavy on his side."

Peter lifted the jacket and cringed at the large, dark stain covering Neal's left side.

"And I think he got shot in the leg."

Peter looked down at her, "Really?"

She nodded.

He turned back to Neal, "You just can't do anything half way can you?"

Neal didn't answer.

Peter glanced at Neal and then down at the ground. Neal was loosing blood fast, from two places apparently, and Peter had nothing to stem the blood flow. He had to get Neal inside.

"El, go in the house and grab the first aid kit."

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I'm taking him back into the attic," Peter called. He lifted Neal's arms and started back pedaling up the roof.

"Be careful."

Peter grunted. Neal groaned. Peter somehow managed to get Neal to the other side of the roof without both of them falling to their deaths. Well, maybe not their deaths. Just broken legs. Stupid gravity.

Getting Neal inside the window was another story. He tried to ease him in and realized too late that he should have gone first. Neal thumped to the ground and moaned. Peter grimaced and hopped in after him.

"Ouch."

"Neal? You back?"

"Did I go somewhere?"

Peter knelt beside him and gently turned him over. Neal clenched his eyes shut, his hand automatically going to the wound on his side. Peter cupped Neal's face in his hands, tapping his cheek lightly.

"Hey, wake up. Open your eyes."

"They are open."

"No, they aren't."

"Go away, Peter," Neal said, batting his hand away from his face, "Let me sleep."

"I let you sleep, you die," Peter said.

"Good. Then the pain will be gone."

"Neal."

Neal responded to the angry voice this time and cracked one eye open, "There, happy?"

"Hardly." Peter said dryly. He reached over to a chest and pulled out a knit blanket.

"That looks old," Neal remarked.

"My grandmother made it," Peter balled up the blanket and pressed it against Neal's side.

"Ah! What the hell are you doing?" Neal demanded, pushing Peter away.

"Trying to save your life, or would you like to bleed out?"

"Not really, no, but don't you have anything besides your grandmother's blanket?"

Peter stared at the conman, surprised Neal would give a crap about a badly made blanket. He thought perhaps it was a joke, but judging from the look on Neal's face, the man was quite serious.

"I have a whole chest full," Peter said, applying pressure to the wound, "Now, can I save your life or not?"

Neal sighed and fell back to the ground, "Sure, you can play hero for a while."

"How'd you get this anyway?" Peter asked.

"Knife," Neal mumbled, "That's the last time I eat steak on the roof."

Peter frowned, wondering what he meant, then he remembered the conversation on the phone.

How'd you know about it?

From the unexpected guest I had tonight.

"Damn it, Neal."

"What? What'd I do now?"

"You nearly got yourself killed, that's what."

"Peter, I'm a little slow from lack of blood. Care to elaborate?"

"You drove across town with a knife wound, you idiot." Peter said, glaring at him, "Why didn't you go to the hospital?"

Neal frowned, "Was I supposed to?"

"Yes, Neal. When you have a knife wound and are bleeding out quarts of your own blood, you are supposed to go to the hospital."

"Huh," Neal said, "even when Elizabeth is supposed to be killed?"

Peter gritted his teeth, "You should have called the police."

"Tried calling you. Then I called the FBI. Fat lot of good that did me." Neal mused, "Tell you what, next time I'll just let Elizabeth die, kay."

"That isn't what I meant."

"Well make up your mind." Neal said. Peter was surprised to hear the anger in Neal's voice, "Either you want me to save you wife's life or you don't. God!"

"What is your problem?" Peter demanded.

"You know, it's not like expected a parade or a medal or anything. But some gratitude might be nice," Neal said, "Since I saved the love of your life and all. But, hey, anger works just as good I suppose."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Neal sighed, "Can we get out of the filthy attic please?"

Peter glared at him, "Oh no, you don't get to change the subject."

Neal ignored him and scooted out from under his ministering hands. He grabbed the blanket and held it tight as he struggled to his feet, ignoring Peter's outstretched hands.

"Neal, stop being a jack ass and let me help you."

"Why?" Neal demanded.

He stepped forward. His anger and recent brush with death had evidently wiped his memory of the bullet wound in his leg. He cried out and fell to his knees, eyes clenched in pain.

"That's why," Peter said, rushing to him, "Your hurt."

"Really? Hadn't noticed. Thanks for the update."

Peter sighed and rolled his eyes, "Neal-"

"Just get me out of here, please, Peter." Neal asked quietly.

Peter let it slide, giving in to the tired tone of Neal's voice. He got to his feet and went to the oak desk. He pushed against it, straining with the effort. It moved an inch. Peter panted and rested against it.

"This thing must weigh half a ton!"

Neal smirked, "Your wife moved it."

"Shut it, Neal."

Peter pushed again. This time when the desk began to budge, Peter didn't stop pushing. Finally the door was clear and Peter sagged to the floor.

"Damn that's heavy."

"Hey, Peter."

"Give me a second, Neal."

"I don't feel so good."

Peter whipped around. Neal looked up at him through glassy eyes. His face was pale and covered in a sheen of sweat, matting the wavy hair to his forehead. He was shaking like a leaf in the wind as his eyes rolled back and his body pitched forward.

Peter lunged and caught him before he hit the floor.

"Peter!"

"Yeah," he called back, "Hurry, El. Neal just passed out."

"The paramedics are here."

"Lead them up."

Peter lowered Neal's head to his lap and pressed against the blanket. He stared down at the scratched, pale face, listened to the harsh breathing and felt his stomach twist.

Why had Neal risked so much? All he had to do was call the police. He didn't have to handle it himself. No one would have blamed him, but he'd done just the opposite and Peter couldn't figure out why. He knew Neal Caffery. He'd followed him for three years, arrested him twice. Neal wasn't the kind of guy to play hero.

So why had he?

And why did Peter give a damn?

"Sir?"

Peter looked to the hole and beckoned the paramedics into the room. He removed himself from Neal and stumbled back as the paramedics worked. He watched as they took away the blanket and tore open the shirt. And he saw the wound, ugly and ragged, cutting three inches across Neal's side, oozing blood like it was water. Peter rubbed his hand over his mouth and stumbled down the ladder. Elizabeth was waiting for him at the bottom.

"Peter?"

He didn't say anything but took her in his arms and held her close. He closed his eyes, breathed in her perfume and prayed, thanking God she was alright. And pleading that he didn't take Neal's life.