Peter jerked back as if the coffee had scalded his hands, his heart hammering in his chest like a freight train barreling down the tracks. His vision tilted, whitening on the edges, as he fought off the dizziness and forced his feet to stay grounded. The girl stood in front of him, still smiling slightly, still holding the cider out like a peace offering.

"Are you alright?" she asked, flicking her bangs out of her face, "You don't seem well."

Peter physically shook himself, confused by the sudden episode, "I'm fine. Thanks for the cider, but I think I'll pass."

"Are you sure? You never know what one decision will do to your whole day."

"I don't think a cup of cider is going to change the course of my day."

She turned her steel grey eyes to him, "You sure about that, Peter?"

Startled by the use of his first name (and even more so by the omnipotent glint in her eyes) Peter nodded, grabbed his coffee, and hurried away. He felt the girl watching him and forced himself not to look back. Shaking off the strange encounter, he headed toward the car park, grateful that the day was over and he could head home to his wife. Half way there, he spotted Neal hailing a cab and waved when the younger man saw him.

"Headed home?" he asked, sipping the coffee.

Neal nodded, "Don't suppose I could bum a ride?"

Peter frowned, instantly irritated that Neal would try to use him. He knew it was irrational to think that Neal wanted to take advantage of him. It was freezing outside and beginning to snow; not to mention it was hard to get a cab this time of day, and they weren't cheap.

Peter glanced toward the garage, "I kind of have plans with Elle tonight."

Neal smirked, "Big date night?"

"Something like that."

"Don't worry about it. It was a long shot anyway. See you tomorrow."

As Neal climbed into the cab, something tightened in Peter's stomach. For a moment, he had the crazy idea to stop Neal and take him home, maybe even to the house to have dinner with them. They hadn't had him over in weeks, and if he was honest, he missed the friendship. But he'd promised to be less emotionally involved, so he shoved the feelings aside and smiled at Neal as the cab pulled away.

Finally reaching his car, Peter decided to head straight home instead of stopping to get takeout like he'd originally planned. He wanted to go out even though they'd both agreed to stay in for the evening. Maybe if he couldn't convince her to go out, they could just order in. For whatever reason, he felt that he needed to get home as quickly as possible.

When Peter finally pulled up to his house, he felt a sudden rush of relief as if he'd made it just in time. He didn't understand the weird feelings he'd been having, but he chalked it up to the bizarre encounter with the woman at the vendor's; she'd unsettled him in ways he couldn't grasp. Shaking off the memory of her all-knowing gaze, Peter locked the car and headed inside.

"Elle? I'm home."

Elle appeared from the kitchen, pulling on dry rubber gloves, smiling wide, "You're home early."

He kissed her hello, "I want to go out tonight."

"I thought we were going to stay in. I just filled the sink to do the dishes."

Peter shook his head, "I want to go out, maybe to a good restaurant. What do you say?"

She giggled, "I've never seen you so spontaneous. Let me drain the water and clean up a little."

As she turned to leave, Peter grabbed her arm and pulled her close to him, "Forget it. It can wait. Let's go right now."

Puzzled, but excited by her husband's impulsive behavior, Elle smiled, "Fine, but you're going to drain that freezing water when we get back."

"Whatever you want," Peter smirked, kissing her quickly.

Elle pulled off the gloves and laid them on the table as Peter grabbed her coat. They headed back towards the city, holding hands, acting like a newly married couple instead of the marital veterans they were. Tired of the commercials, Elle changed the radio station and started humming to the song.

"…so I bare my skin and I count my sins and I close my eyes and I take it in, I'm bleeding out, I'm bleeding out for you, for you…"

"I think I've heard this song before," Peter muttered as his phone began ringing.

"Don't you just love it?" Elle asked, bobbing her head to the lyrics.

Peter was finally able to extract his phone from his coat pocket and answered it quickly, afraid that it would roll over to voice mail.

"Hello?"

"P-Peter."

"Neal? Are you alright? You sound out of breath."

"You have to get home, Peter."

"I just left home. Elle and I are going out. Neal, what's going on?"

"Elle's with you?"

Peter glanced at his wife who turned down the radio and watched him with a worried expression, "Yeah, she's right here."

"Good," Neal sighed, "That's good."

"You want to let me know what's happening, Neal?"

"She…she's coming after Elle. You have to keep her safe."

Startled, Peter gripped the steering wheel tightly and pulled to the side of the road, "Who is, Neal?"

Neal moaned, but it quickly turned into a pained whimper. Peter's heartbeat rose.

"Neal, come on, buddy. Answer me."

"Em…Emi. It's Emi, Peter."

"Emi? Neal, she wouldn't hurt a fly. She isn't dangerous."

"I b-beg to d-differ."

"What happened? Are you hurt?"

"She came here," Neal whispered, his energy spent, "She…she had a knife."

Peter jolted upright, spinning the wheel as he drove precariously back into traffic. Elle gripped the door and the handle above her tightly, but didn't say a word of protest. The fear forming in her eyes was nearly palpable.

"Neal, tell me what happened."

Neal chuckled humorlessly, "Th-thought it'd be obvious. Not m-many things you do with…with a knife."

Peter cursed loudly, ignoring the blaring horns of angry drivers as he cut them off, "Is she still there?"

"No," Neal murmured, his voice fading, "no…"

"Neal, stay with me. We're almost there. Do you hear me? Neal!"

He didn't receive an answer. Elle took the phone from his hand, allowing him to concentrate on driving as she dialed the police. Peter parked illegally on the curb and ran for the house. He thought about ordering Elle to stay put, but one look at her fiercely concerned face and he knew it was a losing battle.

The apartment was in tatters, littered with broken bottles and shattered furniture. Lying in the midst of it all was Neal, propped up haphazardly against the over turned table. He lifted half-hooded eyes to Peter, a small mirthless smile on his blood stained lips.

"Hey, Peter."

The two breathless words spurred Peter into action. He called for Elle to find towels and fell to his knees beside Neal, eyes scanning the wounds marring his chest and stomach. The slash on his chest, though seeping blood steadily, wasn't deep; it was a flesh wound at best. The two stab wounds were far more worrisome, one just under his heart and the other by his kidneys. Already, his blue shirt looked black.

"Jesus, Neal," Peter breathed, hands hovering uselessly over the bloody mess.

"It's…not as b-bad as it looks."

"You're a crappy liar," Peter said, resting his hand on Neal's shoulder, desperate for physical contact, but dreading it just the same. It meant that this was real; it meant Neal might be dying.

Elle appeared, arms draped with towels from the bathroom. She dropped next to Neal, eyes already filling with tears but her face a mask of determination. Peter pressed the towels against the second stab wound and the slash, letting Elle press her small hands against the wound on the left side. Neal hissed, arching his back as pain spiked through him.

"Oh, Neal," Elle whispered brokenly, "I'm sorry."

"It's…it's okay," Neal lied, clenching his eyes shut and biting his lip.

"The ambulance is on its way," Peter said, "You're going to be fine."

Neal scoffed, "Now…now who's a cr-crappy liar."

"Who did this?" Elle asked, shaking her head in disbelief, "Why would someone do this to you?"

"She said 'no more dis-distractions," Neal said, "I knew she was m-mad that I had her trans-transferred. Never…never even saw the knife."

"I should have listened to you," Peter hissed angrily, "You knew she was dangerous and you tried to tell me, but I blew you off. God, Neal, I'm so sorry."

"She wants Elle," Neal said, gripping Peter's wrist with a fierce but weak grip, "She's gonna…gonna come for her."

"Don't worry about me," Elle said gently, risking letting up on the pressure to wipe the limp curls from Neal's ashen face, "She won't get near me. We have to worry about you."

Neal tried to smile at her, but his chest abruptly convulsed as his damaged lung tried to purge the blood filling it like helium inflating a balloon. Blood spurted from his lips as he coughed explosively, tingeing his teeth and tongue pink. As the coughing fit subsided, the strength that had kept Neal upright vanished; his body seemed to shrink and wilt like a puppet on marionette strings left abandoned. Deserting the towel, Peter hastily wrapped his arm behind Neal's shoulders, easing his descent to the ground. Still choking on the blood coating the back of his throat, Neal burrowed into Peter's embrace, desperate to ease his suffering. All the while, Peter repeated his litany of 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry.'

"Easy, Neal, just breathe," Elle pleaded, dropping the towels and clutching his bloody hand in hers.

"Not gonna m-make it," Neal breathed wetly, the words coming out with tiny bubbles of blood.

"You are," Peter said, forcing his voice to stay steady, "You're going to make it. The ambulance will be here any minute. Just stay with me."

Neal struggled to raise his eyes up to Peter's face, "I w-wanted to finish it, but…I don't th-think I c-can."

"Finish what?"

"M-my sent-sentence…w-wanted…to be your f-friend, but I'm gonna die a…a cr-criminal."

Peter felt as if his heart had been ripped from his chest and crushed. What little control he had over his emotions evaporated. He held Neal to his chest, dropping his forehead to Neal's as tears and sobs strangled his words and made it impossible to say what he wanted, what Neal needed to hear. Elle let loose a stifled wail, pressing Neal's limp hand to her chest just below her neck. The couple hovered over him like a shelter, as if by placing their bodies protectively around him they could somehow ward off death itself. But nothing could stop the inevitable.

Breathless, Neal whispered, "Bye, P'tr…"

The last syllable died on his lips as his heart gave out and his chest stilled. Peter sobbed, but Elle wasn't ready to face the truth.

"Peter, do something," she begged, "Do CPR. Something! He's dying!"

Peter pulled away from the body, not ready to let go completely, "Elle, he's gone."

"No! No, he's not. We have to bring him back. You're not even trying!"

"Elle, CPR doesn't work when the victim bleeds out."

Reality crashed down on her. It was as if a dam had been broken, freeing the sobs and cries with the force of a torrential rainstorm. She crumbled under the weight of her grief, falling forward against Peter's shoulder across Neal's prone body. Peter wrapped his right arm around her shoulders and buried his face in her hair, but kept his arm beneath Neal, unable to let go.

Moments later, the paramedics arrived to find the couple grieving over the body of their friend. One stepped forward to move them away, but the other held him back, knowing that there was nothing they could do for the dead, but they could let the living mourn. So they waited with averted gazes as the heart wrenching sounds echoed around them.

Peter raised his head as his sobs began to ease. Behind the paramedics, he saw someone standing in the door way, dressed in a white trench coat, holding a cup of cocoa. The girl with the steel grey eyes watched him warily, empathy scrawled across her pretty face. She sipped her drink and then said three words as clear and as loud as a bell ringing beside him.

"Stop. Go back."