I disclaim.

AN: Sorry this is a little later than anticipated, life got in the way of more pleasurable pursuits. To clear one thing up—Mozzie didn't shoot Neal. He got him shot, but he didn't do any actual shooting. I just wanted to note that because I think a few people got a little confused. It would totally ruin their bromance if one shot the other.

Chapter 4: Part 1

It didn't hurt as much as he thought it would, being shot. Neal stared up at the ugly, crumbling fire escape above him and then up, up, above the dirty building to the sky, which is annoyingly blue. All day the weather has been blue and clear and perfect, and he'd been glad earlier, because it made the light reflect off the buildings of glass and metal beautifully, but now he's lass than pleased because he doesn't want to die when it's sunny.

It's silly, one can't choose when they kick it, but Neal's always been a bit... dramatic. And it's more dramatic to die in the rain—in the movies it's always raining. Friends gather around the hero, who nobly bleeds to death, content in the knowledge that he will be remembered and that evil was vanquished.

But Neal's not a hero.

He doesn't have any friends either, besides Julia and McCay in Vice.

And McCay is his friend mostly because the man can't be bothered to actually expand any energy to actively hate him. But he's never turned Neal away from the barstool beside him, and once he even sought Neal out to sell him crappy cookies for his daughter's scout troop.

So Neal knows he's not really going to be remembered fondly, and he didn't even manage to stop the little guy who was breaking out of their victim/suspects apartment. That's zero for two. But he figured the least the world could do for him was a little drizzle. Maybe not a storm, but a smallish cloud or a broken sprinkler? Is that too much to ask?

But then a sandy had is above and then there's more shoot pain, pain that makes him buck up involuntarily and his head and the sky fill with red. The moment passes and the sky is blue again and Peter Burke, FBI, is above him, hand clamped on his arm. "You'll be fine kid." He's trying to be reassuring but his face is pale and worried. "It's through and through. The bastards just clipped your arm." He seems like he wants to say something else, maybe reassure or scold or just talk to pass the minutes until the ambulance comes, but his mouth closes a second later.

Neal's glad that he doesn't say anything. Words aren't worth much, not in the end. He knew that better than most—he was good at talking, learning about people and things. Hell, half of the property crimes beat was talking someone through their day so they could remember that they left this here, that at grandma's. But no matter how long he talks to someone about a piece of jewelry, they can never explain, not in a way that matter, why the bauble is so important. Even with the thieves, the pickpockets, the unintentional criminal… Why steal that? Why not this? Leave the money, take the painting, nab a doll but not a TV. It was never as black and white as it appeared in most cases and no extent of small talk or perfunctory answers would answer the riddles of the soul.

His father talked a lot.

It didn't seem to make him a better person. Only a more personable criminal. So Neal's quiet, because words don't fix anything, only lend false illusions.

Peter cuts away his jacket with a knife that the cop is positive isn't FBI issue, one hand still clenched around Neal's bicep. His face gets paler and he ties the sleeve as high up Neal's arm as he can manage in a way that tells Neal he's losing more blood than he should be. That the bullet maybe hit an important artery and he's going to be in big trouble if the ambulance doesn't show up soon. "You're okay. It's all going to be fine." Burke repeats himself and Neal feels a little better but then, "You can't die on me the first day kid—how am I going to explain that to your mother?"

And Neal stops listening.

He's pretty sure he blacked out on purpose, out of spite, but when he wakes up next the paramedic seems relieved. He's glad to be heading to the hospital, but happier to be rid of Burke. But no, the agent was still there, warm hand on Neal's ankle, smushed into the corner of the ambulance in a comical manner. It's clear he's trying to stay out of the emergency responder's way, but he's wedged himself in among some shelves and it's only highlighting the fact that despite his short stature, the man is by no means small.

He looks so concerned Neal almost feels bad. Almost.

But at the moment he's a little too concerned with the hole in his body.

Almost eight years on the police force, he's never been shot—it's not really as common as television makes it seem. And now he knows that those shows have got it all wrong. This is not a stoic, fight through the pain feeling. This is a, no moving until I'm unconscious or someone cuts off my arm pain. Even the thought of moving makes him sick and then he really is sick, vomiting into a bucket that the all-knowing paramedic thrust under his chin. He has to roll slightly so he doesn't choke and that sets off another wave of sick and then he passes out again.

Next time he's aware his mouth tastes extremely unpleasant and he's lying in low count thread sheets. His arm aches but he doesn't want to gnaw it off with his teeth, which is a definite improvement over the stabbing pain. "Finally awake sleeping beauty?" Julia voice is much more pleasant than Burke's and he's glad she's here instead. He opens his eyes to ice chips, which sooths the irritation of what was probably an intubation tube.

"How long have I been out?"

His friend shrugs, glasses slipping down her nose. "A few hours since surgery, but it's been almost six hours since you got yourself shot. I've managed to make three cootie catchers and fairly impressive origami zoo since Agent Burke called me down here." Julia looks fairly uncomfortable at the mention of his temporary partner's name. "He left, by the way. He needed to file a report or something."

Neal blushed. "Burke called you? Why?"

"What do you expect when you fill out the card in your wallet with my name and address?" She waved the expensive leather square as if presenting it to an invisible jury.

If possible, Neal felt himself turn redder. "That was mainly in case of alcohol related emergencies."

"Well you didn't specify." But despite his awkward presumption she doesn't seem too bothered, turning back to her small paper farm after verifying he could hold up his cup of ice chips with one hand.

"You're wearing a dress?" He states, after looking her over. It's not that unusual; Julia tends to dress nicely, in jackets and skirts and slacks. He doesn't think he's ever seen her in jeans, unless moving boxes were involved, but normally it's a soft sort of nice. Cotton dresses and slacks, usually with paint smears or charcoal stains in the pockets. This isn't a dress. It's a gown. Purple and silk and long, the sort of dress he wants to rub his hands over before taking it off a woman.

Julia smiles and dances a cat towards him. "I was going to the opera—I had to dress the part."

Great. Terrible enough he made her his emergency contact without permission but now he ruined her evening. "I'll pay you back for your ticket." He promises, but she waves him off.

"What makes you think I paid for my ticket?" She grins coyly and adds a flamingo to the feline resting on his chest. He smiles tiredly, glad she wasn't too inconvenienced and only slightly upset that she was going out with someone else. Julia wasn't a terrible beauty but she was attractive enough to be pursued by the rich fathers whose children had private classes with her. "Besides, I couldn't enjoy Chopin knowing you'd been bleeding all over Manhattan." He coughed, went for more ice chips, and was disappointed. He sent sad, puppy dog eyes to his friend. He laughed and grabbed the cup, shaking it. "Don't strain yourself with theatrics—I'll get them."

She left in a whirl of purple and he leaned back into the pillow and tried to move his arm. He did so easily and then moved each finger rapidly, pleased when every digit did as commanded. Satisfied that he wasn't suffering from nerve damage he closed his eyes and debated a nap until his companion returned with his snack. Drifting off Neal head the door open but couldn't find the energy to open his eyes, sure that Julia would flick an ice chip at him when she tired of waiting.

His chart rustled and a clammy hand rested on his forehead for a brief second. "Sorry Suit." It's a soft, male voice, definitely not Julia. Not Burke either. He opens his eyes, suddenly worried about who may be holding vigil besides him.

It's the little man from the alleyway, the thief who was running from him. "You!" He croaks out, scrambling to sit up. In his panic he forgets about his arm and uses it to push himself up. His vision goes black for a moment as even the strong painkillers can't fight the agony. He can feel himself falling, half out of the bed when surprisingly strong arms catch him and gently hoist him back onto the suddenly comfortable bedding.

"…should never have come." The little man is muttering to himself, glancing worriedly at the door. "Any minute now…" he looks back at Neal. "Ok there suit?" Neal doesn't reply, just stares at this funny man, dressed in a ridiculous doctors getup. The man seems to become more nervous under his gaze, fiddling with the large light strapped to his forehead. The pause goes on longer than Neal indented and the man edges neared, worry flooding his face. "Suit? Don't go to the light! You wouldn't like it there—people run free and fascist corporate oligarchies have been disbanded. Nurse!" He shouts to the closed door, but Neal grabs him halfway through the shout with his good arm and slaps a hand over his mouth.

"I'm fine. I'm fine—just, just confused." He pushed the man away before he becomes tangled in the flowery stethoscope he clearly stole from a nurse. "Why are you here? How are you here?" He glances out the half shaded glass walls to the uniformed police officer flirting with Julia at the nurses' station.

The small man took off his scrub hat and light and rubbed his bald head. "It occurred to me, Suit, that it may, unintentionally, been my fault that your trigger happy comrades in arms shot you. And as such, I just wanted to make sure you hadn't," he fluttered his hand in the air, "gone up to the big holding cell in the sky."

Neal frowned, confused, "What? Why would… what exactly were you stealing from that apartment?"

His visitor smirked. "Reclaiming actually. And unless you have a warrant, I'm afraid that's personal. And as to how I'm here… your guard seems more interested in your girlfriend and his crossword than your well-being. Off course, we don't know who he's really working for." He sent a suspicious glance at the hallway and then took on a contrite look once more. "I am sorry you got caught in the middle of this Baby Suit."

"Stop calling me that! And caught in the middle of what? Who exactly shot me?"

"Answers are not obtained by putting the wrong question and thereby begging the real one. Felix Frankfurter said that Neal Reilly. You'd like him—an interesting man, he walked the line of the American judicial system with a paranoid wisdom I respect."

Neal snarled in frustration. "What are you saying?"

The small man looked at him, disappointed. "You're not asking the right questions Suit." He pulled out a bag with a .40 caliber bullet. "You know who shot you—you just don't know why. Let me know when you have the right questions." He replaced the elements of his disguise that he'd shed minutes ago.

"I don't understand." Neal didn't watch him head for the door, eyes fixed on the small bullet now rolling in the sandwich bag. "Why give me this?"

"I need an honest man Suit. I checked you out—I figure you'll do."

Neal snorted, finally looking up. "You didn't do a very good job. Anyone on the force can tell you I'm no good."

The man smiled mysteriously. "I didn't say anything about a good man, Reilly. Let me know." He opened the door.

Neal panicked, for some reason worried he'd never see the thief again. "Wait? How can I get ahold of you? When I have my questions?"

"Put a white chalk x on the back of the bench underneath the 107th Memorial and I'll find you, Suit. Probably when you least expect it." And then he was gone, slipping out the door as silently as he came.

Neal leaned back into his pillows and lightly rubbed his arm. What the hell was going on? First thing tomorrow he was getting out of here and finding Burke—he had a feeling this was bigger than a single painting and a dead fence. And if Burke wouldn't answer his questions, maybe his mysterious thief would. He tipped the bullet from the bag and rolled the cool metal in his palm. He doubted he'd get any fingerprints from the thing, and there'd be no chain of evidence what with it being delivered in such and odd way. But Neal got the message. He did know who shot him—the strange, little man was right about that. Because he knew who used .40 caliber bullets; he loaded his own weapon with them every morning.

The NYPD.