The passenger side airbag slammed into Neal's side where he'd been passed out supported against the door. The other smacked him in the chin and he opened his eyes, blinking to try to clear his vision and figure out what was happening.
The airbags were deflating like sad little hot air ballons. Airbags. Car. We crashed.
Armed with that knowledge, he glanced over at Peter. He was unconscious, slumped forward against the seat belt with his head hanging limply down towards his lap.
A spike of fear and horror ran up his back. Please let him just be unconscious. Oh, God, no. He flicked on the dome light on the roof of the car.
Peter's chest rose and fell. It continued to do so regularly. Okay. Okay.
The GPS unit was black, and he had no idea where they were. His last memory had been of a little lane of some kind. He tried the door, and it wouldn't budge. The windshield was intact, and the passenger compartment didn't look damaged, but the door was stuck.
He poked Peter, and yelled at him. He didn't want to shake the agent in case he was injured, but he needed Peter to try to open the door. Peter stirred a little, starting to come around. Maybe he'd just been stunned on impact.
Peter groaned, and Neal patted him on the shoulder. "You're okay. We've been in an accident, and you need to wake up now."
Peter had a cold shoulder. Literally. His nearly-naked body was still wet, he was shivering convulsively, and he was cold to the touch.
Neal was so cold, he couldn't imagine what being warm was like. He opened the glove compartment to see if there was anything useful in there, like a cell phone or a completely furnished room with warm blankets and heat.
Just car paperwork and some gum, a small pocket knife, a pair of handcuffs, and hand sanitizer.
Knife. Anklet. Cut the anklet, instant emergency beacon. Problem solved. He fumbled the knife open, which took forever with numb and shaking hands. Then he leaned forward and almost screamed.
Ow, ow, ow. His foot felt like it had a spike through it. Maybe it did, for all he knew. He waited for the pain to fade back into its place of merely miserable alonside all the others, held the knife tight, and leaned forward with much more care.
The anklet was actually three pieces of firm rubber, invisibly jointed with flexible, elastic material that let it move naturally with him and gave it enough play that he could move it around and slip socks under it. It fit snugger than the first one, but this new model had been designed with comfort in mind and was almost pleasant to wear. Almost.
The problem was that is wasn't an easy thing to cut off with a small knife blade and shaking hands. The electronic key, now also located conveniently at the bottom of the sea, released a pretty decent magnetic lock.
Where it tapered down to a narrower band near the back of his ankle, the rubber was soft and flexible, like the band on a high quality sports watch. That was the weak point, actually designed to be cut in an emergency. But weak was relative. The material was pretty substantial.
He started slipping the blade between his skin and the anklet, but it hurt. It was really wet, too, and sticky. He pulled his hand away and saw blood on his fingers. No wonder his ankle was throbbing so unpleasantly.
He grimaced and went back to work, interrupted by a weak and panicked voice a few seconds later. "Don't cut it. Neal, don't cut it."
Neal straightened. "Welcome back, Peter." He looked awful, and Neal realized with a pang that the bruised and bloody nose and cheek were probably from his kick. He hadn't been aiming for the face, hadn't been aiming at all.
"Don't cut the anklet. Whatever you do, do not cut that."
"Why not?" asked Neal. "I don't know where we are, and this is the best way to summon help."
"No. You can't. Do. Not."
Peter looked more than half dead, maybe two thirds dead, but Neal decided to listen to him. "Okay, I won't cut it. Can you try your door, see if it'll open?"
Peter tried and failed. Neal went back into the glove box and pulled out the owner's manual. He opened it in the middle and inserted the handcuffs, folded together to make as solid a mass of metal as possible. Then he punched the passenger window with it as hard as he could, over and over again, until he finally cleared out most of the little squares of safety glass.
He was looking at a wall of dark rock. There was just enough moonlight for him to stick his head out and see that there was just room for him to slip out of the window and up to the top of the car. Further down, the rock tapered against the door, holding the car in a wedge.
He turned to Peter. "Listen - I can probably crawl out of there, but I did something nasty to my foot. I'm not sure I can crawl, let alone walk."
"Lemme - see," said Peter through chattering teeth.
"Thanks. First aid's not really my thing, and I'm afraid if I look at it I might just pass out again."
By inches, he worked his body around in the seat until he was facing Peter and leaning his back on the passenger door, his injured foot resting on the top of Peter's legs.
Peter looked carefully for a minute, not touching. Not hurting. Neal watched his expression closely, but didn't look at the foot. He was dizzy, and sleepy, and was too close to passing out to risk seeing it impaled on a stick or something.
Peter pointed towards a bottled water in the cupholder. "Hand me that."
Neal did, confused.
Peter unscrewed the cap. "You got - salt water - in - the wound. Gotta hurt, bad. And I can't see through - the blood."
He blinked, and Neal was willing to bet the agent couldn't see out his eyes too well either. Peter poured almost the whole bottle of water out on the sole of his foot.
The first few seconds almost made him scream, then the relief was profound. The cramping pain that had frozen him in place was replaced with "ow, that stings."
"Brace yourself for a sec, Neal. I'm gonna pull something out, and - way my hands are shaking it won't be a delicate operation."
Neal sucked in his breath, braced himself, and nodded. The pain that shot through his foot and up his leg made him gasp, but then it was over and he went limp in relief. Or as limp as he could with his whole body shivering.
Peter held up a spiked brown thistle pod the size of a crushed golf ball. "Bet this was fun to run on."
Neal raised his eyebrows. "You have some very odd definitions of fun."
The agent tossed it aside. "I don't think it caused too much damage." He tugged the blood-soaked tracking anklet away from the skin and drenched his ankle with the remaining fresh water. Grimaced. "Those scars. Think my fingernails cut them open when I was hanging on to your anklet out in the ocean."
And there was the urge to throw up once more. He swallowed rapidly over and over and over again. Peter quickly left the matter behind and moved Neal's foot until he could rest it against the upholstered seat. "Press the bottom of your foot against the fabric. Try to get it dry."
Neal was a bit confused as to how having the sole of one foot dry was much of a priority, but talking hurt his sore throat too much to demand a detailed explaination. He pressed the bloody foot against the seat. "I see it's trash the car day."
Peter fished around in the side door storage compartment and came up with a half-sized bumper sticker bearing the FBI logo and the words "White Collar Division."
He pulled Neal's foot away from the seat, pulled off the backing of the sticker, and pressed it firmly on the sole of his foot. Their gaze met, and they were both too cold and hurt to laugh out loud, but their eyes sparkled in amusement.
It was actually a darn good band-aid, and felt like it would stay put.
Neal had also positioned himself in the easiest place to crawl out the window, back to the rock face, hands able to grip the frame of the car and pull himself up. He was halfway out when he heard the same tight, terrified version of Peter's voice that had begged and ordered him not to cut the anklet.
"Don't leave me here. Neal. Please, please don't leave me alone in this place."
Huh?
Neal slid back down in the seat. Peter's eyes were filled with tears, and he looked hurt, broken, and scared to death.
"Please don't leave me here."
He'd never, ever seen Peter like this. The only time he'd come anywhere close to looking this beaten and desolate was - in jail.
Oh.
He gulped hard. "I won't leave you, I promise. I won't leave you alone." Peter gasped in relief, but he was still crying.
Neal felt like crying himself, but he forced himself to confirm his suspicions. "I won't let them take you back to the cell. I'm staying right here with you."
Either Peter was going to look at him like he'd gone nuts, or Neal's heart was going to break.
Peter drew in a sharp sob and went limp in the seat. "Thank you. I'm so sorry. Thank you. I'm sorry."
Neal's eyes flooded with tears. "No. I'm sorry. Peter, I am so sorry."
