Alright, so you guys did such a good job reviewing (cheeky grin) I'll give you the next chapter. As I said before, I don't know the lay out of Neal's apartment so just roll with it.
Remember, reviews are our friends, not food. (but they are to me, so keep 'em coming.)
Peter felt his heart seize in his chest when he saw the splintered door lying in ruins in the hall way, in the apartment. He reached a shaking hand down to his side and cursed when he remembered leaving his gun at home. Lying in the drawer. Completely useless. He reached for his phone and nearly cursed out loud. It was sitting on the console, plugged into its charger.
Damn it all to hell.
Peter had two options.
Option one: he turned on his heel, walked two stories down to the car, and called for back up. Meanwhile, Neal bled to death or his kidnappers got farther and farther away.
Option two: he charged into the room, knowing full well the attackers could still be in the apartment and he could be killed.
Peter chose option two before he was even done considering said options.
He stepped over the remains of the door cautiously and scanned the room. Aside from having the door smashed to pieces, the room seemed in tact. Nothing was out of order, nothing was out of place. No signs of a struggle.
Peter's heart beat a little faster. He tried to keep it in check and calm it down. He had to hear. He couldn't do that with his heart thundering in his ears. He walked down the wall and froze in mid step.
"Someone's gonna come," a harsh voice whispered, "Just blow the lock off."
"Yeah, cause that is so subtle." a second voice whispered back.
"Don't get sarcastic with me," the man said, "You're the one who missed. Two inches away, and you miss!"
"He moved! And I didn't miss him completely."
Peter backed away. Relief and anger washed through him simultaneously. Relief that Neal was still alive and anger that these men were trying to kill him. And almost had.
Peter turned around, searching for a weapon. He knew Neal hated guns and that the man didn't keep one in the house. There had to be something he could use. And then he saw it, lying on the counter. He thought it odd Neal even owned one, but he picked it up anyway and headed back to the hallway.
Sounds of frustrated grunts and hard kicks against wood echoed. Peter leaned against the wall and peeked around the corner. He saw two men, one short and thin, the other tall and limber. The short one was running his shoulder against the bathroom door. The tall man was kicking it just below the door know. The door didn't seem to want to budge. Peter took a deep breath and charged around the corner.
Waving the rolling pin like a mad man.
The short man turned just as Peter brought the pin down directly on top of his skull. The man dropped to his knees, his eyes distant and foggy. The tall man turned and watched his partner fall. He turned his head and raised his gun. Peter clipped him on the jaw with the rolling pin. Then he swung it like a bat and the tall man crumbled under the blow.
The short man groaned and stumbled to his feet. He wobbled as he tried to raise his arm. Peter hit him in the gut with the pin and then brought it down on the back of his skull. The short man fell on top of the tall one, both knocked out.
Peter smiled at his work. Then he looked down at his weapon and tossed it over his shoulder. He'd just tell Neal he took the men out with his awesome martial arts skills.
Peter quickly took both men's guns, tucking one in his belt and holding tightly to the other. He didn't know if there were more men already in the apartment, or more coming. He checked both men's pulses and unfortunately, found both of them alive. He found plastic ties in one man's vest pocket and quickly secured their hands and feet together. Only when he was sure neither man posed a threat did he let his panic take him.
He still hadn't heard a sound from Neal.
Peter kicked the tall man out of his way and ran for the door.
"Neal? It's Peter! Neal, can you hear me?"
No answer.
Peter, not caring if the whole damn world heard him, stepped back, took careful aim, and fired a shot at the door knob. The door splintered and the lock gave. The door cracked open with a crack.
Peter pushed the door open and quickly ducked when an unidentified object came straight for his head. Crouched down, Peter looked up and was startled to see a fire poker lodged in the white bathroom door. Right where his head would have been.
Looking behind the poker, he was even more startled to see one Neal Caffery staring at him with wide blue eyes. The left side of his face was drenched in blood. It looked like a river had opened up on his face and had poured down his neck, staining his shirt collar and half of his blue shirt.
"Peter?" Neal said, confused.
"What the hell are you doing?" Peter demanded. He stepped back and stood, looking from Neal to the fire poker.
Neal offered him a weak smile, "Defending myself?"
"With a fire poker?"
"Seemed like a good idea at the time," Neal said. He jerked on the poker in an attempt to dislodge it.
"Where'd you get that anyway?" Peter asked.
"Grabbed it when I rolled off the bed," Neal grunted. The poker loosened minutely.
"You have a fire place in your room?"
Just as Peter was thinking how completely unfair that was in the grand scheme of things, the fire poker gave into Neal's efforts and pulled free from the door. Unfortunately, Neal was thrown off balance, from the effort or from the blood loss Peter wasn't sure, and spun with the force of his pull. He fell backwards right into Peter's waiting arms. They both landed on their asses.
Neal leaned his head back and looked up at Peter, "What are you doing here anyway?"
"I came to get you," Peter said, "and instead of finding you passed out, I find you hiding in your bathroom with two men trying to kill you." Peter frowned, "Again!"
Neal smiled sheepishly, "Didn't know I was so popular."
Peter's frown deepened, "You're bleeding."
Neal nodded, "That's what happens when a gun goes off two inches from your head."
"Jesus, Neal!"
Neal flopped back as Peter suddenly moved out from under him. Peter was instantly beside him, pulling him to his feet and apologizing repeatedly. Neal held his breath as nausea washed through him. The room spun as Peter led him out of the bathroom.
"Crap, what the hell…okay, stop the bleeding. That's first." Peter said as he helped Neal into the nearest chair.
Neal watched him run across the room and fling drawers open in search of towels. He reached up and touched his face. He frowned when his fingers came away sticky and coated in red. Then he noticed the rolling pin lying on the rug beside the table.
"Peter?"
"Yeah," his partner said as he rushed back to him. Neal winced as Peter pressed the towels against the wound.
"Why is my rolling pin lying on the floor?"
Peter glanced at the pin and decided to ignore the question. He focused on the blood oozing wound on his friend's head. Neal looked like something from a horror story, worse than the other night.
Neal's head dipped forward, his eyes half shut.
"Hey!" Peter cried, panicking, "Stay awake, Neal. No sleeping."
"Tired," Neal muttered, but he raised his head and looked at Peter.
"We half to get to the car," Peter said, "Think you can make it?"
"Rather sleep," Neal said.
"No sleeping," Peter said, harsher than he meant to, "We have to get you to the hospital, Neal."
Neal nodded, then cringed at the pain that erupted through his skull. Damn bullet grazes.
"Kay, here we go," Peter said.
He took Neal's arm and helped him to his feet. Neal leaned heavily against the table. When his feet were under him, he let go. His knees shook and gave. Peter managed to hold him upright and slipped Neal's arm over his shoulders.
"Here, lean on me, pal," Peter said.
Neal scoffed.
"What?" Peter asked. He wasn't really interested, but he had to keep Neal moving and conversation seemed to be his best option.
"Called me 'pal.' That's funny," Neal said.
Peter frowned as they stumbled over the ruins of the front door. He was worried about getting down the stairs, but at the moment, he was more worried about Neal's words.
"Why would that be funny?"
"Pals have to trust each other," Neal said, "Not pals."
"Are too."
Neal started shaking his head, thought better of it, and stopped. He forced his heavy legs to move forward despite how they felt like lead with every step.
"You don't trust me," Neal said quietly, "never have, never will."
Peter stopped at the stairs and let Neal rest against the railing. He looked down at the red carpeted steps and felt his stomach twist.
"How many do you think there are?" he asked quietly.
"Too many," Neal answered.
Peter readjusted Neal's weight against him and started down the stairs. It was slow going. Neal had to have both feet firmly planted on each step before beginning the next.
"That's not true, you know."
"What isn't?" Neal asked, completely focused on his task.
"Not trusting you," Peter said with a sigh, "I don't trust you, completely. But I will one day. It just takes time."
Neal scoffed again.
"I mean it."
"You meant what you said yesterday, too."
Peter cringed, "Do we have to talk about that?"
"Don't like reliving your anger?"
"More like not reliving your death."
Neal looked up at the agent, but the man wouldn't meet his eyes. He stumbled, unfocused on his feet, and pitched forward. Peter wrapped his other arm around Neal's waist, but they still ended up on the stairs. Neal panted, desperate to catch his breath.
Peter studied Neal's face and his worry increased ten fold. Sweat poured down his face just as much as the blood. Neal closed his eyes and tried to calm his breathing.
"I'm not going to make it down the stairs, Peter," Neal panted.
Peter swallowed, "Sure you will. Come on, just a few more."
"Peter, I can barely stand up."
Peter knew he was right, of course. But admitting that meant he'd have to go for the phone and the nearest one was downstairs. He hadn't thought to use Neal's as his panic had taken over his logic.
"Just go call the ambulance," Neal said, pushing Peter away with the strength of a new born kitten.
"I…" Peter let his words falter.
Neal looked up at him, "What?"
Peter looked away, "What if… never mind."
Peter took off down the stairs as quickly as he could with out breaking his neck. He ran for the phone on the table just under the stairs and called 911. After arguing with the incompetent operator, he hung up (because he did not need to stay on the line, damn it) and rushed back up to Neal.
The con man's eyes were closed and his head was dipped forward. Peter feared the worst as he kneeled beside him.
"Neal?"
He reached out a shaking hand to check Neal's pulse when Neal opened his eyes and groaned.
Peter let out a shaky sigh.
"You're acting weird."
Peter looked up at Neal and glared, "Yeah, well you're not acting so hot yourself, mister."
Neal stared at him and Peter found himself squirming under the intent gaze. He sat down on the step below Neal and leaned against the railing. But Neal was still staring at him.
"What?" he finally demanded.
"You," Neal said, "You're acting like…"
"Like what?"
"Like you're actually worried."
Peter snapped his head around, "And that surprises you?"
Neal shrugged lightly.
Peter sighed, "Of course it surprises you. Why wouldn't it? With the way I've been acting, you'd think I hated you."
"The thought had crossed my mind."
"I don't," Peter said frowning, "hate you, I mean. Worry, yeah, I'm doing plenty of that."
"Why?"
"It might have something to do with the profusely bleeding wound on the side of your head."
"I meant why are you worried about me. Why don't you hate me?"
Peter squirmed, "You know I hate doing the emotional talk. Can't we just shake hands and call it good?"
Neal raised an eyebrow at him.
"Don't do that. El does that. It irritates me how both of you are so good at making me admit my feelings."
Neal chuckled but it quickly turned into a groan. Peter remembered the dish towels he still clenched tightly in his hands. He gently pressed them on the wound.
"Ow."
"I hate it that you attract these things," Peter said, "and I hate it that you played hero."
"Do we have to go through this again?"
"Let me finish," Peter snapped. He breathed in to calm himself, "I hate them because…cause I hate seeing my friends hurt."
Neal stilled under Peter's ministering hands.
"I hate worrying," Peter continued, "I hate not being able to do anything. Tracking down the bad guys, arresting people, that's what I do. Sitting on the sidelines and waiting, I don't do those things well."
"Peter-"
"And I hate it that I wasn't the one to come to El's rescue. Okay? It wasn't about any of the crap I said yesterday. I was mad at myself because I wasn't there when she needed me, when you both needed me. And then you were telling me not to do the one thing that I'm good at."
Neal frowned and said quietly, "You'll get killed trying to catch him."
"But that's my decision to make."
"And helping Elizabeth was mine," Neal said.
Peter stilled and dared to look at him.
"You think I like getting shot or stabbed? Or choked? Which is worse than either of the other two, by the way. I'm not a big fan of pain, Peter."
Peter chuckled, "I hadn't noticed. I thought you were dying when you got that splinter the other day."
"It hurt, damn it." Neal said, "Look, the point is, trust is a two way street. I don't trust you either, not completely. But I'm not about to let anything happen to you or Elizabeth, if I can help it. And last night I could help it. So I did something."
Peter sighed, "Well, next time could you do it a little less…bloody?"
Neal smirked, "Are you squeamish Peter?"
"Hardly, but this stuff is supposed to be on the inside of your body. Not decorating your apartment."
"Yeah," Neal frowned, "great. Guess my apartment is going to be a crime scene now. Maybe June has another room for me to stay in-"
"No."
Neal looked up at him, "No?"
Peter shook his head, "No, you're not staying here. Not after tonight, not after this," he nodded to the bloody towels, "not even before that."
Neal frowned, confused.
"I was coming to get you, moron."
"Peter?"
"Yeah."
"Stop moving. You're making me sick."
"I'm not moving."
"Oh," Neal paused, "I think I'm going to pass out then."
Peter watched as Neal's eyes rolled to the back of his head and his body fell to the side. Peter caught him and grunted under the dead weight of his partner. He was able to readjust him so that Neal was lying on his lap.
He frowned at the heavy, sharp breaths and the white pallor of his skin. He pressed the towels harder the to oozing gash, hoping the pain would wake Neal up, but the man was out.
"Damn it, Neal," Peter cursed then looked over his shoulder, "Where the hell is that ambulance?"
He didn't get a reply and his heart sank a little more. Neal couldn't die, not after the progress they made. Not when they'd come this far. He didn't want to lose a friend.
And he really didn't want Elizabeth to kill him.
