Critical Hour

Chapter 11 – Actual Magic

"Hope can be a powerful force. Maybe there's no actual magic in it, but when you know what you hope for most and hold it like a light within you, you can make things happen, almost like magic."
― Laini Taylor, Daughter of Smoke and Bone

Now that he was back inside, the warehouse seemed darker than before. Neal welcomed it, letting his eyes adjust from the too-bright light outside and taking a moment to gather himself. He cradled his right arm against his chest as best he could, and wiped the blood from his left hand off on his suit. He had to be alert, in case Regal was awake and looking for him.

Then he continued, down the hallway, back toward where he'd left Peter.

Retracing his steps, he approached the doors he'd passed previously. With his hands free, Neal probably could have picked the locked one, but he didn't want to take the time. He didn't want anything to divert him from his goal of getting back to Peter, as quickly as he could manage it.

His steps sounded too loud in the quiet and he tried to modulate his footfalls, not easy given the pain shooting through his left ankle with every step. Silence was essential, though. If Regal were awake, Neal had to be the one to surprise him, and not the other way around. He couldn't let Regal get the upper hand on him again.

And if he is awake, what will you do?

Well, that answer was easy—he'd have to go after him. He'd have to take him down.

With what?

Neal stopped dead, swallowing hard and squeezing his eyes shut in dazed horror—at his own stupidity.

Oh, shit.

What had he been thinking? He had nothing, no weapon to use against Regal. He had one good hand and literally nothing else.

What were you planning to do? Hold him at bay with one of your lockpicks?

Neal looked around quickly, desperately, but there seemed to be nothing in this warehouse other than giant boxes and crates that were no help at all. Why the hell hadn't he gotten something from Darryl that he could use, even just as a club, to attack Regal, if he had to? Anything would have been helpful—a wrench, a tire iron, anything . . . even though he blanched at the idea of bludgeoning someone like that. Even though he wasn't even sure he could physically manage it right now . . . .

Not smart, Neal. You're not thinking, and that can get you killed. Get you both killed.

Well, no point in worrying about it now. And best not to waste time looking for something. It wouldn't matter once Peter was free, anyway, he told himself. He just had to find Peter. Peter was the priority.

There's no time.

He started moving again. Then he remembered, with a little jolt, something else.

Regal called somebody. Peter's voice, terse and frightened. He's developed a very . . . unsettling, personal interest in you. They're planning to drug you and kidnap you . . . .

He winced. Another mistake. He should have told Diana about that. Told her more bad guys were on the way. She'd want to know that, wouldn't she?

Of course she would. But you didn't bother to mention it. Another brilliant move.

He'd been so consumed with worry for Peter that he'd forgotten. And again, he'd remembered too late to do anything about it.

Once more, Peter's words from earlier echoed in his mind, but this time they were calm and reassuring. Let's concentrate on something you can do.

Like finding Peter. That, you can do. Just concentrate on that.

Neal kept going.

Peter should be here somewhere. Neal couldn't remember how many aisles he'd passed—stupid, you should have counted, you always do that—but he instinctively felt he had to be close.

Unless . . . oh, Jesus. What if Regal had woken up and . . . what?

Killed Peter and moved the body, a horrible, rational voice in his mind replied.

He swallowed convulsively. Don't think like that. Peter's here. You just haven't gotten to him yet.

Peter had lost feeling in his hands a while ago. There had been pain, then tingling pain, then numbness. Which wasn't so bad, really. The rest of him still hurt, though—wrists, arms, shoulders, his neck, too. The rigidity and stress of his position felt like it was straining just about every muscle and joint in his body.

He wondered how long he'd been here. He was really sweating now; the warehouse was stuffy, with little ventilation. And his mind was starting to wander . . . .

Peter wouldn't have imagined that someone in a position as excruciating as his was could fall asleep. Or pass out. But as time passed, as his exhaustion grew, as his energy drained away and his hope faded, he was starting to wonder if it was possible.

He was starting to be afraid that he already had.

Sometimes, when he blinked his eyes open after resting his head on his arms, he got the uneasy feeling that he'd drifted away, that he'd had his eyes closed just a little too long. Reality seemed to shimmer around the edges, for a moment, like perhaps it wasn't reality after all. Maybe it was blending into dreams or hallucinations, so seamlessly that he started to get nervous that it might be happening and he wouldn't even realize it.

You can't let yourself go. You need your wits about you.

But for what, exactly?

The next thing you're going to hear is the sound of a whole cadre of NYPD announcing themselves. You're going to see them coming around the corner of those shelves . . . .

Or maybe it'll be Jones and Diana, with the Harvard crew. Neal won't be with them, they'll have made sure that he's already in the ambulance, being looked after . . . .

Or maybe it will be Regal's crew, dragging an unconscious Neal with them, his pessimistic inner voice retorted.

No. Peter closed his eyes against that last thought, trying to banish it from his brain.

Once, he thought he saw Neal, standing right in front of him, a sad little smile on his face as he eyed Peter's cuffed wrists.

Still here, I see. Neal's voice was gentle. Well, Mozzie's training program didn't prepare you for this. Just watch and learn, Peter. See if you can pick up a few pointers.

Peter started, vision clearing, and found himself looking around for Neal. Realizing that, for an instant, he'd been hoping to see Neal.

No Neal.

That hadn't been real. Had it?

Of course not, he told himself sternly, taking a deep breath. You're dreaming. Or imagining things. And anyway, the last thing you should want to see is Neal. It's too dangerous for him. You shouldn't be hoping for that. Get a grip on yourself, for God's sake.

He hadn't been here long enough to start hallucinating. Or, at least, he didn't think he had. Unless he really had fallen asleep, somehow, which meant his sense of time was completely unreliable. So did that mean he was dreaming, after all?

When that feeling became oppressive, he forced himself to look over at Regal, lying there, bloody and unmoving. That was reality, and the sight of that bastard helped to wake Peter up, to clear away any cobwebs that might be clouding his mind.

Increasingly, thoughts of Elizabeth intruded on his attempts to concentrate. Visualizing El was a welcome distraction, but he couldn't allow himself that indulgence for too long. Because the more he thought about her, the more despair crept in - that those thoughts of her were the last ones he'd have, and they were such a poor substitute for seeing her, for feeling the warmth of her in his arms.

He thought of the special evening he'd arranged for the two of them. If he didn't get out of this, it would never come to fruition—in fact, he realized with a jolt that El would never even know what he'd planned.

Peter wasn't sure why that bothered him so much. The overall likelihood of his dying should overwhelm every other concern, but it suddenly seemed particularly cruel that Elizabeth would never know how anxious he'd been to do something just for her.

Except . . . he remembered suddenly, Neal knew. If Neal survived, if Regal didn't take him, Neal would tell her. He'd make sure that El would know, at least.

Neal's words from earlier, when he'd been complaining about Peter's driving, echoed in his mind. The comment had been lighthearted, but now it was chillingly prescient.

I would imagine that your dying—and missing dinner—would make Elizabeth awfully angry.

Hey, it's damned hard to get a reservation at that place; I'd hope she'd go anyway.

Where had that lump in his throat come from? No, thinking about Elizabeth wasn't helping.

Not that the other paths his mind traveled were any more comforting.

He worried about what would happen when Regal woke up. He worried about whether Neal had collapsed somewhere out of sight. He worried about Regal's associates showing up, and the horrifying fate that lay in store for Neal. The more time that ticked by, he knew, the more likely all of those nightmare scenarios became.

Because worrying about what might happen was counterproductive and pointless, Peter forced himself to focus on other things. He drafted a mental report of the incident, knowing it might be the only one he'd ever make. He replayed every moment—from when he'd realized that Neal had been gone too long, to his first sight of Regal holding Neal at gunpoint, to all that had followed. He analyzed Regal's actions and his own reactions, assessing what he could have—or should have—done to prevent himself from being outmaneuvered by Regal. To prevent himself from ending up trapped and helpless.

Hard as he tried—and his instinct was always to think about what he could have done differently—he could see no obvious alternative course of action. Really, apart from being more vigilant and keeping Neal in sight from the beginning—or bringing backup in the first place—Peter could envision very few other options.

He could have tried to shoot Regal.

Or you could have shot Neal, a little voice whispered from a dark corner of his mind.

Peter had considered firing on Regal during the initial confrontation. But the odds had not been in his favor. With Regal crouching, hidden behind Neal and the shelves, the target had been too small, the chance of accidentally hitting Neal far too great. Coupled with the fact that Regal's finger was poised on the trigger, Peter had weighed this option and rejected it.

Too much risk that Neal would end up dead.

And Regal had been right. Peter couldn't have lived with that.

The second option was disturbing on a whole other level. In the heat of the moment, it had flashed through Peter's mind, but he hadn't given it serious consideration.

The thought of purposefully shooting Neal made his blood run cold.

And yet . . . and yet. Wouldn't it have been worth it, if it saved Neal's life?

And your life, too. Don't forget that.

Regal likely would have been caught by surprise. Though there was still the risk that he would have fired, as well, Peter knew . . . .

Neal would probably have collapsed and maybe taken Regal down with him, or at least given Peter more to shoot at. Hell, the bullet might have gone through Neal and given Peter a two-fer. But even if didn't, Peter would have had a better shot at Regal. With him out of commission, Peter could have tended Neal, could have called for help.

He thought about the overwhelming guilt he would have felt, watching Neal bleeding from a bullet wound that he'd caused. Sitting with Neal in the hospital. That was assuming the gunshot wound didn't kill him.

I'm a good shot, his mind answered. I can shoot to wound.

Shooting to wound is a loser's game. It was the Academy firearms instructor's voice in his head, now. Anytime you draw your weapon, and especially when you fire it, you have to be prepared to take a life.

Because the thought of killing Neal was something he couldn't countenance, Peter ran through the imaginary scenario where he wounded Neal and managed to take down Regal.

Sure, you'd feel guilty. But you'd be with him. He'd be alive to recover. And there wouldn't have been any chance of Neal being drugged, kidnapped and subjected to God knew what.

Peter swallowed hard, letting his head fall back tiredly. What was the phrase Keller had used? Pis aller.

A move of last resort. Shooting Neal Caffrey would definitely qualify.

The tension in his neck, the agony in his shoulders and wrists, was nearly unbearable. Peter lifted his head up again, groaning a little with the effort, to glance at Regal—still out, thank God–and then let his head fall forward, leaning it against his upraised arms.

If you had it to do all over again, would you have done it? Could you have done it?

They were questions Peter couldn't answer. Then again, if his worst fears were realized, he wouldn't have to worry about them—or anything else—for much longer.

Regal would take care of that.

Neal slowed down. Assuming he really was getting close, he needed to be careful. Cautiously he peered around the corner, but saw only an empty row. Not this one, then. He reached the next aisle and looked around the edge of the shelves, careful to keep himself hidden.

Finally.

As it turned out, the tableau was just as he'd left it. Peter was still blessedly in one piece; Regal was still blessedly unconscious on the floor nearby. Neal let out a sigh of relief; the rush of emotion, of knowing that Peter was okay, left him feeling almost light-headed for a second.

Peter didn't see him at first; he was facing the shelves, in profile. Neal observed, wide-eyed, realizing uncomfortably that he was catching Peter in a rare moment of weakness. The agent was always in control, but not now. Neal felt as if he were viewing something forbidden, something he should never have been permitted to see.

When he'd left Peter before, still woozy and trying to get his bearings, Neal hadn't really appreciated just how agonizing his position was. Peter was standing, of course, with not only his arms, but his whole body pulled taut by the cuffs that were hooked around the shelves, far up above his head. It had to hurt like hell—and would hurt even worse once the circulation was restored.

Peter's head rested on his arms. He looked down at Regal for an instant. Then he let his head fall back for a moment before leaning onto his arms again.

Neal's heart lurched in his chest at the sight. Everything about Peter's posture and body language spoke of hopelessness, of futility, of defeat—everything that Peter wasn't. Neal felt a fresh wave of fury at Regal, that he'd reduced Peter to this.

Well, no matter. Neal would fix that. He cleared his throat.

"Still hangin' around, huh?"

Peter's whole body jerked sharply at the unexpected sound of Neal's voice breaking the quiet. Even from this far away, Neal could see him wince.

Okay, surprising him had not been a good idea.

Peter lifted his head and stared at Neal. For just an instant, he looked like someone who'd seen a ghost, or who'd awoken suddenly from a dream, eyes widening in stunned disbelief. It was telling that the next thing he did was to look immediately at Regal, assuring that he was still out, before swiveling his gaze back to his consultant.

He didn't look happy to see Neal. A whole range of emotions played swiftly across his face—surprise, then alarm, then anger—but happiness was notably absent.

Uh oh.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Peter exploded. His voice was fierce; his face had turned into a rictus of fury.

Neal had plenty of experience with a frustrated, annoyed Peter. In fact, sometimes he liked to provoke Peter just for the hell of it—not that he'd ever cop to doing so. But Neal couldn't ever remember seeing him this enraged before.

This was raw and visceral and . . . scary, because it didn't feel like the Peter he knew. Peter was cool under pressure; he could get angry, of course, but it was always with a purpose and always kept in check. But this . . . this was Peter not just angry, but incensed, this was a Peter near to frantic, and Neal shrank from it instinctively. Without thinking, he moved away from the shelf he'd been using for support. He needed to show Peter that he was okay to be here, that he didn't need Peter to protect him.

"What'm I doing here? I'm helping you." Damn it. Walking normally was proving to be harder than he'd thought it would be.

"And who's going to help you?" Peter hissed back. Where have I heard that before, Neal thought hazily. The words sounded familiar, but he couldn't think from where, what with his memory being strangely uncooperative. Oh well, he didn't have time to worry about it now, anyway.

Apparently, Peter hadn't expected an answer, because he kept right on talking.

"You can barely walk," he spat. Peter's voice was low and dangerous, a frightening mixture of accusation, fear and just plain, full-on wrath.

Well, hell. That was true. Which meant, given his policy of trying really hard not to lie to Peter, that Neal couldn't deny it.

Peter was nothing if not observant, as Neal had learned, occasionally to his detriment, over the years. In retrospect, it probably would have been too much to hope for that Peter wouldn't notice that Neal had all the grace and coordination of someone on a two-day bender.

"Well, some of us haven't had the luxury of just standing around all day," Neal said, trying to simultaneously joke and deflect. Peter, if possible, looked even more irate. A muscle moved in his clenched jaw, the little muscle that twitched sometimes, usually when Peter was angry.

Yeah, not smart, Neal. Peter's pissed that he's in this position and you just emphasized it.

"Sorry," he muttered. Since there was no point to trying to fool Peter, Neal admitted defeat and let himself balance against the shelves again. He stopped to ride out a sharp, sudden wave of pain that left him momentarily breathless. "That was—in bad taste. Not myself at the moment."

"Exactly my point," Peter said fiercely. He exhaled, long and slow, like a man on his last nerve. Which, come to think of it, Neal realized belatedly, he surely was. Not only was he in pain, but he'd been stuck here, chained up, humiliated, and helpless, with nothing to do but brood while he waited for Regal to wake up and take out his homicidal frustrations on him.

For an unadulterated control freak like Peter, this probably qualified as his worst nightmare.

Not to mention the added worry about whether Neal had passed out in a hallway somewhere. To be fair, given that Peter was, well . . . Peter, that prospect was probably far more worrisome for him than his own predicament.

Neal took a careful, shallow breath—he'd learned the folly of trying to breathe too deeply on his journey here—and started moving again. Peter took his eyes off Neal's shambling progress, looking beyond him for a moment, his gaze searching. "Where's the backup?"

"On the way." This aisle was a lot longer than it looked. "I called Diana and everything."

"Jesus, Neal," Peter said, a little of the anger leeching out of his voice, replaced with the exasperation that Neal was used to. It was weird, to hear that particular note in his voice and not see Peter rubbing his forehead in frustration. Those two things always went together, in Neal's experience.

He was looking at Neal again, but with an odd, far-away look in his eyes. Neal couldn't know that Peter wasn't really seeing him; instead, Peter was seeing Regal and hearing the man's voice.

The correct term is 'masterpieces.' Plural.

That tasty morsel is my new protégé.

I can think of all sorts of creative ways for Neal to prove his worth to me.

I bet he's enchanting when he begs.

Regal smiling that terrifying smile and saying, 'I want to,' as he kicked Neal again.

Don't I always share?

Watching Peter, Neal noticed that his gaze had dropped down, focusing on Neal's chest. Neal glanced down himself, wondering what Peter was looking at.

When Neal realized, he stared in shock, inhaling sharply, painfully. How the hell did I not notice that?

His shirt was halfway open, his tie was hanging down, and his chest had three carefully formed scratches, right in the center. Courtesy of Regal, no doubt.

Goddamned fucking twisted bastard.

Without thinking, Neal reached up clumsily with his left hand to rebutton the shirt. Suddenly he felt way too exposed.

Peter saw it. Neal immediately wished he'd just left the damn buttons alone, because now Peter looked like he wanted to recoil away in disgust.

"You're not safe here," Peter burst out. His frustration had morphed into something that sounded alarmingly like despair, like desperation, and that did send a little chill down Neal's spine because it was so very not-Peter.

"Neither are you," Neal said absently. He was close enough to Peter, finally, to start pondering the question of what to do next—more specifically, how to get him out of those damn cuffs.

He'd been so focused on just dragging himself to this point, on making sure that Peter was okay, that he hadn't really considered the how-to-free-Peter problem like he should have. Like he would have . . . if only the clanging in his head weren't so damn loud, if only the pain in his chest, his ribs didn't occasionally threaten to take his breath away, if only . . . .

Peter ignored Neal's retort and looked heavenward, as if perhaps he'd find some patience there. "Damnit, Neal, I told you what he did to you. What he's going to do. Remember that? That's why I gave you an order. I told you to leave."

"And I followed it," Neal said, in his most reasonable voice, before adding, "You didn't say not to come back."

"That was very clearly implied—"

Okay, he really couldn't let that one go. "Implied?" Neal repeated, incredulous. "I think you know by now the need to be explicit where I'm concerned." He chewed his lip, assessing how he'd achieve the angle he needed to get Peter unshackled.

Peter groaned in frustration. "Yeah, because any loophole that's available to you, you're gonna drive a truck through."

Or have a truck driven at me . . . best to keep that to myself, though, Neal thought prudently. He managed to dredge up a smile. "Now that's the Peter Burke I know."

"And I thought I was pretty goddamned explicit about what that bastard wants to do to you, Neal," Peter growled. He shot a forbidding look at him, but Neal was eying his wrists and very deliberately refusing to meet Peter's gaze.

"God, you look horrible," Peter said without thinking, because, really, Neal did. The smile on his face was a disturbingly pale imitation of his normal insouciant grin. Neal was pale, bloody, bruised, unsteady, and looked generally like a man on the verge of collapse.

"And that's more of the Peter Burke I know," Neal said, trying for a wry expression and not quite succeeding. "Always pumpin' up the old ego."

He glanced at Peter, gaze sharpening. "What did he do to you?"

"Huh?" Peter asked, confused. "Besides the obvious? Nothing." The seeping blood from his wrists was his own fault, and hardly worth discussing, given Neal's injuries.

"You—you're bleeding," Neal said, voice tight as he gestured to the red smears on Peter's shirt.

"Oh, that," Peter said, catching on. Neal hadn't noticed the blood on his wrists, and Peter wasn't going to call his attention to it. "No. That's not mine—it's yours."

Neal frowned in bewilderment.

"You wiped the blood off on my shirt," Peter explained, concern flooding through him at Neal's obvious lack of recollection. He wondered what else Neal had forgotten about the day's events. Peter mentally ticked off the symptoms Neal had exhibited—loss of consciousness, blurred vision, confusion, nausea, memory loss—and tried not to worry about what they could mean.

"Oh. Sorry about that," Neal said. Again, he looked slightly embarrassed—and wasn't it just like Neal to still be more worried about Peter's shirt than his own dire condition?

"I told you to do it," Peter informed him impatiently. "But that's not important—"

"Mmm. Wasn't one of my favorites, anyway," Neal interjected, already distracted. He was sifting through options, weighing what to do, but a little shocked at how slow and disjointed his thought processes were at the moment.

Wait, he thought. The gun. Get the gun, and you can just sit here and point it at Regal til help comes. He wakes up, he threatens Peter, you shoot him.

A simple plan, but it should work. Surely he was due for one of his plans to work today, right?

As quickly as he could, Neal limped over to where he thought the gun had ended up, trying to remember the spot.

"What happened to your leg?" Peter asked, his voice rough with worry.

"Tripped going out - just twisted my ankle a little, 's all." Neal held onto the shelf and slid down. Then he reached underneath, biting back a curse at the pain the awkward position was causing him.

"What are you—?"

"Trying to get the gun," Neal said, not waiting for Peter to finish. "Shit." He couldn't reach it. Not good. Vertigo hit again as the agony in his shoulder and his ribs redoubled. Neal had to close his eyes for a moment until the sick feeling dissipated. To buy time, he wiped his forehead, hoping Peter wouldn't notice that he'd had to take a minute to collect himself. He felt dangerously close to passing out again, and he simply couldn't allow that to happen.

"Okay," he said, making sure his voice sounded relaxed. Get up. "Can't quite reach it. Time for Plan B."

Neal rose to his feet, hauling himself up as carefully he could, and made it over to where Peter stood. He looked up, studying the agent's cuffed wrists again.

Peter eyed him warily. "And what's Plan B?"

"If I can't get the gun, then I'll have to get you."

"And how the hell are you going to do that?"

"I come up there and cut you loose," Neal said, in as breezy a tone as he could conjure up.

He was good, very good, and thus proud of the fact that nothing betrayed how very long this climb was beginning to look to him—now that he was staring at it up close.

"What? You call that a plan?" Peter's voice rose again.

Neal couldn't help smiling, because it sounded exactly like the Peter-voice in his mind—the one he'd heard just as he jumped out in front of Darryl's truck.

The one he didn't want to admit he'd been afraid he might never hear again.

"—is not funny," Peter was saying; he had no idea why Neal was smiling, but the sight of it was making his rage bubble over anew. "This is so far from funny that—"

"I know. It's just . . . oh, never mind," Neal said. "Doesn't matter. Least I didn't suggest shooting the cuffs off you."

"Yeah, this plan is utter genius compared to that one," Peter muttered.

"Hey, when I can see straight, I'm a much better shot than you know."

Actually, Peter did know—but one flashback per day to the memory of Neal with a gun in his hand was quite enough for Peter. So he played along.

"I don't think I want to know."

"Ignorance isn't always bliss, Peter," Neal informed him. "Anyway, you just relax while I come up there and pick those cuffs for you."

"No. You can't do that."

"Peter, I've been picking locks since I was . . . well, for a long, long time."

"Oh, really? I had no idea," Peter said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "It's the climbing part I'm talking about. For starters."

Neal sighed. "It's shelves, Peter." He made an upward, climbing-type motion with his good hand. "Like climbing a ladder. I could do that with one hand tied behind my back."

"Which is convenient, since I notice you're not using that right hand much."

"You don't miss a trick, do you?" Neal muttered. "Yeah, the less I have to use it, the better, but—"

"And getting up here is going to be a damn sight more difficult than climbing a ladder—"

"Well, thank you, Mr. Sunshine," Neal said, rolling his eyes. "You got a better idea? I can't reach them from here."

"Sure," Peter said angrily. "A better idea would be for you to get the hell out of here, go somewhere safe, and wait for help."

Neal shook his head. "Not gonna happen, Peter. Not until I get you loose and then, I have to warn you, you may be carrying me out of here."

Since Peter could see Neal was going to continue to be his stubborn, insubordinate self, he gave in - for the moment. "How about one of those boxes? If you drag one over, you could stand on it."

Neal pursed his lips, thinking. "Hmm, not a bad idea."

It wasn't either, except that all of the nearby boxes were large and very heavy. In his weakened state, with only one good arm, Neal struggled to get purchase.

Peter watched him try valiantly, grunting with pain and exertion as he tried to shift a nearby crate far enough to make it useful. Again, Peter was made acutely aware of how impotent, how useless he was.

Neal needed help and there wasn't a damn thing Peter could do.

The only good thing right now was that at least Regal remained unconscious. Well, in addition to the fact that he'd told his colleagues not to hurry—and that, as yet, there had been no sign of them. That was something positive, as well. Hopefully, they were going to take their time, Peter thought. Hopefully they were the slowest goddamn criminals on the face of the earth.

Speaking of time, enough had passed without any motion from Regal that Peter had actually allowed himself to hope that the man really was seriously injured, maybe comatose. Maybe he'd never wake up, like Peter's college friend.

Glancing over at Regal for what felt like the hundredth time, Peter wondered if they could really be that lucky.

After a few moments of fruitless effort by his consultant, trying to shift the boxes, Peter finally said, "Neal," at the same time that Neal said, panting, "This isn' working."

He stopped and reached up with his left hand to mop sweat and blood from his forehead, grimacing. "Guess climbing it is, then."

Peter had to try, one more time. "No, Neal. I'm ordering you to leave."

"Yeah, you did that already," Neal pointed out. "Filled my quota of orders for the day."

"For all the good it did," Peter sighed.

"Look, you can't order me to do the same thing twice. That's a—that's double jeopardy."

"It is not, and you—" Peter broke off with a groan, because he'd just realized that in the middle of this deadly serious situation, with both their lives at risk, that Neal was teasing him. "You know that."

Neal smiled slyly. "Also, just to set the record straight, I didn't disobey an order from you."

It only took Peter a few seconds to grasp his meaning.

"Diana. Diana told you to stay put, didn't she?"

Neal nodded slow assent, a worried look crossing his face for the first time. Peter didn't miss the fact that Neal seemed more scared of the prospect of Diana than of anything Regal might do to him. "If I haven't already broken some bones. I think she'll take care of it."

Time for another tactic, Peter thought.

"Fine, Neal. I'm not ordering, I'm asking. I'm asking you to please leave. Just—just go."

"And I'm refusing," Neal said, a rare expression of real anger on his face when he looked up at Peter. "You would never leave me like that."

The fury blazing in his eyes, and the quiet defiance in his voice, took Peter aback. He'd seen Neal sullen, petulant, wheedling, when he didn't get what he wanted, but real anger was unusual. Anger meant a loss of control, and Neal strived, always, to be in control.

Plus, anger or open defiance generally didn't work on Peter, and Neal was smart enough to know that.

Peter met his consultant's gaze and was silent. Of course, Peter would never abandon Neal in such a predicament. But he could have said, That's different. And, to Peter, it was. He was a trained agent, with a sworn duty. It was his job to take risks and to protect the members of his team.

And Neal was different. Neal was in Peter's custody, and, as a consultant, he was regularly sent out into the field with none of the means of defense that agents had - with no weapon and no training. So Peter always felt, keenly, a heightened sense of responsibility for his safety.

All of that was true. But he knew very well that none of it would matter to Neal—proof of just how far the two of them had come—and so Peter said nothing.

"You told me what Regal did to me, earlier—yes, explicitly." Neal's voice was calm again, sounding more like himself. He'd forced himself back under control. "Well, he could do the same things to you, Peter. He could . . . do worse." Neal swallowed hard. "He will do worse. You think I'd be okay sitting outside on the curb while he—while he's in here, shooting you?"

"Of course not, but—"

"That's why I came back," Neal shot back, as if Peter hadn't spoken. "And why I'm not leaving here without you."

He was still staring at Peter, eyes alight with that striking, searing intensity, and it was Peter who found he had to look away.

Not waiting for an answer, Neal looked up, scanning the area he had to climb, and then moved toward the shelves.

Peter watched anxiously. Finally he said, "Wait."

Neal's expression was pained. "Peter, I already told you I'm not leaving. And we don't have time to argue—"

"I'm not," Peter said evenly. "I want to know how you're going to get the cuffs off."

Tilting his head at Peter, Neal raised an eyebrow, relieved to be back on familiar ground.

"Do you even have to ask?" he replied, a smug smile on his face. With his good hand, he patted the pocket where he'd replaced his picks after using them to open the warehouse door, then withdrew them and waved them at Peter.

Still as cocky as ever, Peter thought. "I know how proud you are of your extralegal skills. But these are my cuffs. There is a key handy."

Neal's face fell. "Oh. Right," he said, deflated. "You know, picking locks is not illegal, Peter. And using the key is just . . . boring."

"Depends where and when you pick'em," Peter said, not willing to concede this particular point. "You can practice your skills another time. Did you forget that you've only got one good arm? And nobody likes a show-off."

" 'Cept sometimes you like it when I show off," Neal said under his breath.

Peter ignored that, since denying it would start a whole new argument that that they didn't have time for—and that he'd probably lose anyway, just like the last one. "Just humor me and get the damn key. For God's sake, be smart, Neal."

"Fine, fine," Neal huffed impatiently, putting the picks into his outside pocket and then fumbling in Peter's. "We'll do it your way. The unexciting, humdrum, pedestrian, handcuffs-for-dummies way, because—"

Peter shook his head. "Yeah, because what this day really needs is more excitement."

Neal made a little chuffing noise under his breath that was probably meant to be a laugh.

Inwardly, Peter worried that Neal was being entirely too cavalier, given the gravity of the situation. Then again, Peter had noticed, since he'd been working with Neal, that being a general wiseass was one of his CI's preferred ways of dealing with pressure.

Come to think of it, you could say it was Neal's preferred way of dealing with almost any situation.

Having retrieved the handcuff key and put it in his pocket, Neal stopped and stared at Regal thoughtfully.

Peter saw him. "What? What is it?"

"Maybe I should tie him up first."

"With what?"

"Um . . ." Neal's voice trailed off and he paused. "How 'bout my tie?"

"One-handed?"

Neal grimaced. "I could give it a shot."

Peter thought about it, but only for a second. "No," he said. "What kind of a knot can you tie with one arm, anyway? Stay away from him. He hasn't moved a muscle since you knocked him out." Well, except for that one time when he might have moved, but you weren't sure . . . maybe you imagined it.

"But I could try—"

"No," Peter said, urgency audible in his voice. He couldn't shake the thought that, like in some fairy tale, the mere act of touching Regal would bring him back to wakefulness. "When he started . . . going after you," Peter hesitated and cleared his throat as Neal looked at him curiously. "That's when you woke up. I don't want to take the chance of him doing the same."

Even half out of it, Neal could sense Peter's unease—and that this point was not up for discussion. "Okay, 'f you say so."

"I do." Peter had another thought. "When you get close, maybe you can just hand me the key."

Neal paused, frowning. "Can you feel your hands?"

Peter hesitated, then had to admit, "No." The truth was, his hands didn't even feel like they were attached to his body anymore. They might as well have belonged to someone else, for all the control he had over them.

"That's what I thought," Neal said. "Harder for you. Easier if I just do it."

Peter didn't think anything about what Neal was about to attempt could be called easy, but he didn't argue. He just watched in silent concern, as Neal began, with agonizing care, to work his way up the shelves.

Neal could see the tension, all the familiar telltale indicators, as Peter moved into full worry mode once again. "Relax," he told him, aiming to provide a distraction. "Done this many times. You too, probably. Didn't you climb trees when you were a kid?"

"Sure, but never with a concussion and a broken collarbone."

"Well, just because you took the easy way out doesn't—" Neal broke off, gasping as he stilled. The knuckles on his left hand were white where they gripped the edge of the shelf.

"You okay?" Peter asked, voice sharp.

"Yeah, just . . . moved the wrong way," Neal said through clenched teeth, breathing shallowly. He'd frozen where he was, resting his useless right side against the boxes he was scaling.

"I don't know how you're even still conscious," Peter muttered darkly.

"Maybe . . . I'm just that good," Neal said, quoting Peter (when Peter had been him, he recalled).

Peter let out a sound that was half groan, half snort, and all exasperation.

"Actually," Neal said, serious now, "I have a very hard head. One time I got hit trying to—" he stopped and cleared his throat. "Well, details aren't important, but trust me: I've got a hard head."

"Literally or figuratively?"

"Both, of course," Neal said without hesitation.

"I would never have guessed," Peter retorted.

Neal shook his head. "Your sarcasm really does go up in proportion to your stress level," he said, face solemn.

Peter glared at him and decided to change the subject. Neal had started moving again, but even more slowly now. Peter's heart was in his throat as he watched Neal haul himself up, inch by inch, basically one-handed, and in enough pain that he'd mostly given up trying to hide it.

"So who cut the wire?"

"Huh?"

"Your wrists."

"Oh, that . . . um, kindness of strangers. Really good guy named Darryl." Neal paused. "Though maybe he was only trying to make up for the fact that he almost ran me over."

"What?"

The shocked note in Peter's voice was hard to miss. Neal stopped to catch his breath and glance at Peter. He looked dumbfounded. Or horrified. Maybe both; it was kind of hard to tell from this angle.

"Well, if we're being honest—and I know how important that is to you," Neal said, "he really couldn' help it, not with the way I—"

Neal halted, right in the middle of the thought. He'd just realized, much too late—he blamed his muzzy brain—that he was supposed to have kept his mouth shut about this part. Peter was angry enough, and worried enough, as it was. No sense giving him another thing to go ballistic about.

Peter looked like he did when he thought Neal had stolen or forged something. "The way you what?"

Neal didn't answer right away.

Now Peter looked like he did when he knew Neal had stolen or forged something. "Neal, what did you do?"

"Didn' do anything wrong," Neal said, his tone defensive.

"Oh, you never do," Peter said grimly. "According to you."

"I really need to focus on this right now, Peter," Neal evaded.

"Sure. You just don't want to discuss the fact that you—what? Ran out into the street and got hit by a car?"

"Truck," Neal murmured, in a barely-audible voice.

"Truck?" Peter repeated, horrified. "God, Neal."

"Desperate times, Peter. I was—well, I needed to attract attention. Somehow." Neal thought about telling Peter how he'd heard the agent's voice in his head, mocking his plan. He doubted Peter would find it amusing, though.

About to reply, Peter found he had to swallow first. Because a large lump had suddenly come out of nowhere and lodged in his throat.

He thought about all the closed-minded agents at the FBI who wouldn't trust an ex-con, about the snide, barbed comments they sometimes made about Neal.

About how very, very wrong they were. Every goddamned one of them.

And most of all, he thought about Neal, risking everything to save him—so desperate that he'd jumped in front of a truck, for God's sake. Jeopardizing himself again, just by being here, with Regal lying a few feet away.

What did you say to someone who'd raced out into traffic to help you? Peter knew very well what he was supposed to say: How could you? You shouldn't have. Don't do anything like that ever again. His natural instinct was always, always to scold Neal for just this kind of reckless behavior, but the emotion welling up inside of Peter wouldn't let him speak the words.

After all, Neal had done it for him.

What Peter really wanted to express was appreciation for Neal's unconditional loyalty, a loyalty that was almost frightening in its intensity. He wanted to explain that he wasn't even surprised, not really, because Neal's actions only served to validate everything Peter secretly believed about Neal, all the faith and trust he'd placed in him, in spite of the ups and downs they'd had. That despite Neal's past—the past that so many others couldn't dismiss—this was an aspect of Neal's character that gave Peter endless hopes for the man's future.

Peter wanted to blurt all of that out. Except . . .

Except that he couldn't find the words to say it properly, to do it justice.

He didn't even know where to start.

So, instead, Peter caught Neal's eye, giving him a long and (he hoped) meaningful look. He took a deep breath and muttered, "Thanks, Neal." As a small concession to his guilty conscience, he did shake his head in a sort of disbelieving, you-shouldn't-have-done-that gesture.

"Why, you're welcome," Neal said lightly, just barely managing to cover his surprise that Peter had refrained from yet another lecture about reckless, stupid risk-taking. "Not that you need to thank me; in fact, now you're making me nervous." He shot a quick, knowing smile in Peter's direction.

It was uncanny—and sometimes, for Peter, alarming—how well Neal could see through him. But in this moment, Peter was glad. Because he realized that Neal, perceptive as ever, had read on Peter's face the emotions he was feeling but hadn't been able to put into words.

"And you're . . . you're okay?" Peter asked apprehensively.

"Hardly felt it," Neal hastened to assure him. "He slammed on the brakes and just kinda nicked me. Hitting the ground was probably the worst part . . . ."

Peter decided he really didn't need any more details right now.

When he got to the height of Peter's hands, Neal stopped, breathing heavily, and said, "Okay."

Peter could see the problem. With his right hand more or less useless and his left hand the only thing allowing him to cling to the shelves, Neal had no way to pull out the key and unlock the cuffs. To do that, he'd have to let go. He'd fall.

"Hand me the key," Peter said instantly, without thinking.

"Can't," Neal said. "Can't let go." Groaning, he tried to wrap his left arm around the shelf support and reach into his pocket with his hand, but he couldn't make the positioning work. And even if he could get the key, he wouldn't be able to maneuver it where it needed to be.

Neal paused and then muttered, almost to himself, "Gonna have to . . . get up in there." To Peter's ears, the cocksure confidence of a few moments ago had vanished.

In the end, Neal had to actually hoist himself onto the shelf, laying on top of the boxes and cramming his body into the small space between the boxes and the next shelf up. It was a painstaking process involving lots of small, slow, jerky movements that hurt Peter just to watch. He could only imagine what it felt like for Neal, since he'd had stopped talking. Save for a few muffled curses and some grunting, Neal had gone completely silent.

Finally, somehow, Neal finished levering himself up, lying flat on the boxes, to where he could angle over to the locks in the cuffs. He lay there motionless, trying to even out his breathing and banish the little black spots that were intruding on his vision.

Peter waited anxiously. "You okay?" Which he knew was a really asinine thing to say because Neal was anything but okay.

"Fantastic," Neal said through gritted teeth.

He had been vaguely aware that the contortions needed to get himself up onto the shelf would be painful. But he hadn't realized how goddamned much it was going to hurt to lie on his chest, the pressure it would put on his ribs, not to mention his broken shoulder or collarbone or whatever the hell it was. Christ. The pain had ratcheted up into something that blinded him, that took even the air around him away, so that every ounce of energy had to be channeled into the formerly simple act of breathing. He had to fight just to get air into his lungs.

He'd never take breathing for granted, ever again.

Don't think about it. You can't afford to. Not now.

He steeled himself and shifted so that he could reach down toward his pocket, fishing around for the handcuff key. He was careful to press his lips together to keep any sounds from escaping. Best not to stress Peter out any more than he already was.

The hard part's over, anyway. The climbing. Now you're so close to the whole passing out part, where you let Peter fix everything. All you have to do is unlock the cuffs. With the key, for chrissake. Piece of cake—a five-year-old could do it. Then you can just let go, let everything fade away . . . .

As the seconds stretched out, Peter asked, "Problem?" Neal could hear the edge in his voice, the note of worry that Peter was trying to hide.

"No . . . just trying to find it," Neal said, trying to sound blithe even as he realized it was probably a lost cause.

It was true, he was trying to find the key, but he also needed time to draw in air, to breathe shallowly through the pain in his shoulder that had blossomed anew and felt as if were expanding into a vise that encircled his chest, constricting his ribs to the point where he felt as if he might suffocate.

The dizziness was back in earnest, also, and he had to close his eyes because the world had started to spin, way too fast. He was afraid he might throw up again, and wouldn't that be just great if he got sick all over Peter . . . .

He'd been trying to reach into his pocket, but now, to his alarm, he found that he had to use his left hand to hold on tightly instead, because if he didn't, he might fall off the shelves, they were moving that fast because of how quickly the world was spinning, and he couldn't let that happen, because there was no way in hell he could make that climb again, and if he fell, it would be all over . . . .

Neal hadn't realized just how close he was to passing out until he heard Peter. Or maybe he had zoned out momentarily, because the urgency in Peter's voice sounded like he'd been trying to get Neal's attention for some time. Peter had realized Neal was in trouble, of course. He usually did.

Peter was saying his name. Repeating it like a goddamned mantra. It gave Neal something to focus on and he did, grateful for something to think about beside pain and breathing and the vertiginous certainty that he was going to end up in pieces on the floor any minute.

"Hey, Neal. You okay? Answer me. Come on, Neal." Peter's voice intruded on his thoughts, bringing him back, just like Peter always did.

He had such a knack for that.

"Y-yeah," Neal said finally.

"Good, Neal. Stay with me, now." Peter said, then added, "Are you still seeing triple?"

Neal didn't answer at first. Finally he said, eyes still squeezed shut, "I'll have you know . . . it's down to . . . double."

"That makes me feel much better," Peter said, just a hint of pretend sarcasm in his voice.

"Me, too," Neal agreed. God, but it was getting hard to find enough air to talk and breathe at the same time. "Three o' you is a little . . . intimidating. Even for me. One . . . Peter Burke . . . is enough."

"Have to keep that in mind," Peter said, and the faux-sarcasm was gone, replaced by something gentler. "Neal. Are you feeling dizzy?"

"Oh, y'know," Neal said, trying to sound casual, "maybe a little."

Peter knew. How did he always know?

"Yeah, I figured," Peter said. "Look, Neal, you're doing great. You can do this. I know you can. I know it's hard, but you're almost there."

Peter was echoing his thoughts. It was pretty cool how often they were on the same wavelength, him and Peter, without even trying . . . .

And Peter sounded . . . different. Different, but really the same. All the worry, all the anxiety that was so not Peter, was gone. Peter sounded calm and reassuring, like he always did, and Neal hadn't realized how much he'd needed to hear that note in Peter's voice until suddenly, there it was, and Neal felt the old, familiar confidence flooding through him.

Peter believes you can do this, and if Peter believes it, then it must be true. You can do this. You will do this.

Neal dared to open his eyes. He had to; the clock was ticking, and he'd wasted too much time already. He risked a quick glance at Peter, below him—it was dangerous to look down, he knew, when you were as dizzy as he was—but it was worth it. When they locked eyes, Peter's anxious expression transformed instantly to a smile. Neal found it absurdly heartening.

"Hey." Peter's relief was audible.

"Hey," Neal echoed, voice a mere croak. Miraculously, the world's spinning seemed to have, if not stopped, at least slowed enough that he didn't feel he was going to be sick. Or fall off into oblivion.

" . . . doing great," Peter was saying. "Just take a few breaths, just relax. Whatever you need to do."

Pragmatically, Neal knew it was impossible for Peter to have made the dizziness go away, but it felt almost as if he had. And, really, Neal wouldn't have put it past him to figure out some way to do it. Peter had that ability to lull you into believing you knew what he was and the limits of what he could—or would—do.

Then he'd shock the hell out of you by catching you—when no one had ever caught you before. Or by agreeing to your crazy work-release scheme so you could get out of prison. Or stealing a security tape to keep you from going back to prison. Or letting you hide in his house, even though you were a fugitive. Or demonstrating an alarming aptitude for picking pockets. Or performing a frighteningly detailed breakdown of the Le Bernardin menu . . . .

No, if there was anyone who could manage to use sheer force of will to stop the world from spinning too fast, it would be Peter Burke. Neal had no doubt about that.

Neal's fingers clenched around the key. Time to finish this.

Slowly, he moved his arm out and around, reaching down toward Peter's cuffed wrists, stifling a groan as he did so.

Neal cleared his throat. "You - your wrists 're bleeding," he said, feeling stupid for not having noticed it before.

"Pulled a little too hard on the cuffs," Peter admitted, sounding sheepish.

"Off soon," Neal said, referring to the cuffs but finding that extraneous words were using up energy he didn't have. Peter would know what he meant; he always did. Neal contacted with something warm that he realized was Peter's hand. He let out a huge sigh of relief, and that hurt like hell, too, but it didn't matter, because he was nearly there.

His fingers were damp with sweat and blood, and the key was slipping out of his grasp; he had to squeeze his fingers together to hold onto it.

For God's sake, don't drop it.

"Take your time," Peter continued, in his most encouraging Peter-voice. "Just take it easy. Because if you pass out again, Neal, we're—"

"I believe we're right back where we started," a familiar, British-accented voice rang out, shattering the silence.

TBC…..

A/N – Good grief. To think I actually said at one point that I was trying to keep each part manageable - and now look at this insanely long chapter! Everyone who finished this really should get some kind of prize, but all I have to offer, once again, are my deepest thanks for all the reviews/follows/etc. I can't tell you how exciting it is to know that so many of you are enjoying the story. Even those who said they are finding the story boring—I appreciate your honesty and your keeping me humble.

I hope everyone has a safe and very happy New Year!

. . . and that you won't hate me too much for this horrible, terrible, no good, very bad cliffhanger.