Day 14! Today's chapter summary: Neal gets shot and Peter lectures him.

Everything was going right. Things rarely went right for the White Collar Unit. For some reason, probably one god or another looking out for them and cursing their very existence, at least one thing had to go wrong per case. This case in specific, it was a gunshot wound.

Due to Neal's unending luck, he was the one on the receiving end of this shot. Neal was lucky, on average. He figured you had to be to evade the FBI for years, and then have everything work out mostly according to plan after that. But, at the same time, he wasn't always lucky. This time, his luck had run out and there was a new hole in his chest. He was pretty sure it had missed his heart, but that didn't stop the pain.

Honestly, getting shot was intensely painful. Neal had been running on adrenaline for a few seconds after getting shot, keeping his momentum and managing to corner his assailant. And then the adrenaline evaporated and he was left gasping in intense pain. Everything hurt. He'd fallen to the ground almost immediately after the adrenaline disappeared and he was pretty sure he hadn't hit his head. But that didn't stop Neal's head from pounding. He could feel his heart pounding and warm blood spilling over his chest with each beat. It hurt. Hurt. Shocks of agony spread through his body, down his nerves, into his soul with every breath, every time he moved in any way, no matter how minor.

He coughed. Neal was almost certain that there was something in his lungs-that something was probably blood-and he couldn't breathe. Every breath felt like agony and like he was drowning. He couldn't get air. He coughed again, a little blood spilling into his mouth. It wasn't enough to be an issue, but there was still the metallic tang with each pant, each gasp. Neal shifted and didn't manage to move at all. He was pretty sure he was going into shock, but was rapidly losing the mental capacity to keep thinking. A groan escaped his mouth.

The suspect had been apprehended and promptly handed over to the Harvard crew for them to handle the routine. The rest of the unit was more preoccupied with the fact that their con was bleeding out on the ground. Diana took one glance and went to call paramedics. She wasn't the fondest of Neal, but she did care whether he lived or died. He was fun to keep around and always good if you needed cheering up in some way. Diana was loath to admit it, but she did care about him and his wellbeing.

Peter's first-aid training kicked in as soon as he saw Neal. As the most experienced, he was also designated as 'the one who took care of things.' He knelt next to Neal and immediately started putting pressure on the wound. He didn't have any gloves, but he was fairly certain that Neal didn't have any bloodborne diseases. And, if he did, Peter didn't have any cuts on his hands that he was aware of. Most people wouldn't think it was safe, but Peter was more concerned because he liked Neal and Neal was bleeding out.

Neal winced. A high-pitched whine escaped his lips. If Neal was any more cognizant, any more conscious, he would have denied it was a whine. But...it was definitely a whine. It hurt and he couldn't resist.

"Sorry," Peter apologized, sounding completely unapologetic. "This is going to hurt. Diana-"

Diana came back, still holding her phone to her ear. She leaned away, covering the microphone with her hand. "Already on it." She leaned back into her phone and continued pelting the operator with rapid-fire information.

Peter was sure that she was doing whatever she needed to to get help over here quickly. "Jones?"

Jones nodded before going to get proper first-aid supplies. From the looks of that wound, he wasn't sure that any first-aid supplies would be helpful, but gauze and sticky tape was better than nothing. Especially for a chest wound. Peter pressed down harder, trying his best to stem the bleeding that was only getting worse with each beat of Neal's heart. The blood was bright red, pumping with his heart, spurting out of an artery. The bleeding, however, stopped, or at least slowed to a more reasonable pace, under the pressure of Peter's hands. A whine came from Neal again.

"Peter, you're hurting me."

"You are shot," Peter said, bluntly. "I am going to keep you alive." Neal rolled his eyes. They were glassy and unfocused, staring somewhere that wasn't Peter's face. But, somehow, he still managed to look irritated. "Are you incapable of doing something without getting hurt?" Peter snapped.

"I don't know, Peter," Neal snapped back. Peter would give him a pass on the attitude. He was in pain.

Jones arrived with a first-aid kit. With the advantage of fresh eyes, he saw how awful Neal really looked. He was pale, much paler than usual, and looked halfway to death's door. His skin was shiny with sweat and he was starting to shiver. That wasn't good. He was both in a jacket and it was warm out. Neal was, more importantly, panting and gasping for air. He didn't seem to be able to get a deep breath in. He's going into shock.

"Breathe," Jones said, uselessly.

"I'm trying!" Neal tried to yell back. He managed an irritated snap before going into a coughing fit. More blood filled his mouth. Neal, against his conscious self's better judgment, swallowed the blood down. The blood's in my body, it'll be fine. His mouth tasted like metal. He groaned. The coughing hurt his chest even more than his breathing.

"You know what I think?" Peter asked. It was a rhetorical question and he was only pretending to be friendly. He didn't give Neal a chance to respond. "I think you're biologically attracted to danger."

Neal took the best version of a deep breath he could. It was ragged and wet and sounded painful, but it got air into his lungs. "Really?" His voice was ragged, wet, and painful.

"Yeah. Kate. Alex. Julianna."

"I wasn't in love with Julianna."

Figures, Peter thought. Dying and the only thing he can do is be pedantic. "But you did get involved with her and get yourself hurt."

Neal did his damnedest to give a scathing look to Peter. He didn't succeed. The lack of focus in his eyes and rapidly greying skin really took the edge off it. With that attempt, Neal seemed to lose whatever was left of his energy. He flopped down from whatever attempt at posture he was making. His muscles stopped responding to his commands, leaving him limp on the ground in a rapidly growing puddle of blood.

"Peter, I've just been shot. Can you save the preaching for later?" He was tired. Really tired. More tired than he ever remembered feeling in his life.

"Nope," Peter said with a shake of his head. "No better time to do it."

"I'm bleeding out on the street." Neal was starting to slur his words. It was strange, to hear the normally perfectly-spoken Neal Caffrey having this much trouble stringing words together into a coherent sentence. It was disturbing.

"And that's why I'm lecturing you." Peter knew Neal had to keep talking. Because talking meant he was conscious and breathing. And the only way he had to get Neal to respond was to be sarcastic. "Do you have a limbic system?"

Neal's thoughts were disoriented, slurring together as much as his speech. Limbic system...limbic system... "Um...pretty sure," Neal slurred. "You need one of those to live, right?"

"Yes!" Peter almost shouted. He accidentally lifted his hands, impulsively gesturing. Blood fountained from Neal's chest, spurting in time with his too-rapid heartbeat. Bright red arterial blood splashed on to Neal's face before Peter processed what he did and moved to rectify the situation. He pressed back down on Neal's chest, this time with a thick gauze pad supplied by Jones between his hands and Neal's chest. Neal groaned. Peter ignored him and continued with the 'lecture.' "That's my point! You don't have a fight-or-flight system."

"Sure I do. I just freeze."

Still giving appropriate answers to questions. That's good. "And you're shot," Peter repeated.

Neal's head was swimming. Everything was spinning around him and Neal had a distinct sense of both nausea and vertigo at the same time. He wanted to throw up, but his stomach was too weak to even turn at the thought. Neal tried to feel solid against something, but to no avail. Everything just made him feel worse.

"Peter, shut up. Please. My head's swimming."

Diana came over again. She snapped her phone shut and gave a small nod towards Jones, who disappeared from the area. Probably going to direct EMTs. "EMTs are on the way," Diana clarified.

Peter gave a curt nod before focusing on keeping Neal awake. "Neal, do you like seeing me panic like this?"

Neal shook his head as best as possible. That didn't help his head. It made everything worse: the nausea, the dizziness, the pain. If Neal didn't know better, he'd say he was bleeding into his mouth. But that didn't make sense, right? Blood flows down. But there...this was too much thinking. Thinking also didn't help the dizziness.

"No," he slurred. "I hate it."

"Why do you do it then?" Peter's voice was calm and conciliatory. He knew Neal would have fought like hell against that tone if he was more conscious and not actively dying.

"'Cause it solves my problems. And my prob'ems are usually your prob'ems."

"You're usually my problem," Peter joked.

Neal tried to give a conman smile to Peter. It didn't work. Not only because he couldn't quite manage the right facial expression for a smile, but also because he looked demonic. It was the first time Peter noticed any blood in his mouth. Blood lined the perfectly straight and white teeth of Neal's smile. His eyes were unfocused and his pupils were wide, almost eclipsing his entire iris. His skin looked grey. If Peter were told to picture a dying man, this wouldn't be far from it.

"See, you get it," Neal tried to quip back.

He coughed, ragged and wet again. More blood came to his mouth. He twisted with as much strength as he had to get away, to not cough blood in Peter's face (was that assault? Couldn't be if he didn't mean to, right?). He twisted and spit the blood in his mouth onto the ground. He didn't stop coughing. Each cough wracked his body, sending blood spurting from the gunshot in time with his heartbeat and each cough. It looked painful. It was painful. Eventually, his lungs seemed to figure out the whole 'breathing' thing. Neal, however, was absolutely spent. He fell limp back to the ground, Diana catching his head before he could get a concussion and a gunshot to the chest. Peter put his pressure back on the wound, switching out gauze pads. The first was entirely soaked. He wasn't sure Neal had much blood left in him.

"Ooh," he instinctively said. "You're coughing up blood. That's...not good."

Neal tried to shake his head. His muscles weren't cooperating. "No," he said. His speech was so slurred, it was almost incomprehensible. "Not good. My chest hurts." His thoughts were obviously disorganized.

"You were shot in the chest," Peter said with an unerringly patient tone. He felt like a parent, trying to explain why you couldn't bite people to a toddler. "I'm guessing somewhere near your lungs."

"Really? You guess?" Neal asked, as sarcastic as possible.

"Yeah."

Neal's eyes slipped closed. It wasn't a conscious decision; it was just too much effort to keep his eyes open. Effort he didn't have. "'M goin' to sleep."

"No," Peter commanded. "Stay awake. Keep talking to me."

Neal's eyes opened sluggishly. When he managed to open his eyes again, they were more unfocused than they were before. The normally sparkling blues were dull and mostly black. "You're mean sometimes."

"Yeah, and sometimes I like you being alive."

"Only sometimes?" Neal felt great. He couldn't remember ever feeling this good, not even under the influence of completely ineffective sedatives. He felt like he could be flying.

Peter tried to figure out how to answer. He realized that he said he sometimes liked Neal being alive. That wasn't true. He liked Neal being around. And, in all honesty, he was already starting to have trouble imagining a life without Neal Caffrey in it. "Okay, most times."

"Knew you loved me," Neal said with another demonic smile.

"I don't love you," Peter said in the perfect imitation of a tired dad. "I...I tolerate you."

"No, no," Neal tried to clarify. "Like a...like a child."

Diana stood up, joining Jones to see if EMTs were anywhere nearby. Neal did not look good. Being honest, he looked like absolute shit.

"Maybe," Peter capitulated with a small laugh. "Are you the trouble-making son?"

"I was thinkin' progidal." Neal was pretty sure that wasn't how the word went, but he didn't have the mental capacity to fix it. "Y'know, screw everythin' up, come back, get forgiven."

"Did you screw everything up?" Keep him talking. Talking is conscious. Talking is breathing. Talking is good.

"Dunno," Neal slurred out. "Catch him?"

"Yes," Peter said with a nod.

Neal let out a deep breath that was ominously close to a dying man's final breath. "Guess I didn't then." His eyes closed.

"Neal," Peter commanded, shaking him as best he could while maintaining pressure. "Neal, keep talking to me."

"'S not like I'm dyin' or anythin'," he managed.

"You are dying," Diana said. "EMTs right behind me."

"You're also going into shock," Peter explained.

Neal did his best to wave Peter off. "'M fine," he managed to get out before he passed out.

Neal woke up, slowly. As much as he wanted to open his eyes, he couldn't quite find the energy. His chest still hurt, but it definitely hurt less than it did. He was still dizzy and a little nauseous, but, again, definitely better. Cold. That was to be expected, with how much blood he was pretty sure he'd lost. What Neal wasn't expecting was how overwhelmingly thirsty he felt. That was strange. He was pretty sure he remembered that he was shot and a lot of blood. That's probably why he felt like death warmed over. He let out a small groan of pain.

"Feeling better?" a female voice asked from nearby. Probably a nurse.

Neal tried to answer. Really, he did. But, apparently, his muscles still weren't listening to his commands. The tongue's a muscle, right? He was still confused and having trouble stringing thoughts together, but he figured that was to be expected. The only thing he managed was to slur something resembling a negative answer.

"Any pain?"

Neal paused. He tried to take a deep breath and immediately regretted it. "Chest," he answered with a groan.

"I guessed. Let me get you something." He heard footsteps going away from him and a door opening, then closing. "He's awake," the woman said through the door. Probably FBI.

Neal had enough control over his body and opened his eyes. And immediately snapped them shut. It was bright. God, why are hospitals always so bright? Slowly this time, he reopened his eyes. He was right, he was in a hospital. He didn't need to look down to know his chest was bandaged, probably packed with gauze. Glancing to his left, he noticed an IV running clear liquid and blood into his arm. Guess that makes sense.

Peter came in through the door and just...stared at Neal. He was trying to take in the fact that Neal was dead for a few minutes. Heart stopped, no breathing, dead. And now, he was looking something close to his normal self. Admittedly, there were hours of surgery and anxious waiting to lead up to this point, but still. Most people aren't dead for half an hour and then alive, awake, and breathing two days later. It was scary how well Neal seemed to bounce back. However...Peter wasn't sure Neal needed to know he died yet. That was a problem for the future. He was under enough stress as it was.

"Feeling any better?" Peter asked, sitting in a chair next to Neal.

Neal managed to prop himself into a sitting position. "No."

"Figured. I managed to talk your way into sick leave."

Neal gave a weak smile. It didn't look nearly as demonic, now that he wasn't bleeding. There was color to his skin, his eyes were-not sparkling but back to their normal shine. His face moved in the right ways. He looked like a human, smiling. A weak and exhausted human, sure. But a human.

"Thank you," he managed to say. It was clear he was still tired and his lungs were still recovering. But, that was a clearer sentence than any he'd said before.

"No problem." Peter hit Neal on the back in what he meant to be a playful manner.

Neal cried out. He knew Peter hadn't meant to, but he managed to hit right on the exit wound. And that was more pain than Neal remembered feeling. To be fair, he didn't remember a good bit of what happened after he was shot. But, he was pretty sure it was a comparable level of pain. Peter, to his credit, realized what he did immediately and apologized.

"I'm fine," Neal said, voice a little clearer.

"You said that when you were bleeding out," Peter pointed out. You said that when you were dying, he didn't say. "I'm never taking you seriously again.

"You took me seriously to begin with?" And that was Peter's sign Neal would be all right. If he was back to sarcasm, playful comments, and purposefully misinterpreting Peter's words, he'd be fine.

Peter rolled his eyes. "Don't ever do something that stupid again."

"Got it."

I hope you enjoyed this today; please leave a review if you particularly enjoyed it. Thank you to everyone who's still reading after fourteen days; I love all of you! And to those participating in NaNoWriMo: halfway is tomorrow!