13 - Front Man

"Neal, you copy?" Peter asked, "Neal?"

He picked up the radio.

"Tell me you found Lindsey".

"We're gonna need more time".

Neal grimaced, "It's four, Peter. I'm already here".

"Then stall" He ordered, "He gets his hands on the case, the girl's dead".

A silver transit van pulled up in front of him, and Neal frantically thought about what he could do. The briefcase was on the seat next to him, and it was his only bargaining chip. If he handed it over, Lindsey would be killed, but likewise, if he didn't give it to Wilkes, then he could use the girl as leverage over him.

He had to act fast.

Wilkes climbed out of the van and blew the horn as Neal quickly rearranged the briefcase.


"Right on time. I love that".

"Where's the girl?" He asked, stalling.

"Unfortunately, I won't be sharing that information with you".

"We had a deal, Wilkes".

"I lied" He said simply, "Give it to me".

Neal tossed him the silver briefcase and hoped beyond hope that his plan would work.

Setting it down on the ground, Wilkes opened it and-

No gold cards.

Perfect.

"And I thought we had a nice thing going on".

"You lied, I lied" He replied, smirking, "It's like a dance".

Wilkes pulled a gun.

That wasn't part of the plan.

"You pull that trigger, and all those gold cards I just stole from Edward Reilly are gone forever".

"I don't have those cards in my hand in 10 seconds, I'm gonna make a call, and I'm gonna kill the girl!"

Neal swallowed thickly.

"Then I'm gonna take my time with you. Five seconds".

Shit.

"Three seconds".

Think.

"Now my guys are gonna have to kill that nice man's daughter".

"Who says they're still your guys?" He blurted.

"Is that your play?"

Wilkes lowered the phone.

"You turned my crew against me? I expected more from you".

"Who do you think has the gold cards?"

"You left them with my guys… You're not that dumb".

Neal thought, fast.

If he could keep him busy for just another few minutes…

"You brought me into this because I bring up the average" He said, "Unfortunately, that makes you less valuable. Your men agreed; time for new management".

"You're lying".

"Call them if you think I'm bluffing".

He held up his phone.

"I think you're bluffing".

Fuck.

"Yea, boss?"

"Kill her. And leave it on speaker".

Anytime now, Peter.

"Put it down! Now! Get down now! Hands on your head!"

Neal felt his heart stop.

"Damn it!"

"Sounds like they got company".

Wilkes grabbed the briefcase and flung it against the warehouse wall in anger. As soon as it landed, the latches opened and gold cards spilt out across the ground.

He smirked, "I guess that makes you obsolete".

The gun rose to level with his chest.

"Now, I wouldn't do that if I were you" Neal quickly said, raising both hands, "See, I got friends with sniper rifles, too".

The red dots appeared on Wilkes chest with perfect timing.

"FBI! Drop your weapon!"

He had never been so happy to hear Jones' voice.

"Drop your weapon right now! Freeze! Hands in the air".

Wilkes looked at the agents closing in, and then turned back to Neal, hand remaining steady on the gun.

"Well, if I'm going down anyway, I might as well make it worth my while".

He froze.


*BANG*


Everything slowed down to half speed. Wilkes spinning around, his arms starting to lower, his hands beginning to loosen around the gun.

Neal frowned, wondering where all the yelling had gone and if Peter was close by because everything had suddenly become worryingly silent.

Wilkes smirked like a man who'd finally gotten his revenge, even as the red lights on his chest flickered and faded and Neal suddenly realised with a startling clarity that he'd fucked up.


*BANG*


Suddenly, everything speeds up again, and Neal finds himself half collapsed against the car as agents rush past.

He feels like he should be doing something, yelling or calling out for help or helping Jones make the arrest, but his chest feels strangely tight and the words won't come.

He feels himself slide down the sleek black car, hitting the filthy concrete below with a jerk, head spinning and vision blurring.

That's weird.

He doesn't feel sick, but likewise he doesn't feel not sick. Everything seems muffled and distant and he vaguely recalls that he has to talk to Peter about something but can't remember what.

He slumps over, half propped up against the tire next to him, and mourns the loss of his suit. In front of the car, he sees Wilkes on the ground and he's not sure why they're both lying down since Neal is the only one with reason to, but even now, that reason eluded him.

An FBI agent rushed up to the body and kicked the gun away before putting two fingers to his neck.

He grimaced and shook his head.

Huh.

Neal could've sworn that Wilkes had been alive a minute ago, but then there was that bang and then the second bang and he'd been thrown backwards by some invisible force and Wilkes had landed and sort of twitched and then hadn't moved again and-


The pain hits Neal at the exact same moment Jones reaches him.


He's forced to bend over with a gasp, hands coming up to claw at his chest as a shearing tug makes his vision white. In the distance, there's yelling, and the faint sound of sirens. Neal tries to breathe but he can't. It's almost as if there's a truck sitting on his lungs and no matter how hard he tries to shift it, he can't. His hearing fades and his eyelashes begin to flicker and-

"Caffrey? Caffrey!"

There's a sharp stinging across his face, but its nothing compared to whatever the fuck was wrong with his chest.

"Caffrey!"

Two hands land on his shoulders, and he's moved so abruptly that he can't help but cry out. The same voice shushes him, apologising quickly and almost frantically, as he's carefully leant back against the rain-splashed car.

It was better than the mud-covered tire, he guessed.

"Hey! Hey, I need to listen to me, alright?"

He half-heartedly swiped a hand at the fingers that were doing something to his tie, but was easily stopped.

"Caffrey, Neal, hey, you gotta focus! Listen to my voice, and don't you dare close those eyes!"

He wanted to whine, but it felt like too much effort, so he settled for a not-so-convincing pout instead.

The voice chuckled, although it was slightly strained, and then warm hands rested on his neck, raising his head until he could see the clouds far above.

They were moving slowly, far too slowly for them to be real, and Neal distantly wondered if they hadn't gotten the memo that said everything had to speed up again. Maybe if he closed his eyes, they would move...

"Caffrey!"

He blinked, quickly, and suddenly found that the blue sky was now blocked out by brown eyes.

Oh. It was Jones. From the warehouse.

Was he still at the warehouse?

"Peter's on his way, and we've called for an ambulance. You need to stay awake until then, okay?"

He vaguely nodded.

Jones smiled.

"Okay, good. Now, I gotta take this shirt off you to see the wound, alright?"

Neal wanted to ask what wound but the second the agent started peeling his shirt away, all the oxygen seemed to vanish again.

He gasped, choking on the very air he wasn't receiving, and desperately clawed at the man's hand for help. Jones paled, expression turning grim as he quickly lowered the damp fabric and pressed down.


Had he found his voice; Neal would have screamed.


"-know, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know it hurts, I'm so sorry-"

Jones looked scared.

"Put him on his side!"

A nameless woman in an FBI windbreaker had appeared.

"What?!"

"If the bullet pierced his lung, you need to put him on his side-"

"Why?!"

"Just do it!"

Neal flinched back from the second set of hands that were suddenly touching him, and his eyes clenched shut as he was moved once more. He couldn't hear anything above his own failed attempt at breathing, and his head was reeling as he tried to piece together just what the hell is happening?!

"Injured side down, the gravity will help keep his lung open".

"Wait, wait, wait, don't we need to keep pressure on it?"

"Well, I don't have any fucking saran wrap, Jones, do you?!"

The ground was damp beneath his cheek, but blessedly cool, and Neal found his eyes drifting shut once more. The hand on his shoulder shook him, hard, and he became aware of a vague whooshing sound, like hissing air leaving a vacuum.

"Keep those eyes open, Caffrey, or I swear to god it won't just be Burke you have to worry about!"

Burke?

As in… Peter?

Neal couldn't remember when he'd last seen Peter.

They were working on a case, something about… gold cards? Or- Or a kidnapped girl? Something priceless and pretty. They even caught the guy too, he realised, as his eyes fell on a familiar face lying a few feet away. But why was he lying down? Was everyone lying down? Was there some sort of international lying down day that he'd forgotten about?


"NEAL!"

Oh. There was Peter. Running past the body on the ground, down the cracked concrete, and shoving through the agents crouched down next to him.

So, Neal was lying down too, then. Ha. They were the weird ones, not him.

"Neal!"

He tried to reply, to say his name, to say anything, but there was only that wet sucking sound again and his head was starting to feel heavy.

"Neal!" Peter repeated, kneeling on the wet concrete and ruining his jeans. Neal pouted even more at that. There was no good reason for both of their clothes to get dirty.

"Hey, bud, I need you to stay awake, okay?"

He mentally groaned.

Why the hell was everyone saying that to him?!

I mean, seriously, he was lying on the ground, it was pretty damp from last night's rain, and he was so far from comfortable that it wasn't even funny, so just how on earth did they expect him to go to sleep?!

"Neal!"

Whoops, his eyes had closed.

Peter leant forwards until their faces were mere inches apart. He wanted to make a joke about Elizabeth not being too impressed, but couldn't find enough energy to even blink. A familiar calloused hand rested on his forehead and swept back the curls from his face. Neal lent into it with a sigh, feeling warm and safe and kind of sleepy.

"Neal, don't you dare!"

This concrete floor was surprisingly doable, especially since he'd spent almost four years on a prison bed. And the puddles weren't so bad either, since they were cooling him down. Neal supposed that he could, in fact, fall asleep here if he wanted to, despite the weird fuzziness coursing through his blood. Maybe just a little sleep. Just a nap. A siesta, if you will. That was fine, wasn't it?

"Neal!"

There was a firm hand shaking his shoulder.

"Come on, Neal, please".

Whatever. It could wait.

"... Neal?"

Man, he needed to sleep.


Peter couldn't help but smile as the shock blanket was wrapped around Lindsey.

They had her, she was safe, and all they needed now was to arrest-

"Agent Burke, we got Wilkes".

Perfect.

"We're secure here" He said into the radio, "We got the girl. What about Neal?"

The radio crackled on… and then off.

"Jones?"

He frowned, something sharp and painful worming it's way through his chest.

"Jones, what about Neal?"

"… Peter-"

He took off.


Adrenaline coursed through his veins, both from the search, finding the girl unharmed, and the thought of Neal being hurt. Because he had to be. Neal was injured, that's what the tone in Jones' voice had said, something helpless and worried and guilty all in one and he refused to think about any possibility other than Neal got hurt but he would be alright.

He reached the side of the warehouse in record time, and decided not to worry about how he got there because he couldn't remember running or driving or getting on a train or anything above the constant mantra of he'll be fine he'll be fine he'll be-

When he reached the car, he felt his heart freeze.

There was a young blonde woman he didn't recognise crouched down next to the front tire. Next to her, knelt Jones, his tan jacket missing and green shirt stained red. And there, in front of them…

"NEAL!" He yelled, shoving past the other agents on site. He barely registered Wilkes' body on the ground, a neat red circle in the very centre of his chest, his only concern right now being his C.I.

He collapsed next to him, hands hovering uselessly above his prone form.

"Neal!"

Blue eyes, half closed and glazed over, stared up at him from the damp concrete ground. His mouth opened, as if to say something like 'hey Peter, got you! This is all just an elaborate joke!' but instead, the only sound that emerged was wet and wheezing and-

Oh no.

"Neal!"

He had heard that sound before, once, a long time ago with a temporary partner at a drug bust that went bad.

"Hey, bud, I need you to stay awake, okay?"

Peter's hands frantically ran over the conman's chest, searching for the entry wound because holy shit Neal had been shot!

"Ambulance is on the way" Jones said quietly, but he didn't reply.

His eyes began to drift closed again.

"Neal!"

Peter leant forward, close enough to hear the faint rattling that came with the man's every breath. His hair was half plastered to his forehead with sweat, and it made his very soul ache to think of the amount of pain the young man was currently in. He reached up with a shaking hand and gently brushed back the dark curls, Neal sighing and leaning into the touch like a stray alley-cat starved for affection.

"Neal, don't you dare!"

His eyes had closed again.

"Neal!"

Peter quickly shook his shoulder to wake him up.

"Come on, Neal, please".

There was no response.

"… Neal?"


The sirens in the distance got louder with every second, and then suddenly glove-covered hands were pulling him back from his C.I.'s motionless body.

He couldn't even find the strength to fight them.

Peter watched as the paramedics carefully lifted Neal onto an orange board, yelling things about 'hypovolemic shock' and 'pneumothorax confirmed'.

Once he was laid out on the stretcher, one of the doctors pulled a large needle from her bag, tapping it once before non-too-gently piercing Neal's chest with it. There was a hiss and the sound of sucking air, and then an oxygen mask was placed over his mouth and three other needles connected to different coloured bags were shoved into his arm.

Peter wanted to vomit.

"-urke? Agent Burke? Sir!"

He blinked and quickly turned to face the paramedic who had just touched his arm.

"Are you coming with us to the hospital?"

His head was reeling.

"To… To the-"

Jones stepped forwards, "Yes, he is. I'll sort out everything here, and Agent Rice can do the rest".

He found himself nodded and when he next blinked, he was sitting in the side of a far too small ambulance and Neal was lying in front of him with people in white rushing around.

The bullet had pierced his lung.

Neal couldn't breathe because Wilkes had shot him in the chest and the bullet had pierced his lung and the last and only man Peter had ever seen this happen to had-

Had died.


Peter doesn't know how long he sat in that bleak waiting room, jeans mud stained and damp and elbow deep in blood that wasn't his own. He'd been kindly but firmly told that he couldn't come any further once they'd arrived at the hospital and then pointed in the direction of the nearest sink.

It'd taken fifteen full minutes before he got the blood out from underneath blunt nails, but even now as he stared down at worn hands, he could make out the occasional red speck.

His jeans could be washed, as well as the jacket, but he knew that his pullover and shirt were a lost cause, and, you know, for someone who loved style so much, Neal had really blown his way through half of Peter's clothes.

"Burke".

He glanced up, surprised to find Hughes suddenly standing in front of him.

"… Sir? What are you doing here?"

"One of our own is in life-threatening surgery, Peter, what the hell do you think I'm doing here?"

Hughes sat down in the squeaky plastic chair next to him.

"Any word?"

"Nothing" He replied, voice hoarse, "The doctors said it could take hours yet… if he makes it".

"Of course he will, this is Neal Caffrey we're talking about" He said, patting him on the back, "Are you telling me he'll let a little gun wound keep him down?"

Peter let out a heavy and put his head in his hands.

"… You didn't see him, Reese. He was… It was horrible. The bullet pierced his lung, he couldn't breathe, he kept choking up blood and it was… it was everywhere".

"He'll pull through".

"You don't know that".

"No, but I do know that thinking like that won't help anyone".

Hughes reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a very familiar piece of plastic.

"The Marshall's contacted me. Wanted to get the tracker back on as soon as possible, regardless if Caffrey was in hospital or not".

"… What did you say?"

"I told them to fuck off".

That startled a laugh out of him, and Peter felt something loosen in his chest with the sound.

"Here" Hughes said, handing it to him, "I'll leave it up to you".

"To re-collar the precinct pet?" He asked wryly.

"To do whatever you think is best. For Caffrey. Not the Marshalls".

Peter slowly nodded, turning the tracking anklet over in his hands for a minute before pocketing it.

"Did Jones manage okay?"

"Everything's wrapped up. You've got good agents".

"And- And the girl?"

"Back home, safe and sound. Wilkes is dead, which comes with a mountain of paperwork, but… well, that can all wait until Caffrey's back on his feet. Have you called Elizabeth yet?"

He abruptly straightened.

"I- No, no, I- I didn't, I was just so busy and caught up with- with all of this that-"

"Peter?"

He looked up as a familiar face appeared down the hallway.

El.

Frowning, he quickly turned back to Hughes.

"I thought it might have slipped your mind" He said simply, patting him on the shoulder once more as he stood, "Keep me updated?"

"Of course. Thank you".

"Don't mention it".

Hughes smiled, briefly, as he passed Elizabeth, but she wasted no time in rushing over to him.

"What happened? Reese would only say that Neal got hurt and you were here waiting for him".

"… I might be waiting a while".

"Peter".

He ran a tired hand over his face.

"It's… It's bad, El. Neal got shot, and- and it's not like all those other times where he got a few stitches and walked it off, this- this is bad. Really bad".

She immediately sat down next to him, one hand around his shoulder while the other rested on top of his own.

"Where he is?"

"Surgery. The bullet pierced his lung, broke a few ribs, and then stayed inside of him. It all needs to be fixed before he can start getting better but… but they don't know if he will".

"Oh, honey…"

El wrapped herself around him, and Peter buried his face in her hair, breathing in the familiar scent as his eyes burned.

Neal would be okay.

It was like Hughes had said; he was a fighter.

He would be okay.

He had to be.


"Family of Neal Caffrey?"

Peter sharply looked up as a doctor appeared in the waiting room. It had been over four hours, and next to him, El was sound asleep, using his coat as a pillow. But now…

"That's me" He said, carefully standing up so as to not jostle his wife, "Is Neal-"

"He's alive".

Peter felt his legs buckle and he quickly put a hand on the wall to steady himself.

The doctor gave him a reassuring smile and waited a moment for him to take it in.

"… Can I see him?" Peter finally got out, voice hoarse with relief.

"Usually, I would say no, but given the nature of Mr Caffrey's injury… five minutes".


Peter slowly sank into the chair next to Neal's bed, unable to connect his energetic playful C.I. with this pale too-still figure.

There were dark circles under his eyes, face gaunt and hollow like he hadn't eaten in months. One of the doctors must have washed away the mud and dirt because the dark curls were placed all wrong, and Peter found himself automatically reaching up to fix it. There were numerous needles and machines connected to him, all beeping reassuringly, but his body told a different story.

Black and blue bruises littered his chest, circling out from spider-like stitches just to the side of his sternum. There were other, smaller bandages every few inches, but there, on the righthand sight of his chest was-

A plastic tube.

Peter stared at it, feeling sick.

A plastic tube was sticking out of Neal's chest, piercing his skin and muscle and organs and sucking out the blood and fluid that had filled his lungs, giving him air until he could breathe for himself again.

It was horrifying.


Peter finished fixing the conman's hair and leant back in his seat once more.

Neal was alive and that's all that mattered.

He knew that it would be a long road to recovery, full of breathing exercises and physical therapy, but he also knew that he would be there for every single second of it.

Neal was too stubborn to stay down for long, and this would be no different.

So.

Making himself comfortable, Peter hoped that the doctor forgot about him, and gently took Neal's hand in his own.

He was here for the long haul.