Chapter Three

"Peter, open your eyes!"

Neal knew his voice was edged with panic but there was a good reason; he was panicked. "Peter!"

This time in spite of his insistence, Peter's eyes remained closed. His face was ashen, his breathing shallow and rapid. Neal had been in tough spots before, granted nothing of this magnitude, and knew panic could be as much an enemy as the flesh and blood kind. It either paralyzed a person and kept them from acting or caused them to act recklessly without considering the consequences. Either one was a mistake, often exacerbating an already difficult situation. With him, historically, it had been the latter rather than the former. He tended to rush ahead, to leap before looking, which oft times took him out of the frying pan and into the proverbial fire.

With everything that had happened-being kidnapped at gunpoint, taken to a deserted building and shot, and now Peter shot and unresponsive-Neal felt he had every right to a moment or two of panic. But he also knew Peter didn't have a moment or two to spare.

If he wanted Peter to live, he had to stay calm and think of a way to save him.

He was trying to control the bleeding by keeping pressure on the wound but that was only a stop-gap measure. Though it was at a slower rate, he too was losing blood. He was already feeling lightheaded and weak; he wasn't sure if his nausea was from actual blood loss or just from the sight of so much of it. It was only a matter of time until he, like Peter, lost consciousness. Peter had told him to go for help, but even if he managed to get outside without passing out, which he doubted, and found someone to call for help, which seemed equally unlikely, it would still be too late for Peter.

Peter was right; waiting for help wasn't an option but going for help wasn't one either.

Neal searched the room in desperation, looking for anything that might prove helpful. His eyes came to rest on the dead man with staring eyes only a few feet away.

A cell phone; that was the answer.

Even though he had an aversion to dead bodies, he released his hold on Peter and scurried as quickly as he could across the plastic to where the man lay. The blood surrounding him had begun to congeal and was sticky and thick beneath Neal's hand and knees. With a grimace of disgust, Neal rifled through the man's pockets.

There was no phone.

What kind of person didn't carry a phone?

The psychotic killer kind apparently.

Drained of both energy and hope, Neal started back to Peter. There was a puddle of blood beginning to creep out from beneath Peter's motionless body and Neal's hand was slipping in the trail of his own blood he'd left across the floor. Time was running out and he had no plan. He could slow Peter's bleeding but that was only a temporary thing. It might buy minutes but not the hours it would take before anyone came looking. Right now, no one even knew they were missing. They hadn't been gone long enough to be missed and he hadn't left his radius. No one would-

He stopped; he was wearing a tracking device.

He could summon three levels of law enforcement, Federal, State and Local, to this godforsaken building in a matter of minutes. All he had to do was cut his anklet. And fortunately, the dead man had left behind a tool that would do the trick. The irony that something he hated so badly, something that made him feel trapped and controlled, now represented his only ray of hope to him did not escape him.

"Hang on, Peter," Neal gasped, changing his course and heading for the pair of shears. "Just a little longer."

Reaching his destination, Neal rotated himself into a sitting position and picked up the shears. Heart pounding and breathing heavily, he wiped the sweat stinging his eyes with his sleeve and then, bracing one side of the handle against his leg, he cut through the anklet. He picked it up and with sheer will-power, managed to press the severed ends together, reconnecting the signal and creating a series of flashes on the anklet. He'd sent a message like this before but Peter had been the one at the other end. This time, he wasn't sure who it would be. Jones maybe, possibly Agent Hughes. Hopefully, one of them would pick up on it and understand.

But if not, it didn't matter. Whether an emergency medical unit or a SWAT team, Neal knew help was on the way.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Peter's mind was sluggish, slow to understand or interpret the sensations around him. First came confusion, and then great discomfort. Someone was pulling at him, sending waves of pain through his torso with each tug. There was also an odd, crinkling sound and grunts of exertion behind him. An unpleasant smell filled his nostrils.

With effort, he opened his eyes. There was an empty light socket hanging, wires exposed, in the middle of a cracked, stained ceiling above him. There was another tug, another grunt, another wave of pain.

A groan escaped his lips.

"Sorry, Peter."

It was Neal behind him; Neal moving him a few, painful inches at a time, across the floor. "I need to... get you to..." Another tug, another grunt. "where I can keep...pressure on the wound. Almost...there."

Neal was pulling him by the collar of his coat and after one last tug, Peter felt him release his hold and sink to the floor behind him. He couldn't see Neal but could hear his labored breathing as he moved around behind him, situating himself so one leg extended at Peter's side. A moment later, Neal's arm reached around him and, with another grunt, pulled him back to rest against his heaving chest.

Still confused and now partially upright, Peter took in his surroundings. The crinkling sound he'd been hearing was plastic that covered the floor of the room. There was blood, too. Lots of it, and...

...a body.

The sight of Reich's body cleared the fog in Peter's mind and the events of the day returned in startling clarity.

Reich had shot Neal. Peter had charged him and in the ensuing fight, both he and Reich had taken a bullet themselves. Reich's had gone through the heart; Peter's had gone through the torso. There was blood around Reich's body but the rest of it, pooled and smeared across the floor in copious amounts, had to belong to him and Neal.

A sudden change in Neal's position sent intense pain through Peter's core. He stiffened, crying out.

"Sorry," Neal gasped, still out of breath. "I know...it...hurts."

Peter realized it hadn't been an accident; it had been a purposeful move. With just a shift in their positions, Neal's thigh was now pressed painfully against his side.

It took a moment but the pain lessened, became less sharp. Peter, too drained to do otherwise, again rested against Neal's rapidly rising and falling chest. In spite of the pain-induced sweat running down his face, he felt cold; he was starting to tremble. He wouldn't be conscious much longer and from the sound of it, neither would Neal.

But Neal knew that; that was why he'd situated them so that even if he passed out, his thigh would still remain firmly pressed against Peter's side. It was a valiant effort but a pointless one. Peter knew it might extend his life by a few minutes but all the work it had taken had undoubtedly shortened Neal's.

No one was coming; no one was even looking. He'd told Neal that, told him to try to save himself but he hadn't listened. Instead, he'd stayed and by doing so, wasted any chance he'd had for survival.

"Dammit, Neal," he said weakly. "For once, couldn't you just do what I tell you?"

"I guess not." Neal's voice was faint.

"I told you to go."

"And I told you I wasn't leaving you."

"Then we're both gonna die here," Peter said brokenly. He'd never see El again, never smell her fragrance in his nostrils, never hold her in his arms. The only pain worse than that was knowing what he was about to put her through. Those first few hours, however horrible, would be tempered with hope but as time passed, it would fade. Then, at some point, there would come a knock at the door. It would probably be Reese and when she saw him, she would know all hope was gone. "God," he breathed as despair washed over him. "El..."

"We are not dying here, Peter." Neal's voice shook with emotion. "You just have to hang on." Peter felt the grip around his chest tighten. "Help is coming."

Neal's desperate attempt at reassurance was touching and as much as Peter hated he was here, a part of him was glad he was. The warmth of Neal's body behind him, the pressure of his leg against his side and his arm around his chest kept the pressing chill of death at bay and brought Peter a measure of comfort. At least he wasn't alone.

"I'm sorry I got you into this, Neal."

"You can make it up to me later." Neal refused to acknowledge the finality of their situation, or at least, acknowledge it to him. "Maybe increase my radius..." Neal's voice grew fainter, "or up my monthly allowance..I'd be good with that, too."

The room was growing dimmer and Peter knew this time, when he lost consciousness, he wouldn't wake again. Knowing that, Peter raised his hand and gripped Neal's forearm. Right or wrong, Neal had chosen to stay with him, to die with him if necessary. If he couldn't give him words of reassurance, at least he could give words of appreciation.

"Thanks for not leaving me, Neal," Peter whispered. "You're a good man." It was true and Neal needed to know it. Everything was always so complicated between them. There were so many things he should have said but because of their respective roles, not to mention respective egos, never had. "You're the best friend I've ever had."

Again Neal's grip around him tightened but only slightly. "I feel the same about you." Though Neal was speaking just inches from his ear, Peter could barely make out the words. "You're the only person... in my life... I've ever been able to count on. The only person I could trust." Peter had heard that before; it had moved him then and did so again. "I didn't know how much I needed that until I found you."

But he'd never heard that. He realized Neal's halting speech wasn't just from fatigue and blood loss; it was from emotion as well. Neal might have been trying to hold out some hope for rescue but this admission, this level of openness, told Peter he too knew their time was running out. It was sad that it was only now, with their lives ending, that either one of them could admit how much the other meant to them. He and Neal were a lot alike; they'd take a bullet for each other but God forbid they give an actual verbal affirmation.

Profoundly touched by Neal's actions as well as his words, it took Peter a minute to find his voice.

"Technically, I found you." If they were going to die together, they weren't going to do it all choked up.

"Only 'cause I let you." Peter smiled at Neal's delayed response. This was much better.

"You did not," He said, resting his head against Neal's chest. He felt oddly at peace. "I caught you fair and square."

"I practically turned myself in," Neal mumbled after a moment.

Getting the last word with Neal was never easy, but Peter knew this time, his last word truly would be that: his last words.

He closed his eyes, squeezed Neal's hand, and chose them wisely.

"Well, I'm glad you did, Neal, because it's been a privilege to know you."

If he had to leave Neal with one thought, one truth in the end, that was it.