"To thine own self be true." ~Shakespeare

I had better go ahead and make my usual disclaimer: If you haven't guessed yet, I am a hurt/comfort fan. It's what I like to read and what I like to write. My Neal is more open; my Peter is kinder. So if that's not your thing, then my stories may not be for you. Thanks for reading and reviewing, favoriting and following. Also, thanks for all the feedback about chapter length and posting frequency.

Chapter Fourteen

Look," Neal's voice sounded strained as it came through the transmitter, "I think we have a misunderstanding. I know you said you had unpleasant business to attend to, but I didn't sign on for this. Can't you take the unpleasantness somewhere else?"

Agent Elliot wasn't clear exactly what had been going on during the past few moments, but the tension level in the gallery had shot through the roof. It had also traveled inexplicably through the radio waves to the van across the street as well as to the Organized Crime Division back in New York. He knew the stress had traveled that far because Agent Burke had already broken his silence, telling him very clearly that he needed to move. That had happened when the man called El Rey discussed both beheading and shooting someone through the heart. Less than a minute after Burke's outburst, Clay had uttered the signal himself.

"I think we have a misunderstanding."

"Everyone go!" Elliott said into the radio, sending teams in from both directions. "Remember, we have a friendly inside."

"I realize you prefer the more tidy aspects of the business, Mr. Clay, but let this be a lesson; in our organization, this is the penalty for betrayal." El Rey had spoken mere seconds before Elliot heard the teams enter the gallery.

With their shouts came gunfire. It only lasts seconds; he estimated five shots in rapid succession, but the sound of Clay's grunt of pain told him all he needed to know. He sprang from the back of the van and sprinted towards the gallery.

The sounds coming through his earpiece from the field agents were chaotic; there were orders, shouts, scuffling and general chaos. He was down the block and at the entrance in seconds, joining the continuing throng of agents still streaming into the building.

Once inside the lobby, he took in the scene quickly and looked for Clay. His saw his form on he floor across the room. At first, he was encouraged by movement but then realized it was a man pinned beneath Clay's still body trying to free himself. Two officers were there; one was checking Clay's prone figure and the other, having freed the pinned man, helped him up. As the man got to his feet, Elliot could see blood on his shirt and on his arm as well. He looked shaken, but seemed uninjured; the blood staining his shirt was not his own.

"Get medical in here now," Agent Elliott said into his radio, holstered his weapon and moved quickly towards Clay. Nearby, DEA agents were checking what appeared to be two additional causalities. As Elliot arrived, the man with the bloody shirt was being cuffed, but his eyes were on Clay.

"Is he dead?" He asked. "He pushed me out of the way," He reported in astonishment. "He saved my life, and I've never even met him before. Who does that?" Elliot could argue that the type of people the man associated with weren't exactly the best humanity had to offer, but the truth was that even he had never seen such a gesture.

"He's alive," The officer beside Clay replied as Elliot knelt down as well. The injured man's eyes were closed, his chest covered with blood.

"Medical's on the way." Elliot felt his own blood drain from his face. "How bad?"

"I don't know; he's losing a lot of blood," He shifted Clay slightly, checking for an exit wound. "Bullet's still in there." The movement elicited a groan from Clay and his eyes opened. His expression was anxious, he seemed confused and disoriented.

He had been hit by a single round about three inches below his right collar bone. Shirt front soaked, a small pool of blood was already assembling beneath him. His breathing was labored, and a thin sheen of sweat covered his face. He glanced first at the officer, and then his gaze found Elliot. There was a moment's delay, brows furrowed, before a look of recognition replaced the confused look on the pale face. The usual bright eyes were dull. Elliot smoothed his dark hair back from his forehead; his skin felt cold and clammy. Afraid of the onset of shock, Elliot pulled off his jacket and spread it over Clay; the other officer did the same. Elliot looked up at his concerned face. "Go outside and escort them in here the minute they arrive." With a nod and parting glance at Clay, the officer did as he was asked.

"Damn it, Clay," Elliot admonished, trying to keep the fear he felt from transferring to his voice, "What the hell were you thinking?" Elliot was surprised when a faint smile crossed the young man's face.

His voice was just a whisper. "You sound like Peter."

Elliot's phone had already vibrated twice; he knew without looking it was Agent Burke wanting an update. There was going to be hell to pay. Burke's instructions to him had been very clear. Keep him safe. And he had failed.

"Do I?" Elliott asked, moving the jacket down to locate the wound. "I thought you said you were good at ducking and covering," he joked, trying to insert levity into his tone, "What possessed you to jump in front of a bullet?" A small groan escaped Clay's lips as Elliot pulled the jacket back up, and placed his hands over the wound. "I've got to put pressure on this, and it's going to hurt." Warning given, he pressed down. The act brought a sharp intake of breath from the man, and his eyes clenched in pain. Elliott knew it hurt, but it had to be done.

After just a moment, Clay's eyes opened quickly, almost as if in a panic. His hand reached up, grasping Elliot's arm anxiously. "They kidnapped Peter," he said in a rush. Elliot wasn't sure if Clay was becoming delirious, somehow revisiting the event or if he'd just remembered what he had learned about the identity of those responsible. His next words supplied the answer. "Did you hear everything, did it come through?" He's cloudy eyes searched Elliot's in desperation. "It was them; they did it."

"Yes, we heard it all," Elliot assured him, still applying pressure to the wound, "Let us worry about all that, okay? You need to relax. Help will be here in a minute," He paused as Clay's hand released its grip and slipped back to its place by his side. He seemed about to lose consciousness; the blue eyes losing focus.

"Burke's going to be pissed that I let you get hurt," Elliot said. An attempt to keep the wounded man engaged, it was also a true statement. If he'd sent the team in when Burke had told him, Clay likely wouldn't have been hurt. What made it worse was that they could have moved in without compromising his cover. They had had an in ever since the last three men had arrived at the Gallery. One of them, Edwin Thomas, was a person of interest to the Philadelphia Task Force. Already under surveillance, there was enough to justify an entry; but Elliot had decided to stick with the plan and only move in if Clay gave the signal.

"Wasn't… your fault," Clay said weakly. "He'll understand…he knows… how I am."

"So, you pulled this crap when you worked with him?" Elliot wondered if the pressure he was exerting on Clay's chest was the reason for his growing difficulty breathing; the reason his lips were beginning to have a bluish tint. Should he let up? He glanced towards the door. Where were the medics?

"Much worse…crap…than this." Clay's voice was faint; Elliot could feel him trembling beneath his hands. "They were…going to kill him," his eyes closed, the rest of his words were mumbled and almost inaudible. "I had… to do ….something."

Elliott knew that Nathan Clay was a loyal friend and more than willing to put himself in harm's way for that cause, but to put himself in the path of a bullet meant for a stranger was something else altogether. What had Mendez asked, Who does that? For someone he had initially pegged as an opportunist, Elliot now saw the man in a new light.

"I understand, Nathan. Stay with me, okay? Open your eyes." When there was no response, Elliot felt a jolt of panic himself. He tried again, raising his voice slightly. "Neal," he called, "Open your eyes."

The eyes opened expectantly and after a moment of confusion, his gaze fell on Elliot's face. There was disappointment in the blue eyes, and Elliot felt a pang of guilt at inadvertently misleading the man. He had only heard one person call Nathan Clay Neal.

"I thought…Peter was here," he whispered despondently. Not only thought, but hoped, Elliot realized.

Elliot had heard Agent Burke call him Neal after the meeting Clay had arranged at the Midtown Gallery. Whatever topic the two of them had been engaged in had been, it was serious enough that Agent Burke had slipped on the name. Given what he'd already said about their relationship, a quick look at Burke's FBI file turned up the name Neal Caffrey. The photo Elliot pulled for the deceased, former criminal turned CI for the White Collar Division, confirmed it. Nathan Clay was, in fact, Neal Caffrey and the history between the two men spanned more than a decade. Starting as prey and predator, it had then become handler and criminal informant. That was not the end of the evolution, however. Burke had said they were friends, but the look in Clay's eyes said they were even more than that; they were family.

"I told...him," Clay breathed, "not to come...but I really wish...he was here." The words, and the expression that accompanied them, were piteous.

"He'll be here," Elliot reassured him, having no doubt Agent Burke was already on his way. His phone had now vibrated four times. Elliot felt relief sweep over him as he saw the officer entering, pointed the medics in Clay's direction. "He'll see you at the hospital. Help is here-they'll take care of you." He released his pressure on the wound and prepared to move aside so the men could work, but again Clay gripped his arm weakly.

"Tell Peter….to remember...what we...talked about." The eyes that met his were pleading. "Tell him… it was my choice… to come back….my choice….. to do this." Even though Elliot was no longer pressing on his chest, Clay was still struggling, pausing between words to gasp for breath. The blueness of his lips was growing more noticeable. "Tell him… I'm sorry."

It sounded too much like a farewell message to suit Elliot. "Tell him all that yourself," He responded, "You're going to be fine."

"Not so sure… " Clay whispered, eye's closing in pain, "I feel….like someone…is stabbing me…in the chest."

"What do we have?" The medics had made their way to them with a gurney and quickly unloaded the equipment onto the floor beside their patient.

"Gunshot wound," Elliott supplied, moving out of the way. "He's lost a lot of blood and is having a hard time breathing."

"What's his name?" The man asked.

Elliot only hesitated a moment. The man had his reasons for letting Neal Caffrey die. "Nathan Clay."

"Mr. Clay," the Medic's voice was firm. He quickly removed the jackets covering his patient and cut through the front of Clay's shirt to expose the wound. "Are you still with us?"

"Yeah," Clay mumbled, chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes still closed, "still here…"

"Good," the medic responded. His partner handed him a hemostatic dressing, and after a minimal prep of the site, it was placed over the wound. "We're going to get you stabilized and transport you to Mercy General." Weak eyes opened. "Are you in any pain?"

"My chest…and back," Clay replied, nostrils flaring, "hurts…to breath." his eyes again closed. Just breathing seemed to take all of his energy.

"He's cyanotic," the other medic commented, "Check his O2 levels and start him on oxygen." He placed a stethoscope on Clay's chest area, listening intently. When he was finished, he spoke to his partner with a new sense of urgency. "I'm getting very little from his right lung; I think we're dealing with a pneumothorax."

"85%." Elliot wasn't sure what that meant, but he knew by the low tone it wasn't good. An oxygen mask was placed on Clay's fact; it seemed to somewhat ease his labored breathing.

Next the medic slipped a blood pressure cuff on his arm. He placed the stethoscope in his ears, squeezed the pump rapidly, stopped, and let the air out slowly.

"Ninety over fifty-four," he said to his partner, "Heart rate is weak and rapid; let's get him transported. We'll get fluids started on the way." The two men positioned themselves and transferred Clay from the floor onto the gurney. The movement caused a groan of pain to escape his lips, but his eyes remained closed. They quickly covered him with a blanket, and strapped him into place.

"I'll have to make a report. What's his condition?" Elliot inquired.

The medic hesitated only a moment. "Serious," he supplied, placing the equipment on the gurney at Clay's feet. "His symptoms and the decreased lung sounds indicate the bullet damaged his right lung. We're not sure what else. They will know more once they run tests and send him to x-ray."

"Mercy General? "Agent Elliott clarified.

"Yes, trauma unit," the Medic confirmed. "We'll need a medical history; Do you know if anything is on file?"

Agent Elliot doubted there was. "I don't know," He admitted, "But I'll have Agent Peter Burke from the New York office call the hospital; he'll know his medical history."

Speaking of the devil, his phone vibrated again. He pulled it from his pocket, knowing who it was before he answered.

"Agent Elliot."

"What the hell were you thinking?" Came Burke's angry voice. "You should have sent everyone in when I told you. Is Neal, dammit, I mean Nathan alright?"

"Are you still in Agent Singleton's office?" Elliot doubted it, but if he was, he would have heard the last transmissions via Clay's watch.

"No," he replied, "After I heard gunfire, I got on the way to Philadelphia. I know he was hit," his voice was tense, "How bad is it?"

"Medics say it's serious but not critical." He didn't add what he was thinking, Not critical yet. "He took a round to the upper right chest; might have nicked his lung. They've got him stabilized and ready to transport." He had followed behind the medics as they moved Clay through the space and out of the building. They were now getting ready to load him into the ambulance. Clay was completely still; the oxygen mask covered his pale face.

"Is he conscious?" Burke asked. "Did you talk to him?"

"A little, but he's out of it now," Elliot replied regretfully, "They're taking him to Mercy General; you'll need to call and give them some medical background."

"I told you to keep him safe," Burke growled, reminding Elliot of something he had not forgotten in the least, "You shouldn't have waited so long."

So Long had only been about twenty seconds but those twenty seconds, Burke seemed convinced, could have made all the difference. Elliot felt the same way in retrospect, but that was hardly a fair way to judge his decision. Hindsight was always twenty-twenty.

"The plan we all agreed to was that we would move when he gave the word; and when he did, we did." Elliott defended, the criticism touching his already frayed nerves. "Do you know what happened in there?" If Burke had left after the shots were fired he wouldn't have heard Mendez's words. "Clay didn't duck and cover; he jumped in front of a bullet. We had no way to anticipate he'd do something like that."

Elliott heard a deep sigh on the other end of the line. "I know that was the plan. It's not your fault; he does stuff like this. Tell him I'll be there as soon as I can."

He does stuff like this. And Clay words? He knows how I am.

"I'll tell them to let him know," Elliot replied. After ten years, the men knew each other well. "I take it his actions today don't come as much of a surprise to you."

"No, they don't," Burke admitted. "In spite of all his efforts, some things I guess he can't change. Do me a favor?"

"If I can."

"Go with him; stay with him until I get there."

The place was crawling with uniforms as well as agents from various agencies; the suspects had been lead out. Eight Kilos of cocaine was quite the haul, and as the Agent in Charge, he needed to process the scene as well as get downtown to take statements. "You'll probably be there by the time he's out of surgery," Elliot told Burke, "His cover is intact, so I don't think he's in any danger, but I can send an officer if you're worried."

"No," Burke replied, "that's not what I'm worried about. Just make sure they tell him I am on my way and tell him I expect to find him when I get there." There was a sense of anxiety in Burke's voice that Elliott didn't understand.

"You expecting him to disappear or something?" Elliott half-joked.

"He sure as hell better not," Burke replied.