A/N: Thanks for the enthusiasm, guys :)
Now, onward!
June stepped out of the car and bid farewell to her driver, pug in one hand and clutch in the other.
Turning to walk to her front door she recognized the figure of Neal's father some distance ahead on the sidewalk, presumably having just finished visiting with his son after the day's events.
She briefly considered calling out, but decided there was no reason to be anything more than civil with him. There was just something about James Bennett that rubbed her the wrong way, though she would never say as much to Neal. He fawned over that man.
Shaking her head she sighed and let herself in, excited to hear how everything had gone.
Once Bugsy had been handed over to a maid she climbed the stairs, anticipation making her steps lively.
Susurrations, the barest suggestion of Neal's voice, reached her as she topped the stairwell - though she couldn't make out the words. Was he not alone?
Well, the door was open so it could hardly be anything private.
A twinkle in her eye, June stepped into the doorway.
"So, how did- Neal!"
All levity fled when she spotted the body on the floor, bloody hands fumbling with a cell phone.
Unfocused eyes swiveled toward her as she sank down beside him before taking the phone and calling 911.
Clearly not aware of exactly what was happening, Neal reached out for the phone, coughing up blood in a fine mist as he tried to speak.
June shushed him as she pressed her own aged hands against the bullet hole, what had been Byron's suit jacket now serving as an impromptu bandage, and waited for a voice to come through the speakerphone.
It seemed entirely too long before her call was answered, but she knew it was miraculously quick for a city like New York.
She gave their location and described Neal's condition as best she could; gunshot wound slightly to the right of the chest's center bleeding heavily, coughing up blood, bruises on his face, difficulty breathing. There was no exit wound as far as she could tell, but she couldn't check without moving him and there was too much risk of spinal injury to do so.
Following the dispatcher's instructions she sealed the wound with a sheet of acetate from Neal's supplies to prevent air from getting in and collapsing a lung. Once the plastic was in place his breaths seemed to ease slightly and his gaze cleared as he stared at June. He reached for the phone now resting on the floorboards, inadvertently disconnecting it as he pressed his fingers against the screen and choked out a few words in a sound that resembled gasping more than actual speech.
"P- Peter... needs- this."
Misinterpreting his intentions, June assured Neal she would call Peter and picked up the cell to do just that.
"No... needs..."
Strength spent, the conman's body relaxed against the floor, eyes half-closing and jaw going slack despite his desperate attempts to communicate.
"Neal? Neal!"
He wasn't quite unconscious, but still found himself completely unable to reassure June as she frantically felt for a pulse.
Neal watched, a prisoner in his own body as his benefactor picked Peter's number from the contact list and waited anxiously before leaving a message and hanging up to dial Diana.
"Neal? Did you get him?"
Agent Berrigan's voice was at once unnaturally loud and strangely muffled in his in-between state.
"Diana, it's June..." If he could, Neal might have smiled at her casual address of the agent many people found intimidating. "Something's happened."
"...June? What's wrong? Why are you using Neal's phone?"
June; wonderful, strong woman that she was, let out a slight sob as she gave the bad news.
"Neal's been shot. I- I think James may have done it."
The voice at the other end was clipped, precise.
"I'll be right there."
