Okay, Neal is back...
I own nothing but the mistakes, for which I accept all responsibility
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Chapter Five
"Over there!" Peter could see something at the edge of the river; caught in the tall grass. He hoped it was an unconscious person on soggy ground; not a body floating in shallow water. It had been close to half an hour since Neal had gone over the railing. He felt panic threaten to overtake him at the thought of Neal dead; of his blue eyes closed forever. It couldn't end like this. He wouldn't be able to live with it if it did.
He moved as swiftly as he could along the uneven shoreline, feet squishing in his wet shoes. As he got closer, he knew it was Neal. Even wet and muddy, he could see the flash of red from the gunshot wound on Neal's shirt. But had gone through and through; Neal was lying face down, and Peter knew he had taken the blast straight on. A stain spread across his back. Neal's head was turned to the side, resting on one arm. The other arm awkwardly extended in front of him; his legs were still partially in the water. Peter was beside him in moments, kneeling down with shaking fingers to feel for a pulse; terrified he wouldn't find one. He felt a wave of relief when Neal stirred at his touch, moaning slightly, his eyes still closed. He had found his friend; not just a body that had been Neal, but Neal. He was alive.
"He's alive! Get me a blanket!" he shouted to Jones, who was the closest to him, and the announcement carried up the riverbank, both by voice and radio.
Peter grasped under Neal's shoulders and pulled him gently out of the water. In addition to the loss of blood, there was a chance of hypothermia. It was cold, and Neal was soaked to the bone. After his feet had been clear, he grasped Neal and turned him onto his back. He could see the pale mud-streaked face, hair plastered to his forehead. He was surprised to see blue eyes open, looking into his own.
"There you are," Peter said, gently pushing the hair off of Neal's forehead. "I have been looking for you."
Neal's eyes seemed confused but his tone, hopeful. "Really?" he whispered softly.
Peter swallowed at the sound of Neal's voice, taking a moment to make sure his own voice sounded strong before he spoke. "Yeah, really, and you are gonna be okay, Neal, we'll have you outta here very soon."
Peter eyes went to Neal's shirt. It was muddy and dripping with water, but the bright red blood was visibly seeping at an alarming rate. The entry wound seemed just below the left collarbone. He shed his jacket and spread it over Neal's body. He then positioned himself beside Neal and pulled him up so that his back was leaning against Peter's side. He put his hand on the exit wound, wincing at the feel of the torn flesh beneath his palm, and applied pressure. He felt Neal tense against the pain, moaning slightly. Reaching around Neal's trembling body, he placed his hand over the entry wound, took a deep breath and pushed hard. Neal cried out, eyes frantic at the sudden pain of his wounds being squeezed in Peter's hands. His hand come up to push at Peter, but it flailed weakly, ineffectual.
"I am sorry, Neal," Peter said "I have to stop the bleeding."
Jones was suddenly back, blanket in tow, first aid kit in his hand. He dropped beside the two men, opening the kit on the ground. After giving Neal's lower body a cursory glance, and determining no injuries, he covered him with the blanket. Tucking it underneath his legs, he said, "Medics are on their way, " and began to assess the man's condition. Peter was applying pressure to the gunshot wound, slowing the rate of blood loss, but it was evident that Neal had already lost a dangerous amount. His skin was pale and clammy; his respiration increased. Jones took Neal's wrist in his hand and checked his pulse. Rapid and thready. He turned Neal's hand in his, pinching Neal's fingernail to check his capillary refill. He checked it again. Definitely delayed. He looked up to see Peter's questioning eyes on him. "They are still ten minutes out." His tone told Peter that ten minutes was a very long time. "We need to lay him flat, and elevate his legs a few inches, to help with circulation. He has lost a lot of blood. Keep the pressure on the wound."
Neal's eyes had closed again, and his breaths were coming in short gasps. Peter spoke to him again, "You're okay, Neal. Everything is gonna be okay." His words of reassurance were as much for his own benefit as they were for Neal's. Neal would be okay; he had to be.