Peter felt his breath catch in his throat, and if such a thing was tangible enough to make him choke, it would have. He felt physically unable to inhale and was momentarily reminded of the moment before he'd asked Elizabeth to marry him—unable to do anything but wait for what was about to be said… though no, really, this was nothing like that. Because Peter wasn't waiting on a possible yes to change his life, because there was no happy scenario here… because Peter was waiting to find out if Neal, Neal, was alright. If he was breathing. Hell, if he was even alive.

The whole situation made him feel nauseous, made his head swim, because things like this simply did not happen in real life. He and Neal were a team, albeit an unconventional one, but violence was never so apparent, so gritty, so real before now. And Neal was not a violent man, so for him to suffer so profusely, for such evil to manifest itself… this just wasn't happening. It couldn't be happening. Not to him. Not to Neal.

Peter could still see Neal cuffed to the shelf.
He could still see the blood cascading down his battered face, the pain seeping from his very essence, the movement of his lips as he'd pleaded for salvation, for help, bonds bonds bonds.

Jones thought that maybe he could see Peter's heart breaking.

Peter's eyes must have widened marginally, because Jones had placed a tentative hand on his shoulder, and Jones was not a touchy-feely person. Fuck, this is bad. Just tell me, tell me, no don't tell me… no tell me.

Peter needed to know… although as of now, he could cling to the belligerent hope that Neal was fine, that he was simply a bit traumatized (and wasn't it screwed up that that was a positive outcome in all of this) but that he would make a full recovery, that he was resting in the ambulance now, that he was charming the EMS at this very moment. Peter could tell himself that Neal was fine, that Neal was okay, that all of this was going to be okay.. and in the back of his mind, he knew that Jones was about to rip the rug out from under him. But he needed to know, Neal needed for him to know, and as comfortable as it was to remain in the dark, Peter was going to be there for his friend.

"Peter.. maybe you should come with me, sit down. We should—"

"Enough!" Peter's voice masked his fear, his crumbling façade, his exhaustion. Dammit, he wasn't a child, and he needed Jones to be straight with him.

"Jones, I appreciate your concern, but I'm still your boss, and you answer to me. So stop placating me… just… please." His voice gave a little at the end, and he sighed, running a hand over his face.

"Just tell me."

Jones looked over towards the paramedic who was still lingering nearby, presumably in case Peter needed her.

There were enough eyes on him, and so as Jones kind of nodded her away, dismissed her, Peter felt maybe a bit better… or at least as much better as he could given the situation.

Is he… is he…

"Neal's alive, Peter." Jones seemed to sense his trepidation.

Peter felt shaky with relief and let out an unsteady breath. He's alive. He's alive.

"It's not good, Peter… before you, um-" Jones cleared his throat nervously.
"Before you went down, Neal.. he had a seizure. Diana rode with him to the hospital, but it's not good. They're saying something about... about…" Jones swallowed thickly.

"He flat-lined as they were taking him out of here, Peter. I-I watched his eyes roll into the back of his head. He.. He died in front of me. They brought him back, thank God they brought him back, but it's… it's really bad, Peter. I've never seen… I've…" Shaking his head, Jones looked down.

"It's just… it's bad."

"He's gonna make it though, right? " Because of course he was—Neal Caffrey was superhuman, was invincible, and there was no way that fists could kill him. He was Neal fucking Caffrey.

"I… I don't know, Peter. I was talking with EMS a bit, and I'm waiting to hear from Diana… but nobody can be certain of anything until they get him to the hospital."

Sensing that Jones was at the end of his reserves, Peter reluctantly stopped prying. Instead, he turned towards the previously dismissed paramedic, inquiring.

"Sir, I've been here with the two of you. Agent.. Jones? Agent Jones relayed, in simple terms, all that I could tell you at this point."

Peter turned back to Jones. Neal needed them.

Jones nodded, gripping the keys to the van.
"Let's go."

The hospital was a swarm of people, but luckily, flashing their FBI badges had gotten them past the circus.

Mr. Caffrey is being seen at the moment.
Mr. Caffrey is in surgery right now.
No news.
No news.

Peter..
Peter.
Peter.

Diana's throaty voice interrupted him.
"Peter, you should call Elizabeth. And see if she can get ahold of the little man. Jones and I are each gonna call June and Sara."

Peter nodded and felt a surge of appreciation and love for his team.

With fumbling fingers, her pulled out his phone from his pocket, stopping morbidly to look at the crusted blood under his fingernails. Some of it was his, some if it Neal's. Blood brothers… No, nothing like that. Because Neal could be dying.

Neal could be dying.

"Hello? Hon?"

He must have dialed.

He cleared his throat. "El—Elizabeth…"

"Peter? Is everything okay?"

"I'm fine.. I.." He exhaled- God, this was hard.
"It's Neal. He's uh—we're at Lennox Hill Hospital. It's bad, El." His voice cracked, and damn him for sounding so weak.

He could hear Elizabeth's car keys jingling over the line, could hear her grabbing her purse.

"I'll call Mozzie."

Peter grunted in response.

"Peter… How… How bad is it?"

Images of Neal writhing on the ground, gasping for breath, fading away seared into Peter's brain and danced wickedly before him.

"Just hurry, El."