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It was just a standard forgery case; Neal had honestly been a bit insulted when Peter had put it on his desk. Some up and coming conman had thought he could try his hands at a bit of forgery – of course the FBI had noticed it. Of course they had asked Peter to work the case.
And where Peter went… Neal followed. Sometimes. Okay, most of the time, but with a few steps distance and a lot of reluctance.
Which was probably why he hadn’t waited with Diana in front of the warehouse for their suspect to come out. No, Neal had broken away from the group of Special Agents to investigate another detail that had caught his eye. The layout of the warehouse didn’t align with the floor plan Peter had forced him to study before they drove out here.
It was just a hunch, really, but then again, Neal had learned to trust his gut feeling a long time ago. It had saved his life a couple of times, and it made sure he always picked the perfect wine for his dinner. Right now… it made him walk right into a trap.
Jonathan Knappet was waiting for him, when Neal rounded a corner a good hundred feet away from Diana – and a good five-hundred feet away from Peter. The man was grinning, and there wasn’t even a hint of fear in his face. That was the first bad sign. Neal wasn’t a violent person, one of the reasons he had specialized in white collar crime and not murder.
The man in front of him was.
His smile was dangerous, his eyebrows raised in an ugly mockery of superiority. Neal knew the kind. He had been in prison for long enough to recognize an asshole when he saw one – and to know when someone was out for blood.
Jonathan Knappet wanted to hurt someone, preferably Neal.
“Ah, so the little traitor bitch found me. What a surprise.”
There were forgers and conmen more famous out there, but in New York many people knew his name. Either because Neal had once stolen their most prized possession, had sold something stolen to them, had out-conned the con artist, or – as was more recently the case – had helped arrest them. Once upon a time the name Neal Caffrey had been whispered in admiration – these days it was mostly uttered by voices full of hatred.
“Ah, I see… you were planning on luring me away. To do what, exactly? Monologue evilly at me?”
“No.”
“Oh, then what else could it possibly be?”
Neal made sure to cover the exit of the alcove they were standing in. It would be extremely embarrassing if Neal let Knappet escape now, when they were so close to capturing him. Diana would never let him live it down. Worse, Peter would look at him with his “I really hope you didn’t do that on-purpose” eyes. Neal hated them.
“I am here to teach you a lesson. Nobody likes snitches, Caffrey.”
Knappet was so fast – Neal had no chance to defend himself, really. One second, they were standing on different sides of a small alcove, the next Knappet was pushing against him. Neal hadn’t even seen the knife, but now he could feel it. Intimately.
It was hard not to, with the handle sticking out of his stomach like a Gucci handbag on a Valentino Fashion Show. A shocked gasp escaped Neal, and then he was sitting on the floor, his head spinning. There was a knife sticking out of his gut. He had been stabbed. His suit was soaking up the rain and the dirt of the ground, his shirt slowly turning red… because he was bleeding.
Oh.
Fuck.
Knappet was still standing over him, the bastard grinning as Neal’s brain struggled to deal with the situation.
“You- You bastard.”
“Very eloquent, truly. I hope your people find you in time. I’ve heard stomach wounds are a bitch to survive.”
And then Knappet was gone.
Neal stared after him, not quite able to comprehend what had just happened. Knappet had left him – a knife in his stomach, his suit soaking up the dirty. The man was just gone. And Neal was alone. Bleeding. Damn it.
His stomach hurt, but Neal wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to do. He knew he wasn’t supposed to pull out the knife, but… there was blood seeping into his dress shirt, he was still dying, even with the knife still inside of him.
This wasn’t a good moment to panic, and yet his brain decided to work against him. It reminded him of the moment Kate died, and how his entire world had gone up in flames the moment her plane exploded. He felt just as helpless now – only back then Peter had helped him put himself back together.
Neal had healed from Kate (even if it still hurt, even if it would always hurt) because he hadn’t been alone. He had Mozzie, Peter, Elizabeth – they hadn’t let him drown, even when he desperately wanted to.
Maybe he still had them now.
His hand shook as he searched through his suit pockets, the world losing color whenever Neal blinked. Soon enough his numb fingers brushed over the smooth surface of his phone. It was almost easy to dial Peter’s number after that, the feeling of pain in his stomach slowly abating.
That was probably a bad sign, some part of his brain noticed. It was never good when you could no longer feel the deadly wound to your gut.
“Neal? Not now. You know you shouldn’t call me in the middle of an investigation. Where are you, by the way? Diana said you vanished fifteen minutes ago.”
“Yeah… about that… Knappet escaped.”
“What? Neal …”
He could hear the disappointment in Peter’s voice, and he was sick of it. He was sick of Peter double-checking every decision Neal made, even if he understood why. He was sick of the underlying level of mistrust, even after they saved each other’s lives countless times. He was sick of it. But he was also bleeding to death.
“It wasn’t my fault. He stabbed me. Fuck. He stabbed me, Peter.”
Neal could hear the myriad of curses that escaped Peter, but it was hard to concentrate on anything beyond the pounding in his head. Was that his heartbeat that echoed through his skull? It didn’t really matter, it made it hard to concentrate, the floor suddenly became so much more appealing, even though it was dirty as hell.
“Neal! Stay with me – where are you?”
“Be- behind the warehouse. An alcove behind the warehouse. Can’t you just… you know… use the ankle bracelet?”
“Not as accurately as this, and you know that. You better stay conscious, or I tell Mozzie he can have your wine collection.”
“You wouldn’t…”, mumbled Neal.
“Oh, I absolutely would.”
Peter sounded out of breath. Why was he running? Neal blinked up at the sky, the clouds protecting him from the sun. New York could really need some better weather, Neal thought, it would make dying so much prettier.
“You better stop thinking like that, you idiot.”
That voice didn’t belong to Peter, no, that was… Neal let his head fall sideways, his cheek resting on the rough asphalt. Kate was kneeling in front of him, her brown hair in a sensible ponytail. She was still talking, but her words had stopped making sense.
She was using code.
Why was she always using code?
With rapt attention Neal watched as her lips moved but no sound came out. Everything was buzzing, so loudly Neal could no longer hear her. Maybe she wasn’t talking at all… the alleyway was growing dark, after all.
And yet… Neal couldn’t stop watching her. It was mesmerizing. Was she here to get him? The one to welcome him to the other side? Or was she a curse, blaming him for all his mistakes, all his many, many faults?
In the end, she might be neither, a very real hand slapping his face, a very real voice breaking through the haze in his head.
“Neal, goddammit, stay awake. You can’t die now. Not so close to your hearing.”
Peter.
Peter came for him.
Peter always came for him.
Neal tried to stay awake, his eyes aimlessly searching for the face of his friend. There were other people there as well, Diana’s voice in the background one he recognized. He tried listening to his friend, and not just because of the unshed tears he could see shimmer in Peter’s eyes… he tried to stay awake because he knew Kate would want him to do the same.
The real Kate. Not the one living in his head.
Peter was pushing down on the wound in his stomach, and Neal- maybe he yelled, maybe he cried. It was hard to say, the world narrowing down to a pinprick. It didn’t really matter, in the end. Neal closed his eyes, and Peter was the one holding onto him.
Neal closed his eyes, and he hoped, hoped, hoped that he would open them again.
Peter was doing the report on Jonathan Knappet while he patiently waited for Neal to wake up. Mozzie was currently in the cafeteria, still denying that he was at the hospital because he was worried for his friend. If the man was to be believed, he had a hunch that something big would happen here soon, so it was only responsible of him to scout out the place. Mozzie had even implied that it was his own health that needed to be monitored - not Neal’s, never Neal’s.
Peter had listened to that explanation with a smile – whatever Mozzie had to tell himself.
Worry was thrumming through his body, but as long as he could concentrate on the report and all the paperwork Neal would have to fill out once he was back on his feet, he was fine. El was currently finding them something to eat, and Peter couldn’t be happier to have her by his side.
Watching Neal bleed to death might have broken him, if he hadn’t had El… and then Neal had survived, El sobbing just as loudly as Peter did, when the paramedics told them the news. It had been touch and go for a while there, and now the only thing left to do was to wait for Neal to wake up.
The bastard was taking his time.
Peter needed him to wake up, so they could go back to how they were. Right now, Peter felt as if he had to apologize, even if he had only done his job by looking out for the mission. But… it always felt as if it had been his mistake, whenever Neal got hurt on the job. It was Peter’s job to look out for Neal, to keep him on the straight and narrow – and to keep him safe.
Two days ago, Peter had failed. Neal had gotten stabbed, almost died, really, and Peter had been too far away to help or protect him.
He needed Neal to look at him and say something utterly ridiculous about wine or Monet or Bach, and then Peter would know… the two of them were okay. The two of them would be alright.
“Who died and allowed you to sit here like a drowned cat?”
Neal’s voice was barely a whisper, his eyes fluttering closed again just as Peter startled out of his stupor at the sound of his injured friend talking.
“You, you idiot. You got stabbed. The paramedics had to revive you.”
“I see, you were really worried for me then.”
“Of course, I was.”
Usually, Peter would make a quip about his job, about how Neal dying would look bad on his CV, something mean, but without heat. That’s how their banter worked. Today… maybe Peter still remembered pressing down on the bloody stomach of his friend with too much clarity, or maybe he was still too caught up in the moment the paramedics shook their heads at the lack of a pulse, but he didn’t joke. He didn’t banter.
Instead, he said, “It was really scary. They weren’t sure you would survive. I’m glad you did.”
“Yeah… I’m glad, too. There is no way in hell Mozzie is gonna get my wine collection. Do you know how much money that thing cost?”
“Oh, and it was really your money that paid for it? Really?”, Peter laughed.
They were okay.