frith_in_thorns | [fic: white collar] See This Through

Only a couple of days to go until new White Collar! I've just had to buy a new notebook to write more fic in since I've now filled my last one. Those two statements are really quite related. (I should really get around to typing up some more. And finishing some of the ones which actually have plots, but which I invariably abandon after about 4000 words in favour of shiny new plot bunnies...)

Title: See This Through
Characters/Pairing: Neal, Diana, Peter; Gen
Genre/Rating: Hurt/comfort; T
Word count: 3400
Warnings: None
Notes: Written for this prompt from

sholio on

collarcorner : Things go bad for Neal on an undercover job. Peter's on desk duty for some reason so isn't handling him, and can only help over the radio.

Summary: Any distance can be almost too far to cross when you're bleeding out and only have the voices in your ear to help you.

- o -

The bullet wasn't even meant for him. It's almost amusing.

Or perhaps he's only thinking that because of shock. Neal puts a hand to his side, is almost surprised to see the blood. It's as if the shot severed his attachment to his body — he can still move but he feels completely numb, his thoughts stripped away. Like he's controlling a puppet from a distance, and is the puppet at the same time. Funny.

What isn't at all funny is that what was a perfectly orchestrated infiltration of Graften's little counterfeiting ring has unexpectedly turned into a takeover by a rival, and Graften is bleeding out all over one of the piles of paper stock. Bleeding from the second bullet, that is. The one which didn't find the wrong target.

Graften's men are reaching for their own weapons. Neal, more out of reflex than anything, does what is probably the most sensible thing under the circumstances, and makes a run for it.

"Hey! Stop!"

Not a chance, he thinks, and then he stops thinking at all, just concentrates on getting away. He's aware that he's not going to be feeling this numb for much longer and takes advantage of it, surfs on the tide of adrenaline, lets the high of it pulse through him (and out of him). The old factory is a complete warren but he knows the layout — Diana forced him to memorise every meticulous detail on the blueprints before she was willing to send him inside.

He'd whined about it, even.

There is a guard on the stairs, probably there to mop up any of Graften's gang trying to escape that way, and Neal ducks into a side passage before he's noticed. Shit. But there are other ways out. And he really does need to get out, because there's no way he can keep up this or any pace for much longer.

He doubles back, uses a handy clump of pipes to climb the wall, and pulls himself into the vent.

Neal makes it maybe five or six metres along the crawl-space before the defences which shock had thrown up in his mind are overwhelmed. A flood of pain smashes though the numbness and he gasps, bites into his lip to stop himself from making any louder noise, can barely breathe. His left side is on fire and for long — seconds? minutes? he lies with his face pressed against the cold metal and gives in to it.

Breathe. Breathe.

Gradually he gathers himself back together. Eventually he remembers what should have been his first action in this sort of situation.

It's still not instinctual to remember that other people have his back.

He fumbles the earpiece out of the empty gum packet it's hidden in, flicks it on, and jams it into his ear. "Hi," he says. Speaking is harder than he'd expected. "Change of plan."

"Neal!" Diana's voice is tense. It throws him for a second, and then he wonders how he'd managed to forget that she's running point on this. "Thank god, we've been waiting for you to make contact. What just happened?"

"New management," Neal says. He's surprised by how strong his lightheaded sense of relief is, to hear he's not alone. He speaks quietly, not sure what his odds are at being overheard. And it's easier to do so. "With bullets. They were quite persuasive."

"You didn't send a distress signal."

Ah. Caught in the moment, he'd completely forgotten he even had the means to do so. "I'm going to blame that on shock, too," he mutters.

"What — Neal, where are you?" Her tone's changed.

"In a crawl space on the basement level. Somewhere near the centre." Neal's thoughts are clumsy, and he thinks his voice probably sounds so too. He shifts slightly and a hiss is torn from him.

"Neal." Diana actually sounds worried now, which is worrying in itself. "Are you hurt?"

He's surprised by the question, and then he realises that no, actually, he hadn't mentioned it. It just seems so all-encompassing and self-evident that it didn't occur to him. Still, he hesitates before saying, "Yeah. Left side, just below my ribs."

"Shit," Diana says forcefully. Then, muttered, "Peter's going to kill me."

Neal chuckles, and is surprised by how much it hurts to do so.

There's dead air for some seconds, and then she comes back on. "Okay. Neal. Jones is getting backup, but with that many people and guns in play it isn't going to be quick. Is there any way you can get yourself out of the building?"

"You did make me learn all those blueprints," Neal says. He tries to keep his voice light. He's been in worse situations. Once or twice. Allegedly.

"I knew they'd come in handy," Diana says, and he appreciates that she matches his tone.

He takes a few deep breaths (or as deep as he currently can), and then he starts to crawl. It's worse than he'd expected. Within seconds it feels like his whole body is screaming in agony. This is bad. This is really bad.

Neal closes his eyes and pictures the route he needs to take, forcing his breathing to be steady and slow. Or what counts as steady and slow under the circumstances. He can feel himself shaking, and wonders how much blood he's lost already. There isn't enough room to patch himself up, even if he had anything to do it with. Or light to see by. In the darkness he finds a fork and takes the left passage, having to bend to fit around the corner.

"Neal! Neal, it's okay. You're going to be okay." Diana's voice cuts through to him, and he realises that he's moaning softly. He forces himself to stop, biting down on his lip.

"Sorry," he pants.

"Don't apologise. You're doing fine."

It doesn't feel like it, but he manages to keep moving, eyes straining in the dark. Smooth, cold metal beneath his hands. Every time he pushes himself forwards with his knees the muscles in his torso catch in a knot of pain. He had been cold but now he's over-warm from the exertion, and he can feel sweat dampening his hairline.

"Need to rest," he gasps. He's exhausted, shaking.

"You really should keep going," Diana says. "Please. Just a bit further."

"Can't," he says, and leans his head against the wall. He remains on his hands and knees —

— but then he finds that he's sprawled out against the floor of the crawl space, his arm cramping where he's been lying on it.

"Neal. Neal, come on. Answer me."

It's the wrong voice. Or the right voice. "Peter?" he asks muzzily.

"Hey, buddy." There's a deep exhale. "Good to hear you."

"Where's Diana?" Neal asks, confused. Then hopes Peter won't think he's complaining and stop talking to him.

"I'm here," Diana says. "Peter got me to patch him in. It's like he doesn't trust me to keep you from getting yourself killed."

"Maybe I'm just missing the excitement of having Caffrey around," Peter says. Neal can picture him at his desk, leaning forward the way he does on a call, keeping his expression studiously casual to go with the voice.

She laughs slightly. "Excitement. That's one word for it."

"Well," says Peter. "What would you call it?"

"Irritation?" Diana suggests. "I mean. Right now he's got himself stuck in a stupid situation and while we're stuck in the van waiting for him to get his ass out here he just lies around like he thinks he's on vacation or something."

"Hey," protests Neal weakly, but Peter's humming along in agreement.

"Oh yeah. He does that. See, he's listening in right now but he's not even trying to prove you wrong."

This is completely, ridiculously unfair. Neal knows they're baiting him, trying to con him, even, but he's pretty sure they can keep the mockery up indefinitely. So he pulls himself up, because even though he knows they're playing him with their stupid insults he's not about to let them win.

He has to pause because his head immediately starts spinning wildly and his stomach wants him to throw up, which right now would be unthinkably unpleasant. It takes several seconds and a fair amount of swallowing before he can be sure that the urge has passed, although the spinning sensation remains. Possibly it's a good thing he's restricted to a straight line for now.

"Neal?" Peter asks, anxiously.

"I'm good," Neal says, and starts crawling again.

"Where's his backup?" Peter demands.

Diana exhales loudly. She's probably answered this same question several times already. "Boss, they're en-route. He's going to be fine. Aren't you, Neal?"

"Sure," Neal says vaguely. The vent suddenly inclines steeply under his hands and he groans with relief. "Found the way to the ground floor."

"That's great," Diana says, sounding like she's encouraging a small child. Or a puppy. "You're doing great."

"I'm coming over there," Peter announces.

"No," Neal insists, at exactly the same moment as Diana.

"You're not cleared for fieldwork yet," Diana points out. "Cracked ribs, remember?"

"I'm fine," Peter says. "I'm going to get my clearance back in a few days anyway."

"Boss, you know that really isn't the point."

"Exactly. Boss. I could have you fired. And Caffrey sent back to prison."

"I can tell your wife," Diana counters, which is a pretty effective threat as these things go. "And you aren't going to fire me."

"Peter, I'm fine," Neal says, and then slips backwards slightly and has to catch himself with a jolt. This time he can't stop himself from crying out as pain flares through him, white-hot and utterly overwhelming.

"Neal?" Peter says, quietly.

He can't answer. He's busy concentrating on not passing out. Breathe. Breathe.

"Take the side roads," Diana says. "There's a lot of traffic right now."

Neal makes a hideous effort and gets to the top of the slope at last. He's severely tempted to go ahead and pass out anyway. While he's considering it he at last becomes aware that Diana has been calling his name, over and over.

"I'm here," he manages.

"You know, you're a very boring conversationalist today," she says.

"Sorry."

"I should hope so. And right now you're all I've got, because Jones is too busy arguing with people on the phone. And I guess Peter's busy sneaking out of the office without Hughes noticing." She pauses. "Say, Caffrey, how about you surprise him and get out of that factory before he can get here?"

"I heard that," Peter interrupts. There's traffic noise in the background now.

"Worth a try," Diana says, and Neal chuckles quietly.

Somehow he keeps going. All his muscles are trembling now. The dizziness is getting more intense, and even in the narrow confines of the crawl space he's having a problem maintaining a straight course. His shoulders bump off one wall, and then the other.

"You've got EMS standing by, haven't you?"

"Who, me?" Neal asks hazily.

Peter snorts. "Of course not you! Dammit, Neal."

"There's an ambulance waiting," Diana says. "They know the situation."

"Better than Caffrey, it seems."

"Hey," Neal protests, but he's feeling way too lightheaded and strange to do so with any force. He keeps thinking he sees lights blinking in the corner of his eyes, but turning his head to look is only making him feel worse. "Need to stop," he says. "Just for a minute."

"Neal, no." Diana's voice is anxious. "You can't. You're almost out."

He moans. He's in such a lot of pain and he feels so sick and it's so unfair. "Please."

"No." Peter's voice is firm. "You have to keep going. You aren't allowed to stop."

"Please," Neal begs, and feels wretched for doing so.

"No. Listen to me, Neal. You can sleep for a week once you get out of there. I'll even bring you breakfast in bed. But you have to get out."

"Not fair."

"I know, and I'm sorry. But there it is."

And Neal crawls, because despite his protests he knows that if he stops he'll never be able to get moving again, and then he'll be stuck in the dark and the small space forever with no one able to find him. One hand in front of the other, and then pulling his knees forward, which tugs against the bullet wound and Oh god that hurts. He's long forgotten about trying to be silent. His breathing is laboured and he's still thumping against the walls. Remarkably, he's still got the map in his head and he's still following the route which should bring him out at the ventilation grille nearest the van. It's all he has, in the dark. An image of white paper and clean lines.

Diana and Peter keep up a litany of encouraging comments. It's difficult to focus on them, and impossible to make out individual words over the sound of blood pounding in his ears and the soft noises torn out of his throat, but the effect is reassuring.

He begins to think he can make out the outline of his hands in front of him.

It takes him several seconds to realise that, actually, he can, and several more to realise what that means. Then he squeezes around the last corner and there's the grating to the outside world he's been waiting for — except that it isn't, because the grating has already been removed, which he somehow wasn't expecting. "Guys?" he asks, and suddenly their faces are staring in at him.

Peter blanches as Neal struggles into the light, eyes scrunched up against it. "Jesus," he says forcefully. "You don't do things by halves, do you?"

Neal's too exhausted to ask him what he means.

Diana, more composed, beckons to the two paramedics who are hanging back with a gurney. "We want to get you out and away from this building as quickly as possible," she says. "You okay with that?"

"Sure," Neal croaks, surprised at how weak his voice is.

Diana leans in as far as she can reach to take his arms and Neal allows himself to go limp, slithering along and out and on to the waiting gurney. He has time to register just how much blood is soaked across his shirt and tan pants and then he's pressed down against the board and they're moving him quickly to where the ambulance is parked next to the municipal van, slightly down the road. The motion is the last straw for his building nausea, and as soon as they stop he leans out over the sidewalk and retches for what feels like forever.

Peter rubs the back of his neck. "You're okay now," he says, his voice low. "You're okay." He moves his hand to Neal's shoulder as one of the medics helps him lie back down, and keeps it there. It's good.

Diana pats his arm on the other side as he closes his eyes. Remaining conscious is just too much of a struggle now, and Neal feels himself slipping away. But he knows they won't hold it against him.

- o -

Neal keeps being surprised that there's still daylight coming in through the window. It feels like years have passed since the morning, but the same sunlight is still sparkling away cheerfully.

Whatever mixture of IV drugs they have him on is pretty good. It makes everything soft-looking, and all fuzzy around the edges, and makes the general experience of being stuck in a hospital bed and connected up to a load of monitors not anywhere as bad as it could have been. After all, it's not a crawl space.

"Does he always get this loopy?" Diana asks, perched on the windowsill.

Peter shrugs, and rolls his eyes as he leans back in his chair. "In my experience, yes."

Neal beams back at him.

"It's not something to be proud of," Peter says, sounding exasperated but smiling fondly at the same time. Neal's way too doped up for nuance so he just goes along with the smile, especially since Diana's unsuccessfully trying to hide one too. It's nice, that they're both there with him, and both smiling.

"We're all happy," he announces.

Diana splutters with laughter and Peter raises his eyebrows high enough that they're in danger of flying away. "Well, you certainly are."

"Aw, don't be too mean," Diana says. "He's just had several pints of other peoples' blood put into him."

"He's probably got their credit card numbers already, too," Peter mutters. Then, quickly, "Neal, whatever you're about to say in response, don't."

Neal shuts his mouth obediently. For a couple of seconds. "What did Hughes say?" he asks instead.

Peter looks rueful. "A few things. He read me the definition of 'desk duty'. Didn't even seem to care that I didn't actually do anything in the field."

"He's not in trouble," Diana assures, somehow following the rather mushed-up path of Neal's thoughts. "So I'll be able to hand back responsibility for you in no time. Thank goodness." She winks at him.

"You did great," Peter says to her.

Her eyes track over Neal in his hospital bed and then back to Peter. "I'm not sure that's wholly deserved, Boss."

Peter sighs heavily. "Neal," he says. "Tell Agent Barrigan how you're completely reckless and would manage to find trouble if you were locked inside a padded room."

"Who locked me in?" Neal wants to know, and Peter looks up at the ceiling as if he's hoping to find strength falling down on him from between the paint cracks.

"Me, if my wish is granted," he says fervently. "Neal, Diana's feeling guilty that you got shot and lost all that lovely blood of yours. Back me up here."

"But she couldn't have done anything," Neal says, honestly surprised. "The guy wasn't even meaning to shoot me. Anyway, if she hadn't forced me to learn all the blueprints I probably wouldn't have found my way out. I'd just have bled to death in the vents or something."

He's impressed with himself for managing such a long speech, but it's an unpleasant thought. He wonders how long it would have taken for his body to be found.

"Hey," Peter says firmly, pressing his hand down on Neal's shoulder like he can read his thoughts. Or possibly his facial expressions. "Stop that. Everything's fine. Better than fine, actually, since we've got all of Graften's men up on counterfeiting charges and the other lot on armed assault. The op went pretty smoothly if we disregard you getting friendly with a bullet. And you wasting however much money you spent on that suit."

Neal huffs indignantly, instantly forgetting his previous train of thought. "Diana's much nicer than you. She doesn't make cracks about my clothes."

"You hear that?" Peter says, raising a slightly incredulous eyebrow as Diana dissolves into laughter. "That's a bona-fide Caffrey recommendation right there."

Diana leans dangerously far forward and ruffles Neal's hair. "Thanks, Caffrey. It's been fun. Well, as Peter says, disregarding the you-getting-shot part."

Neal basks in their attention.. His relaxed smile widens into a yawn.

"I think we should let you get some rest," Peter says. "I'll be back in the morning to check on you, okay?"

"Okay," Neal says, and yawns again. He perks up suddenly. "Hey, Peter. You missed me enough to disobey Hughes."

There's a slight pause, during which the two agents look at each other.

"Is he making any sense to you?" Peter asks.

"Nope," Diana says, straight-faced. "Not a bit."

"Liar," Neal accuses, trying to stop his eyelids drooping.

"Be quiet, you," Peter says, and pats his knee. "We're leaving now."

But they stay until he falls asleep.

Crossposts: http://frith-in-thorns.livejournal.com/39858.html

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From:

schneefink

Peter sighs heavily. "Neal," he says. "Tell Agent Barrigan how you're completely reckless and would manage to find trouble if you were locked inside a padded room."

"Who locked me in?" Neal wants to know, and Peter looks up at the ceiling as if he's hoping to find strength falling down on him from between the paint cracks.

"Me, if my wish is granted," he says fervently.

Awww <3 I love Neal and Diana together and you captured them very well here :)

From:

Frith (n): sanctuary, place of safety. (British English, obsolete)

[fic: white collar] See This Through

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