I Believe In You

Wake Up Call

Trust is a fragile thing. And building a professional relationship based on it is especially difficult, if one had to deal with an irritably charming and exceptionally talented con man. Who also happened to have sneaked into his private life and his heart, Peter mused, as he walked towards the storage room, a miserable looking Neal trailing behind him. He cared for the young man. In truth, he was his best friend.

They matched on so many levels, were always thinking they were the smartest man in the room. The bickering, Neal's kind heart, the way they worked together, how they just clicked.

Peter sighed.

But their moral compasses were still calibrated so very differently. Neal always did the right thing by taking the wrong steps. And that constantly jeopardized his well being. Threw him in the line of fire. And it left Peter worried sick on more days then he cared to remember.

Today was one of those days. The past days to be exact. Neal almost drowning, because he had to challenge their suspect. Damn it!

Ever since he had caught Neal, he was in a constant state of inner-fuming. His anger bubbling to the surface every time the young man pulled something reckless. And especially today, he could not conceal his feelings. He knew that lying underneath that anger was pure concern and worry for his friend but he could not allow himself to give into it. Not yet.

He threw a dark glance over his shoulder at his CI. And his heart broke. Neal swerved and swayed as he walked behind Peter. His gaze firmly planted somewhere on the back of the agent's suit jacket, as if he was trying to concentrate very hard on not simply falling apart.

Reaching the storage room, Peter stopped on the threshold of the pulled up shutters and nodded for his CI to step inside. Neal walked past him with his head bowed. Peter noticed that the hair on his temples and neck was dark, damp and curling in a dainty, wild pattern.

He felt his eyebrow rising in a moment of self-doubt. Had he treated his friend too harshly or his criminal informant too nicely?

The lines were blurring too often. And mostly, he found himself at a loss as to who he should be for Neal in specific moments and situations.

Does Neal, his friend, need him right now?

Faltering on the inside, he told himself that he would haul Neal's ass to the nearest doctor once he has authenticated the art.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Neal walking past Jones towards the line of paintings, coming to a dangerously wavering stop in front of the one at the rear end of the room. For a second it looked like he would start assessing the art before him, but then Neal turned ever so slowly towards Peter, seeking out his friend's eyes with his own feverishly red-rimmed ones, which went wide before he opened his mouth, forming a single word which Peter merely perceived as a weakly breathed, slurred sound, but understood it nonetheless: „P'tr."

Neal's eyes rolled back and closed, and Peter could just stare in shock as his friend started falling sideways towards the floor as if in slow motion, hitting a crate near him, before lying completely limp and unmoving on his back, spread eagle, face turned away from Peter.

„NEAL!" Peter and Jones both yelled at the same time, rushing over to their fallen friend.

Peter knelt down on Neal's left, turning his face towards him by his chin. Both agents inhaled sharply. Peter felt all anger dissipating, only leaving room for the adrenaline rush fueled by concern which now left him shaken and had his fingers trembling.

Neal's face was completely slack. The lower right of his cheek was smeared with dark red blood, which seemed to come from the corner of his mouth, his parted lips letting the red liquid run freely down the side of his jaw. Damn it, Neal! Must've hit his face on the crate, hurting the inside of his mouth.

„Neal, come on, buddy. Wake up." He tapped Neal's not-bloody side of his face while his other hand was wrapped around the back of Neal's neck, holding him steady.

„Please, open your eyes, tell me what's wrong." Peter pleaded with his unconscious CI.

Jones laid the back of his hand on Neal's forehead, eliciting a surprised „oh".

„Peter, that's one hell of a fever he is running. He is pale, his breathing seems a little raspy, he is unresponsive... whatever he came down with, we need to get him to a hospital."

Peter just nodded and noticed that all the other agents were standing around them in a circle, one of them just pocketing his cell, having just phoned for an ambulance, so he returned his attention back to Neal.

The young man was out cold completely. All Peter could do was sit by his side, study his slack face, looking for any evidence of returning awareness, which never came. Instead, the medics arrived and loaded a rag-doll Neal onto a stretcher, carried him outside and into their waiting vehicle. Peter felt as if he were observing the scene from far, far away, as if in trance, following them into the back of the ambulance, letting them sit him down beside his sick friend.

Slowly, he reached out for Neal's limp hand and took it in his. How did I let his happen?