Hello. So, the premise here is an AU to the finale and a different way things could have played out if Neal had been shot for real. This was written purely for my own pleasure and since I'm a sucker for Neal whump and angst, there is plenty in here.

It's in three parts and complete, but I'm editing as I go, so I'll post a chapter every day or two. Hope you like. :)

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Part One: Escape is Never the Safest Path

Neal had it all figured out.

Everything had been carefully scripted, the actors chosen, and the stage directions assigned. Up until that moment, everything had gone off without a hitch, but Keller just had to go and mess everything up, pulling a gun from his waistband and aiming at Mozzie, demanding the money.

Neal had expected that Keller might come armed, but knives were more his forte and he hadn't expected his weapon of choice to be a firearm. It was a mistake Neal could only hope wouldn't prove fatal for either him or Mozzie.

This however, didn't stop Neal from sticking to his plan and going after the gun he had stashed away as well. He wasn't about to let his friend get hurt and he might as well try to steer the ship back on course as best as he could. He might still be able to salvage it.

This soon led to a stand-off with Keller's gun trained on Moz and Neal with his leveled at Keller.

Mozzie stood at a loss and Neal knew he had taken him by surprise. It wasn't exactly his style to go around pulling guns.

"Let Mozzie go." Neal commanded, his face set with determination, giving away nothing but anger.

Neal was never one for violence, and he especially detested guns, but this gun was supposed to be his ticket out - he had just taken out a big chunk of the Pink Panthers organization and this was the only way he could see to save his friends from becoming targets of their vindictiveness. He had one bullet in said gun and it was a blank, but he wasn't about to tell Keller that.

He just needed to get Keller to let Mozzie go and then he could put things back into the right again.

"Sure, why not?" Keller sneered, his eyes cutting towards Neal, "I always liked the little guy. He never did me any harm… unlike you. So, drop the money next to me and take off, Moz. Neal and I have things to discuss." Keller motioned with his free hand for Mozzie to move quickly.

Mozzie hesitated, looking at Neal with a worried expression. Neal gave his friend a brief nod that he hoped conveyed to his friend the need to trust him with this.

The shorter man shook his head and rolled his eyes a little, showing his trust Neal and also his exasperation at his recklessness, but he did as he was told dropped the bag full of money at Keller's feet before he left the basement.

Neal kept his gun aimed at Keller while the other man lowered his, a laugh bubbling from his lips.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that, Caffrey? Look at you … you and a gun. It's priceless." Keller snorted and chuckled, "I betcha it's not even loaded … I mean, C'mon, Neal … we both know you don't have the balls to shoot me. It's not who you are."

Neal allowed Keller to go into a soliloquy about how all of Neal's friends were in danger because of him and how he ruined everything he touched, but when he mentioned Kate and how she was dead the moment she met Neal, the almost crazed look in Neal's eyes and the fidgeting of his trigger finger were all too real. Keller was as cool as could be, calmly antagonizing Neal, his own gun loose in his hand, but Neal knew he almost had him now. Any moment Neal felt that Keller would make his move - he just hoped it would be the one he predicted.

Keller was a man that took risks, but he could also be pragmatic when the odds were stacked against him and he only had two questions before him; was Neal's gun loaded or not? Neal could see that Keller's continued monologuing was mostly for his own benefit as he tried to decide whether or not Neal was bluffing.

If Keller decided that Neal's gun was indeed loaded, his expected move was to try and take Neal's gun away just so he could rub Neal's perceived weakness in his face. Neal just had to convince him with his body language that he was sincere in his desire to kill Keller. When Keller attacked, he'd allow him to get the upper hand and in the scuffle, Neal would fire the blank and then he'd pop the bag of blood strapped to his chest and fall to the ground, feigning a gunshot wound that would convince Keller that he'd delivered a mortal blow.

He just had to convince Keller his gun was loaded and he was willing to use it. He played up the very real anger inside of him, letting it spill over.

"What makes you so sure I won't kill you where you stand for all the crap you've pulled?" Neal asked, letting his voice waver intentionally, but he straightened arm, holding the gun firm and steady, making his intentions clear.

"Because you're not a killer, Neal," Keller said matter of factly, "I am."

His face expressionless, Keller whipped his gun up faster than Neal could anticipate and fired without warning or preamble. Neal fired his gun reflexively, but being loaded with a blank, it made only a loud, useless noise.

Neal felt as though he had been socked in the gut by a Mack truck.

He stumbled backward and looked down, confused. It wasn't supposed to go like this. There wasn't supposed to be a bright red patch of blood growing from the center of the hole in his shirt, just above his belt buckle. It was supposed to be much higher up where the still intact bag of fake blood was.

It wasn't supposed to be real.

But it was real.

Neal's universe stood still as his mind struggled to realize what had just happened. The shock of it all, the swiftness of it, it was too much for him to take in.

Even Keller looked a bit shocked at what he had done, pulling back with the gun still in his hand.

Knees giving in, Neal dropped to the floor gracelessly, landing flat on his back, the gun in his hand clattering across the cement floor.

And then the pain hit, white hot and searing. He knew it was coming, and like a tsunami after an earthquake, it was impossible to stop. Neal had never experienced anything of its like before and all at once it enveloped him, exquisite and excruciating. His skin burned hot as molten steel where the shot had entered while a bone-chilling frost settled over the rest of his body, making him shiver and shake uncontrollably.

Blood rushed through his ears, loud as a freight train. Vaguely he was aware of Keller looming over him as his hands sought the source of his pain and ineffectively grasped at the hole in his belly, blood seeping from between his fingers, as if they might somehow push all of the agony and blood back into his body.

Keller looked down on him with something that might have resembled pity if Neal didn't already know that the man was incapable of such emotion.

"Looks like this really is the end for us, huh?"

Despite the overwhelming pain, Neal suddenly felt a laugh bubble up and he let it loose, which he immediately wished he hadn't as the fire in his stomach rocketed up and left him breathless. The absurdity of it all wasn't lost on him. How ironic was it that his plans to fake his death were actually going to kill him?

Peter at least, had to have picked up the anklet's signal by now, so at least Keller wouldn't get far.

"What's so funny?" Keller asked.

Neal looked at his foot and he felt his tracking anklet scrape across the cement as turned his foot. Keller followed his eyes and winced,seeing the red light blinking and realizing that he had been set up.

"Son of a bitch."

"Good thing you're so damned predictable." Neal smiled then grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut as the pain and nausea reminded him that Keller wasn't as predictable as he should have been.

Keller didn't bother with any more smug retorts, stashing his gun in his waistband and then grabbing the bag of cash along with Neal's gun before running for the exit.

0o0o0o0o0

Peter ran across Wall Street, the tracker in his hand showing him that he was getting close. He was only about a block or two away from the address on the screen when he heard the shot.

He stopped in his tracks, suddenly chilled to the marrow in his bones. The shot came from the direction of the tracker's signal.

Peter had already started running by the time Keller came tearing out into the street, a black tote bag strapped across his chest.

"Keller, stop!" He shouted, reaching for his gun.

Keller looked behind him and locked eyes with Peter for a split second before making the decision to keep running, darting through the crowds of pedestrians and shoving anyone who got in his way.

Peter called in his location for back up with the rest of the team as he chased the criminal across the pavement and through busy sidewalks. Keller's heavy bag was slowing him down though and Peter was able to catch up quickly. The man must have sensed Peter was about to grab him for in the next second he pulled out a gun and grabbed a young woman in business attire who had the misfortune of being only a foot away from him.

Keller pressed the gun to the terrified woman's temple. Tears coursed down the woman's cheeks, but she didn't cry out, even as Peter was forced to raise his gun and aim directly at the man holding her hostage. He forced himself to keep his eyes trained on Keller and not on her pleading eyes.

"Let her go, Keller!"

"I'm tired of taking orders from you!" Keller dug the barrel of the gun deeper into the woman's hair and she whimpered. "Do as I say and she lives. We all live. Except for Caffrey ... "

Peter blanched and Keller grinned smugly seeing his reaction.

Keller continued to goad, "It's already too late for him, but if you let me go you might have time to say goodbye."

Peter's hands held his gun steady even as his stomach dropped to the ground. Surely Keller was bluffing. Neal couldn't be that bad off.

The backup Peter had called in was rushing in behind Keller and the bastard was speaking again, but Peter had tuned him out, he refused to listen to another word of the vitriol that flowed from that mouth. Instead his focus was rooted squarely on the spot located between Keller's eyes as he waited for the other man to make his move.

Because he knew without a doubt that Keller was not going to make it out of this alive.

And in the blink of an eye, it was over. Keller had turned the gun on Peter in a final Hail Mary and Peter had not hesitated to pull the trigger.

Keller was dead before he hit the ground.

The hostage was scooped up by a swarm of agents and a controlled chaos erupted over the scene.

But Peter wasn't there to supervise it, he was already running.

0o0o0o0o0

Neal tried to call Peter. Things had veered so far off the page that he wanted to set things right, to at least say goodbye to Peter before … well, before he bled to death on a dirty floor with fake blood strapped to his chest , a spent bullet and blowfish poison pills in his pocket.

Peter was an excellent FBI special agent and he'd put the clues together. He'd find Neal's body and deduce that Neal had tried to fake his death, which was true. But, he'd probably also think that Neal did it just to run away and get out from under the thumb of the government and since Peter is also excellent at jumping to conclusions, he'd probably think that Neal was doing this to run from the FBI, which he was not.

He wanted to tell him that he had good reasons for doing it, that he just wanted the people he loved to be safe. That he wanted Peter's kid to grow up with a dad.

He wanted to tell the man who had taken a chance on him and took him on as his CI that despite their trust issues, Peter was the man who gave Neal a reason to want to be a better man.

Shit … wasn't that a line from some movie?

Anyway, he would have called and said all of that if his damn phone wasn't dead.

Neal let his hand with the phone in it to drop to the floor. It was too heavy to hold and he was so cold and tired and everything hurt. He probably wasn't supposed to sleep, but it was getting harder and harder to stay awake even with the pain of his wound trying to tear him in half.

Neal shivered and groaned as he curled into a ball, his arms wrapping around his middle, hoping that the new position would help with the pain.

It didn't. It apparently wasn't going anywhere and neither was Neal. There was no way he was walking out of there.

This was it. This was the filthy floor he was going to die on.

He couldn't get his thoughts straight and it felt as though a fog had settled inside his brain. He already called an ambulance, didn't he? He thought maybe he had since the phone was in his hand.

No. He remembered now.

Phone was dead.

He talked to Linda the paramedic a few days ago. She and her partner were on board with his plan. He paid them half yesterday and the rest would be sent to them after he successfully 'died'.

They were supposed to bring the gurney down to the cellar and bring him to the ambulance before the blowfish toxin set in so it would be more believable that he had died enroute to the hospital. They should get to him soon, shouldn't they?

Maybe he wouldn't die afterall.

Well ... as long as he hadn't lost too much blood.

And the paramedics he hired were better at first aid than they were at professional integrity.

Then again, if he died it would certainly be a lot easier than trying to pull this sort of thing off again and his problems with the Pink Panthers coming after his friends would be solved. Mozzie would be safe, June would be safe, and El ... and Peter wouldn't have to worry about having his back anymore, he wouldn't have to constantly pull Neal from the fire and risk career or his life for him anymore. Maybe this was the only way he wouldn't be able to hurt or cause anyone any pain anymore.

Maybe it would be better just to let go ...

Neal drifted. The pain came and went and then came again suddenly when he felt a hand touch his wrist and he jolted awake, turning the heat up in his wound and causing him to cry out.

"It's okay, Mr. Caffrey. It's me, Linda." A woman soothed, patting his shoulder. "It looks like things didn't quite work out as planned, did they?

Linda?

The name sounded familiar.

"Did you take the tetrodotoxin already?"

Tetro-what?

He blinked up at her, her face slipping in and out of focus, sometimes doubling. She was cutting his shirt off, revealing the bag of blood. She cut that off as well.

"Did you take the blowfish poison?" She asked again.

Oh ...

They were here to save him. Didn't he already decide against that?

He shook his head and closed his eyes.

A knuckle ground into his sternum and his eyes flew open at the pain. He glared at the woman.

"Try to keep those pretty eyes open for me, okay?"

He felt a pressure on his arm followed by a ripping sound and another woman's voice. "He's really hypotensive, Linda. We gotta get him to the rig."

"I know. Just let me make sure that all the, ya know, incriminating stuff is stashed away. The last thing we need is someone finding out we were gonna help this guy fake his death."

"I get it, but he's fading."

Linda grabbed a plastic bag and stuffed the sack of blood, the bullet and tiny container that held the poison he was supposed to take and shoved the whole thing into her carry-all.

"Don't worry, Mr. Caffrey. I'll toss all of this into the incinerator at the hospital, okay? I'm afraid you'll just have to reschedule your appointment with death for another day."

Neal nodded weakly, not really caring about much of anything except for the chance to doze off and escape the gnawing pain of the fire raging in his belly.

The next thing he was aware of was sunlight.

It was too bright as the women pushed the gurney from the dim recesses of the building's basement and out into the open city street.

Neal winced and moaned, trying to shield his eyes, but a hand held his arm down. The gurney came to a stop and Neal's eyes had adjusted enough to open fully.

He gazed up, into a worried face.

0o0o0o0o

Peter was just in time to see the paramedics come out of the building.

For one heart stopping second, Peter believed that he was too late. Neal lay on the gurney, his shirt cut off with fresh blood soaking through several layers of pressure bandages. His face was ashen and sweaty and his eyes were closed, but when the paramedics pushed the gurney into the sunlight, Neal suddenly winced and groaned.

Peter was already by Neal's side, reaching for the hand that was raising. The woman pushing the gurney gave Peter a warning look to keep out of the way as they worked, but didn't send him away. As the bed stopped at the ambulance doors, Neal's eyes opened and peered up at Peter.

"Jesus, Neal." Peter whispered.

Neal made an attempt to grin.

"You're the only one that saw the good in me."

"Don't say that." Peter took on a panicky look. "Stop it."

Neal's eyes drooped, heavy with pain and fatigue. Peter knew he was slipping away. He wanted to reach out and shake the man just to get him to keep his eyes open a little longer because he was afraid the next time he closed them, they might not open again.

And then Neal said, "You're my best friend."

Peter felt his world tumble and overcome with numbness, he was frozen to the spot as the paramedics pulled the gurney into the ambulance.

Neal was saying goodbye.

And then Peter saw Neal close his eyes before disappearing behind the ambulance door.

0o0o0o0o0o0

Neal opened his eyes and looked out over the city skyline from his balcony perch, it's buildings soaring up into the clouds, the tops of which disappeared into the fog that had rolled in from the Atlantic.

He always enjoyed this view, even on gloomier days like this when it looked as though rain was on its way in. Of course, he loved the architecture of the buildings and the beauty in their designs, but there was more to it than that. There was something about New York that was more than just pretty buildings and as he looked down on the silent streets below, he knew what it was exactly that drew him in; the people.

He could sit on any park bench in the city and people watch for hours without getting bored. Where else in the world could a man who grew up in St. Louis watch a man from Pakistan join a Chinese man in a friendly game of chess while a few paces down, two men held each other's hands and eyes in a loving embrace without fear or rebuke. New York was a city of people from all walks of life looking for something new and exciting, whether it was money, love, or fame ... people came here to fulfill their dreams. It was why Neal was always drawn back to this town time and time again. It was where is dreams were too.

And that was what struck him first as he looked below.

There was no one there.

He couldn't remember coming out onto the balcony or how long he had been there or even what he was doing before hand, but one thing was certain, he was alone.

He looked over the edge again. There was still no sign of any cars or pedestrians nor were there any horns honking or sirens blaring or any of the sounds one would expect on any given day in New York.

It was completely silent.

He turned from the balcony and went back into the loft. He then exited his apartment and wandered through the rest of the mansion, looking for June. Maybe she would know what was going on.

Searching the whole house, he called for his landlady, but the place was empty save for him. Even the maid and cook were absent as he strolled through the parlor and kitchen areas where he could almost always find them this time of day. Then again, June could have gone out for the day and had sent the staff home early. She did that every now and again, so it was still too early to be concerned.

Yet still, he had an odd feeling creeping in and he didn't like it at all.

Neal left the house and walked down the street, the sensation of dread growing stronger with every step. The fog that had covered the tops of the building's before had descended to the ground, casting a whitened pall over the neighborhood.

Normally, even in such dreary weather, there were people strolling up and down the street, some hand in hand with lovers, some alone and minding their own business, some with dogs, some with strollers and kids, but always, always there were people.

But not today.

Not one car drove down the perpetually crowded street and not one person could be seen. The only noise Neal could hear was the sound of his own ragged and quickening breaths.

Neal swallowed hard.

What the hell was going on?

Was there some kind of evacuation going on that he was the last to know about?

As he walked, he pulled out his phone and dialed Peter's number. Peter always had an answer for everything, right or wrong and he would know what was happening. He'd probably yell at Neal for being where he shouldn't be and he'd grumble, but he would come and pick Neal up and get him out of there.

Everything would be okay, he assured himself warily.

Neal listened to the line ring and ring for several long minutes, but there was no answer. Strangely, Peter's stern voicemail greeting telling him to leave a message was also absent.

He then dialed Mozzie, hoping he was still in the city.

There was no answer, which wasn't unusual for his paranoid friend.

He dialed Mozzie's ten other numbers.

Same result.

He felt like throwing his phone in frustration, but called Diana's number instead.

Nothing.

He called Jones, then Sara, even Alex.

No one answered.

In desperation, he called 911.

It never went through.

The uneasy feeling was starting to feel a little more like panic now and he walked faster, hoping that he'd find someone, anyone, who knew why the place was so deserted.

Around the corner was a Starbucks that Neal frequented. It was always busy and many times he bemoaned the line that sometimes stretched to the door, but as he entered the coffee shop, he found that it too was empty.

He was soon running. His only thought was to get to the FBI building. It was nearly a half mile away, and usually a pleasant walk on those days when Peter wasn't able to give him a ride into work, but the lack of cars and noise and people just heightened his anxiety all the more and he was nearly sprinting by the time he made it to the entrance.

The building too had been cleared. No guards were posted at the entrance and no one was there to check his badge even though the doors were unlocked. He skipped the elevator in favor of running up the stairs, too impatient and anxious to find Peter and get some answers.

But like everywhere else, the offices of the White Collar unit were empty. He walked past his own desk and noticed something odd. His bust of Socrates was missing. He moved closer and opened the top drawer and found that it too was empty. Even the little lock pick set he had hidden under the drawer that was certain no one would ever find was gone. It was as if he had never even used it over the last four years.

Curious, Neal looked around and noticed that all of the desks were cleared. Not one had a single picture on them or anything personal on them. He ran up the steps to Peter's office and his desk too, which was always cluttered with paperwork, was spotless. His photos of El and Satchmo were gone. Even the permanent coffee cup rings Peter had seemingly etched on its surface were gone.

Neal ran from the room, feeling like he'd walked into a terrible episode of the 'Twilight Zone'.

Maybe he could find something about it on the TV.

He tried the set in the conference room, but he got only static.

He tried the computers too, but nothing would turn on.

If Neal hadn't been freaked out before, he was now.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to talk himself out of panicking.

He forced deep breaths in and out and soon, his racing heart began to calm to a manageable level. He just needed to think.

His thoughts however, only led him to one conclusion.

He was alone … in all of New York City.

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Part II coming soon