The sun was shining, humid summer air warm against his skin, yet still he shivered. Feeling hollow, edges sharp and biting, a numbness consuming him from the inside out. Salty spray carried on the breeze from the East River splashed his face and dampened his clothes as he walked the Esplanade. It's been too long since he's seen the ocean, been on a beach, felt the sand between his toes or listened to the rhythm of the waves beat against a rocky shore. With a smile teasing his lips he remembers being chased around Europe. Recalls how beautiful Greece is in the summer, how fresh Paris in spring and the tranquillity of Budapest in the fall. Places and times when things seemed just… right.

"Neal? Neal, open your eyes."

Neal slowed, turned with a smirk and one raised eyebrow, prepared to tell Peter that his eyes are indeed open, but wherever his friend was hiding in this expanse of white and water Neal couldn't see.

"Peter?"

For no reason Neal could fathom the frigid hollowness in his stomach started to ache. Shielding his eyes from the bright hot sun, his untroubled bemusement turned to dismay, sobering at not finding his friend. Acknowledging the absence stung, realising he had no idea where Peter was even more so. Peter's name falling from suddenly dry lips, Neal's world tilted. Sand, sun and water merged into one, spinning around and around. Neal wanted Peter, needed him here with him now more than Neal's needed anyone ever. The empty feeling growing colder and colder, white fading to black in an eclipse worthy move. Drowning in darkness, cold seeping out and freezing the tiny hairs on his arms despite the heat surrounding him. He feels brittle and not in control. Seeking refuge in the solid sand dusted concrete beneath his feet Neal drops to the floor, but his hands meet only air. He falls, his momentum too great, too quick to stop.

"Neal! Neal!"

Heart racing, fear a solid thing in his throat, the scream of his name coincides with a smack to his stomach. Ripped from the dizzying darkness there's no warmth, the air is crisp and icy, a forceful wind scolding his face, freezing solid the blood in his veins. There's shouting. People shouting at him and about him. Hands on his arms, on his legs - too many for one person, hands all over him, grabbing him, touching him where stranger's hands should not touch-

Neal finds his strength through his terror and fights for all he's worth. "Get off me!"

He pushes and pulls but the hands, they keep coming, grabbing and pinning him to the frigid, hard, uneven floor beneath him. Water seeps into his clothes, every inch damp and clinging to his equally damp body. He's rolled over, pushed face down into gravel. Neal cries out, cheeks burning as skin is ripped off bone, a slow trickle of fresh red blood running into his mouth. Conceding his own physical limits, in one last grab at freedom Neal changes tactics and draws in a deep breath. No matter what mess he gets into, no matter how frustrating, no matter how many times he withholds or misdirects, when Neal's lost in the darkness without any idea of what's happening, Peter always knows where to find him.

Throat tight, eyes squeezed shut, Neal screams for Peter with everything he's got.

And Peter screams back.

"GET THE FUCK OFF HIM!"

The enraged roar following his own cry sends the commotion surrounding him instantly mute. So quiet Neal can isolate the sound of his own frantic breathing over the hum of traffic in the distance. He lies lifeless, staring towards the dull grey-black sky, the hands having snatched away as suddenly and violently as they'd tried to hang on. Neal thought he'd feel relief, but instead the sudden absence of touch and sound leaves him bereft of a tether, his body light and liable to float away at any minute.

Sitting bolt upright, chest heaving, eyes searching but finding no one familiar in the dull dark night, fear and desperation take over. He doesn't want to float away, he wants to be found, wants to be caught when he falls-

"PETER!"

"Hey!" Peter's tense face suddenly fills his vision, one warm hand cupping his least damaged cheek. "Hey," softer this time, "I'm here. It's okay. I'm here, look at me Neal. Neal, look at me."

Neal does as he's told for once, without qualm or mischief and looks, really looks. "You're here."

Peter's there, tired but there, his eyes sunken, red where white should be. He looks like crap and Neal tells him so, in a sigh and a hiccupping giggle as he's lifted from the cold, wet floor with a warm hand in his hair, another slipping around his back. Doesn't think too much of it when instead of scowling and yelling Peter keeps pulling him forward, pressing his face suddenly and indelicately into one shoulder, the throbbing sting of the raw exposed flesh on his cheek rubbing against the poly-cotton shirt causing a whimper to break free.

"We'll fix this," Neal feels Peter's warm breath in his wind matted and sea ravaged hair.

Snaking trembling hands under the warm FBI windbreaker Neal considers he doesn't know what Peter wants to fix. Maybe it's the bruises sure to be marring his usually blemish free skin, maybe the cold that's now so ingrained in his bones even his teeth are chattering. Maybe it's something much bigger, like Neal himself.

He nods for forms sake, silent tears joining the blood staining Peter's collar. Peeking out from the cover of his rescuers coat he can see the legs of several people moving back and forth, the rain falling, creating deeper puddles on what is now very clearly a road, not the esplanade as he first thought. There's an ambulance with its lights flashing, but no siren and the din of steadily moving traffic coming from somewhere in the distance. Two figures in jumps suits and hi-vis jackets approach and Neal clings tighter, refusing to leave the safe-haven he's found and never wants to leave.

A squeeze and a sigh trickles down from above, "we will fix this."

…

Peter rolls over, the buzzing of his cell penetrating the calm nothingness of his sleep. "Burke"

He hadn't bothered opening his eyes, not until the cool detached tone of the operator on the other end informs him tracking anklet 9304-alpha has breached his radius. Marshalls have been despatched and on route to the current location.

"Neal's running?" Peter shoots up in bed, hand to his forehead as if the very thought of Neal gave him an instant headache.

The woman despatcher casually responds to his question in the affirmative and asks with distinct disinterest if he will be attending the scene. Peter informs her he'll be right there and hangs up without getting the address of where there is.

Peter sighs, running a hand over his face and hair. In the darkness he turns to tell El not to worry and go back to sleep, before belatedly realising the other side of the bed is cold and undisturbed. El was staying over at her event upstate due to the ice storm closing the interstate. Trust Caffrey to make a nuisance of himself tonight of all nights. Peter sighs again, tosses back the covers and proceeds to get dressed, ready for what he predicts is going to be a very long day at work.

Loading up Neal's tracking data on the Taurus' on-board computer is a cinch. Peter has it pre-programmed into his satnav and is on his way within minutes of leaving the house. It's still a live signal at least, which means still in one piece and hopefully attached to its owner. He turns onto Trinity Park, heading for the Brooklyn Bridge reciting his lecture in his head only to be disturbed by his cell ringing and breaking his concentration.

"I'm on my way." Checking the clock and estimating arrival time, "10 minutes max."

"Well you better hurry." Jones' voice vibrates over the speakers.

Peter frowns at the dash. "What's going on? Neal okay?"

"I have no idea. I'll do what I can to keep the Marshalls back but…" silence fills the car, only the empty buzz of the speaker letting him know they're still connected. "- he needs you Peter." The call ends abruptly in a strung-out beep and crackle of static.

Arriving at the scene, Peter pulls up as close as he can get to the closed off bridge. Flashing his badge to get passed the crime scene tape, a chill running through him, dread filling his heart and head Peter jogs through the crowd of Marshalls and circles around one side. Spying Jones standing close to the railing Peter follows his line of sight upwards and sees what has everyone's rapt attention.

"Hey," Jones grabs his arm, bodily holds him back from breaching the Marshal ordered perimeter when confusion and desperation to just do something set in. "Peter, Peter calm down." The words aren't cold, they're loud and warm and full of understanding.

Peter stills, "Yeah, okay" he nods at Jones, patting his agents shoulder because his hands are at a loss for something to do. "I'm good."

Heart racing, body shaking with adrenaline he demands answers, wants to know what the hell is going on and why Neal's standing on the wrong side the of the Brooklyn Bridge, a bridge outside of his radius, unless he's travelling to Peter's house.

"We don't know yet, he hasn't said a word since we got here," Jones scans the array of armed men.

Peter pushes his way through the marshals, calmly this time. He stops at the railing, gives his best "Hey buddy," in imitation of Neal high as a kite at the Howser Clinic.

Chilled fingers clasp the icy railing, the bite of cold wet metal stealing his breath away. Looking down all is dark. The icy water flowing beneath them a death sentence even without a 100-foot fall preceding it.

"Burke the crisis negotiator is on her way-"

Peter bats the air in the general direction of the marshal who spoke. Keeping his gaze fixed on Neal teetering on the wrong side of the ledge for fear just looking away will end everything in the worst conceivable way.

"Neal?" Peter calls out, fighting the instinct to grab his arm and pull him to safety.

Neal turns, just his head. His toes stay pointed outward, like he knows if they shift even an inch on the ice coated lip that would spell the end. Peter gazes back at the crowd of law officials, seeking out Jones. He passes a message, keeping his voice low, letting it carry on the breeze blowing towards them from the freezing water below.

"Lower your guns." Jones tells the marshal in charge.

The unit leader smirks but doesn't argue. Peter releases a heavy sigh as one by one the marshals lose their aim, satisfied even they can see there's no need to be pointing guns at a guy who's clearly unarmed and not a threat to anyone but himself.

Now for the hard part. Neal's outside the safety barrier, standing on a ledge no wider than a dollar bill, in what looks to be his pyjamas. Where the fuck does he start?

"Neal, I don't know what's going on in that head of yours but I need you step back onto this side with me okay?"

Neal doesn't answer, doesn't even look like he heard. Leaning further over the railing Peter tries to get a closer look at his face. He's prepared for tears, but what he finds is a smile.

"Neal, open your eyes." Peter inches closer, senses the marshals behind tense up. "Neal, open your eyes, look at me." Peter takes another step closer, he's directly behind him now. "Please."

Neal shivers, his hands reaching out, touching nothing but air-

What happens next is a blur of action and noise. Neal calls out to him, but falls forward, Peter shouts and in panic wraps both arms around the thin waist. The ledge is slick and his feet slip, legs going out from under him. Neal's still falling and Peter's still holding. Other hands latch on to the now fighting body, together they pull him over the railing and hit the floor in an uncoordinated heap. Neal pushing and kicking at anyone and everyone, Peter is overpowered and forced out of the way. The marshals don't bother trying to talk him down, they treat him like an animal, a highly distressed and uncooperative animal. Four of them, four much bigger, much stronger men each grab a hold of a part of Neal's body and flip him over, pinning him face down on the cold wet concrete of the bridges footpath, Neal fighting them every step. One of the marshals drops a knee onto Neal's back, pushing the kid's face into the dirt with one hand, going for his cuffs with another. Peter charges forward to put an end to it but one of the four breaks his hold and transfers it to him, forcible blocking his path. He shouts at the others to let him go but the plea lands on deaf ears. It's not until the marshal who went for his cuffs yanks Neal's arms back, revealing the torn flesh and bleeding graze on his cheek as well as eliciting a painful cry that Peter reaches melting point.

Snatching his arms out of the hold of the marshal restraining him Peter charges forward. "LET HIM GO!" He pushes none too gently between two armed on lookers, "GET THE FUCK OFF HIM!"

Silent drops over them, the chaos of moments before gone in an instant. Even Neal stops fighting, frozen on the ground, chest heaving, a look of panic filling his usually sharp and sparkling blue eyes. Peter makes his ire clearer by ordering anyone not FBI to step the hell back and drops to the floor the second a distressed 'Peter!' breaks from Neal's lips.

"Hey, hey, I'm here" he breaths, kneeling next to the shivering and panting body of the kid usually the embodiment of cool when faced with arrest. "Shh," Peter whispers softly and helps him up, "It's okay." Gripping one shoulder from the front he captures the unmarked cheek with his free hand, angling the kids chin up into the nearest street light. "Look at me Neal, look at me."

Neal does just that. Eyes moving from their focus on the night sky to meet Peter's as if it were always that easy to do as he's told. Neal tells him he looks like hell and Peter doesn't, can't hold back. He pulls, fast and fierce, hugging Neal to his chest, carding a hand roughly through his damp and dirty hair, shielding him under his coat as best he can from the watchful stares of the marshals.

Peter swallows back tears, the image of Neal, who he's sure would never do what it looked like he was doing, wars with the surreal reality of the fact he had tried to do just that. "We'll fix this," he breaths in the scent of Neal's shampoo, mixed with the gritty algae aroma of the sea spray being carried on the wind.

There's so little reaction from Neal that Peter jumps when slender arms eventually move and reach under his jacket, cold hands brushing against his thin shirt underneath to grab fistfuls of creased linen. Peter looks up at Jones guiding the EMTs their way, feels Neal shaking against him, pressing himself closer.

"We will fix this."