Last chapter.

*Note* If what Neal says doesn't have quotations around it, then it's not being spoken out loud.

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Components of a Picture

Chapter 3:

Peter slid to a stop beside me like a baseball player sliding across the field to reach the safety of the base. And then my view of the sky was blocked by a weathered face with brown eyes sallow from worry and weariness. His mouth was open in silent panting. He had been running for a while, I guess. Probably ever since that man took me. I forgot who that was but it didn't matter now.

Hey partner, I said with a smile that matched the tiredness I saw in Peter's face.

His eyes searched my face and I felt his fingers brush along my forehead and push through my hair. Warm fingertips dried my tears.

I knew you'd find me. You always do.

His eyes traveled down to my chest and his fingers gently took hold of my hand, completely unconcerned with the fact that it was coated in my blood, the red color staining his own fingers. He uncovered my wound and I saw his eyes widen. His gaze flickered to me and, for a moment, I saw the fear and concern swimming in those orbs of bronze. Then he wiped the emotion clear from his face as he looked away again.

I smiled. He didn't want me to worry. He was always trying to protect me.

It's ok, I told him. I know.

He pulled a jacket into view and said something. I wasn't sure what. I saw his mouth move and sound rumbled out to pound dully against my ears filled with cotton, but I couldn't make sense out of the reverberating hum.

Oh, you got my jacket for me. Thanks. I was getting a little cold.

Peter folded my jacket and then carefully eased it under my head. I mumbled my content. That was better. My neck didn't feel so stiff now. But I was still cold.

My free left hand, currently idle at my side, reached up slightly and pinched the end of Peter's jacket. He looked down at my hand and then quickly released the other. He pulled his jacket off and threw it like a blanket over me. He quickly tucked the thick fabric around me, the residual warmth seeping into my shivering body. I smiled my gratitude but he was already looking at someone I couldn't see and shouting orders. His voice vibrated in the air around me and seemed to resonate into my chest. It was too loud. I winced.

A light tapping against my cheek made me open my eyes. I hadn't realized I had closed them but then I was looking up into Peter's face again. He wasn't hiding his fear now. The fact made a sharp pang of dread stab my heart. If Peter was scared, then the situation really was bad.

It's ok, I assured him. You're here. You found me. So it's ok. I trust you.

Peter looked at me and then down to my wound and back. His mouth moved and I focused on that movement. I thought he said sorry but I didn't understand why.

Peter set his jaw bravely and then inhaled deeply before directing his attention back to my wound. He lifted both hands and pressed his palms hard against my injury.

My own cry sounded muffled to my ears as a wave of nauseating pain swept throughout my entire being, piercing me with thousands of knives. My heart hammered in my chest and then all I could hear was my own blood pulsing in my ears. My chest creaked under the pressure and the bullet wound burned with a searing flame that consumed me in white-hot pain. I closed my eyes as my head swam.

That hurts, I complained. One hand had reflexively taken hold of Peter's wrist and was now pushing weakly against him, begging him to stop. But he refused to alleviate the pressure.

He plucked my hand off his wrist and gripped my fingers within his own. I clumsily tried to return the gesture but my hand felt numb and noncompliant.

I opened one eye slightly and peeked out at Peter. He was looking at me again with such apology and pain that, for a moment, I wondered who was actually in more agony. His eyes were moist.

Before I could inspect further, he was yelling again. I heard other voices answer him in the same dull thrum and the rhythmic pounding of footsteps rapidly approaching. I thought I caught a glimpse of Diana but everything past Peter had become a blur. So I just focused on him.

He was talking again and I suddenly craved to hear the words he was speaking. I wanted to hear his voice again.

I can't hear you, I explained with a shake of my head.

The pain in my chest had lessened slightly but I was cold again.

What are you saying?

Peter searched my eyes. Then he leaned in a little closer and spoke a single word. I focused on his moving lips, trying to decipher what he was saying. It seemed like he was saying a single word over and over.

Oh, he was saying my name.

The realization seemed to remove the cotton from my ears a little.

"Neal," he said in a rustic voice coarse from his run and wavering with apprehension. "Neal, Neal, Neal…"

I smiled. I can hear you.

His eyes brightened slightly and then died again.

His lips started to move in different gestures now. He spoke slowly so that I could keep up and correctly interpret what he was saying.

It's ok. You are going to be ok. Help is coming. I'm here.

I met the gaze of my friend and smiled my gratitude. But I shook my head.

If Peter's expression could fall even more into despair, it did.

It's too late, I said gently. I'm not going to make it.

Peter gripped my hand tightly, making sure I knew that he was there, but my fingers were limp in his grasp.

But it's ok. Everyone dies someday. I guess today's my day.

My vision blurred but I wasn't sure if it was because of the pain or tears. Something wet hit my cheek. My tears? or Peter's?

It's ok, I assured him again. I'm ok. No point in fighting fate. I lived a good life. You gave me a good life. Hell, I had a good life with you. I'm ready.

Someone came to stand beside Peter but I didn't bother to look up to see who it was. I kept my focus on Peter's face. I wanted to look at the face that had looked at me with such pride and sympathy and understanding and sarcasm and jest and protection and admiration for as long as possible. I would miss that face. I would miss Peter. I wanted to stay with him. I wanted to stay with the man whom I considered a partner, a friend, a brother; a father. I wanted to be his family; to come to all his Christmas dinners and New Year's parties and birthdays. I wanted him to come to all of mine. I wanted to continue to work beside him; to have his hand on my shoulder. I wanted to joke with him; to laugh with him; to battle wits against him.

God, how I wanted to stay.

But I had to leave. I understood that. I accepted that.

I'm sorry, I said.

My eyelids were getting heavier and it was getting harder to keep them open. Peter tapped my cheek and jostled my shoulder gently. He shouted some more and shouts answered him in return but he didn't leave me side.

Thanks, I said with a smile. Thank you for everything. Thank you for always looking out for me, for following me into whatever trouble I got myself into; for always having my back, even in the illegal stuff. Thanks for defending me against agents and criminals alike. Thanks for accepting me and taking me into your life. Thanks for giving me a second chance and for believing in me even when no one else did.

I lifted my hand for Peter's hand that was still griping my shoulder. I tugged weakly on his sleeve and then his fingers slipped around mine and squeezed. I led his hand to the space between us.

Sorry for all the trouble, I chuckled.

I gave his hand a shake, or the closest thing to a shake I could do.

If I could, I would do it all again, minus a few things or course.

Our hands fell together to my chest. My grip slackened and then went limp. Peter squeezed my fingers and his eyes searched my face again.

I smiled at him the best I could and let my eyes drift closed.

A loud tremor rumbled against my ears. Peter was shouting at me. I knew it. That's why I didn't sleep in. I knew I'd get in trouble for being late. But I was too tired. I didn't want to open my eyes. I just wanted to sleep.

There was more shouting and then Peter suddenly scooped me up into his arms. He eased one blood-stained hand around my waist to support my back and used the other to press my head against his shoulder. He was so warm. It felt good. I felt him shout some more from the vibrations of his chest. Then I heard my name again. That, at least, I understood: my name.

I opened my eyes. I wanted to see my painting from a vertical view. I could see the river. The dying sun cast the murky waters in a darkening gold. Soon the waters would turn black and then fade to white as the moon rose to take her place in the sky.

The water still lapped against the shore, water splashing against the pebbles and rocks; stray drops shooting through the air like stars, shimmering in a streak of crystalline light and then dying against the unforgiving earth.

I guess it wasn't so bad being like the drop. I wasn't alone so I wouldn't fade into nothing like the escaped droplets did. But I could see the similarities now. Just like those drops of water, I had broken free from my routine life as just another drop of water in a river. And as I had broken free, I had shone with a light I didn't know I had. I had lived a bright life and glimmered like the very gold I had stolen. I had experienced clarity for the first time. But my life, like every life, is fleeting. Now I had dashed against the rocks and was dying. But I would not be forgotten.

Not when Peter was here to remember me. Not when I had Mozzie and June and El and Sara to carry my story with them.

Peter brushed the hair from my face and then returned his hand to my wound. His own shirt was getting stained with the same red that had soaked mine.

My head free, I tilted it back to once again look up at that vast and beautiful sky. It seemed my fate was to be like that of the single strand of white left behind by a passing jet. I lived my life and now I was going to ebb away and join everyone else who had disappeared under that same sky: my mom, and Kate. Maybe, wherever I was going, I would see them again. Maybe. It was a nice thought.

I chuckled. It seems I've become quite the philosopher, I joked.

I was so tired. But there was just one last thing I had to do. I pulled my head forward and let it slump once more against my friend's shoulder.

"Peter..."

Peter looked at me and suddenly all the chaos that had erupted around us faded away. All that was left was myself and the person stubbornly holding on to me, refusing to let me go. I smiled.

"Thanks, partner."

I finally allowed my eyes to close and I relaxed against Peter. I felt him hug me and the warmth his embrace offered coaxed me into the comforting black of sleep. I sighed contently, completely at peace because I knew my partner would keep me safe until I woke up.

Oh. That's right. I won't be waking up.

Now no one would paint that picture.

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If you'd like, I can write Peter's POV. It would include a little backstory as to why Neal went missing, how he found Neal, how he felt with Neal, and what happened after. If you're interested, let me know and I'll post.

Thanks for reading.

Hobey-Ho