First, an unnecessarily long authors note: I started this because I was having trouble with my other story and thought this would be easier. Not. This is my first venture into the hurt/comfort genre and I must have re-written it 10 times. It's based on the very end of Checkmate and the look Diana gives Neal when he walks into the office to confess all. She just didn't look very trusting to me.

When it Matters

A White Collar Fanfiction

Disclaimer: White Collar is owned by Jeff Eastin and USA Network. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made.

Chapter 1

The hands pinning her arms behind her back are large and strong. Very strong. Diana struggles against them, but he only tightens his grip. She's sure there are bruises. At least the M.E. will know she was held against her will when they find her body, she thinks unhappily.

"Agent Diana Berrigan," Arthur Markus hisses through oddly tiny teeth. He glances down at her credentials which he plucked from her inside jacket pocket. "FBI." He looks appraisingly at her. "Your accent was good, quite the proper Brit, but you couldn't sell the whole unsavory expert role. You have no idea how to authenticate a manuscript."

Of course she doesn't, because that's Caffrey's job. He was supposed to pose as another buyer and authenticate the manuscript. But Caffrey didn't show, leaving Diana to muddle through the procedure as best she can. Obviously she didn't do a very good job, because Markus figured her out almost immediately.

"This has been a very disappointing afternoon," Markus continues. "One of my prospective buyers turns out to be an FBI agent, and the other doesn't even bother to show up." He clicks his tongue with displeasure. "Is it possible your fellow agents outside have scared him away?"

"There are no other agents. I'm here by myself."

"The surveillance van is parked one block north," a new voice says from behind them, "and they make me very uncomfortable. I hope we can do this quickly."

"Mr. Halden, you're late." Both Arthur Markus and Diana Berrigan turn to look at the newcomer.

Neal Caffrey raises a disdainful eyebrow. "The world can't always follow your personal schedule, Mr. Markus. The cops in the van forced me to take a detour."

"They're not cops, they're FBI, just like her." He tips his head in Diana's direction.

"What are you going to do with her? You aren't going to let her go? That would be unbelievably stupid." Neal's voice is cool and controlled.

"That is a problem," Markus sighs irritably. "I believe the most efficient action is to kill her."

Neal grimaces in distaste. "Right now? I was hoping to complete this purchase in a timely matter." He expresses his own irritation. "Can't you lock her in a closet or something?"

"Are you squeamish, Mr. Halden?"

"I don't like the mess," is the quick response. "I want to see the item. A treasure, if you're telling me the truth; original pages from Don Juan. Byron has always been one of my favorites."

Markus shoots Neal an angry look, then turns to the man still holding Diana. "Take the agent down to the storeroom, we can deal with her later. We don't want to keep Mr. Halden waiting," he sneers.

Diana's arm is jerked up as her captor moves her towards a flight of stairs. She tries once more to free herself, and her arm is twisted behind her back in response. The last thing she sees before they go down the stairs is Neal Caffrey and Arthur Markus bent over several yellowed sheets of paper, a faint smile curving Neal's lips as Markus points out a feature on one of the pages.

ooOoo

Diana paces the edges of her small prison, looking for a way out. The walls are cinder block, the door steel. A single light in the ceiling reveals a collection of cardboard storage boxes – and the fact that there's no handle on her side of the door. She kicks at the empty boxes, hoping to reveal some sort of weapon she can use. She only succeeds in stirring up dust. Coughing, she seats herself on the upended wooden packing crate. It is all an exercise in futility anyway; her hands are cuffed behind her back.

The clammy air and close quarters of her prison weigh on Diana. She shivers involuntarily then rattles the cuffs around her wrists, hoping they might miraculously pop open. They don't, of course. Caffrey, she knows, would have them open in seconds.

Caffrey.

She doesn't want to believe Neal sold her out, but it certainly looks that way. He was late for the meet, he gave away the location of the van, and he had her locked in a closet. He was probably out there right now making his purchase – using FBI money, no less!

Six months ago she wouldn't have thought any of this was possible, but that was before Neal's grand deception with the stolen art. He'd lied to all of them for weeks and that was something Diana was having a hard time working around.

Jones doesn't seem to mind working with Caffrey. He acts like the fact that Neal helped Elizabeth get away from Keller negates the fact that it was Neal's actions that caused her to be taken in the first place. It must be a guy thing, Diana thinks – male bonding or something. And Peter? Somehow, even through his obvious hurt and betrayal, he sees something in Neal that has him struggling to keep their partnership alive. But then Peter has always seen something in Neal that none of the rest of them do.

Diana finds she can't forgive and forget as quickly as her teammates. If Neal could lie so easily about one treasure, he can certainly lie about others. Which leaves Diana wondering if the man her life now depends on has her back – or if he has his own agenda?

Diana stands and prowls the edges of the small room. It's better than sitting still, waiting for whatever Arthur Markus plans to do with her. Markus removed her audio/GPS broadcaster at the same time he took her badge. He must have some way of convincing the boys in the van it's still working, otherwise they would already be storming the building. An audio loop, maybe? But shouldn't Agent Timmerman and his crew have figured it out by now? Peter and Jones certainly would have. She begins to appreciate Peter Burke's philosophy: If you want it done right, do it yourself.

Of course, Diana thinks sourly, Timmerman only wanted Caffrey for this assignment. Peter forced Diana on the other agent so she could keep an eye on Neal. Yeah, and that worked out really well, hadn't it? Damn Caffrey anyway!

As her circuit brings her near the door to the storeroom, she freezes in her tracks. She stares at the door, head cocked to one side in a move reminiscent of Satchmo. There it is again – a faint popping sound. Gunfire? The sound is too muffled for Diana to be sure. As she waits, she hears rattling sounds coming from the door lock. She backs away, every muscle tense.

The door swings slowly inward, and Neal Caffrey slips inside, pulling the door almost shut behind him. She watches him warily as he slides his lock picks back into his pocket.

"Are you okay?" he asks soundlessly.

"Yeah." Her response is equally quiet. He moves behind her; she feels his hands against hers as he fiddles with the handcuffs, then her hands are free. Rubbing her wrists, she looks at Caffrey. It certainly seems like he's on her side.

"Was that a gunshot?" she asks, moving to the partially open door. He moves close behind her.

"Yes," he breathes. "Just once I'd like to do one of these jobs without guns." He is so near her his speaking ruffles her hair.

Diana listens at the door for a moment. Hearing nothing, she cautiously looks around into the dimly lit hallway.

"Anyone?" Neal asks.

"Nope. Do you have a gun?" Diana asks hopefully. A raised eyebrow is his only response.

"I did manage to get this." He pushes something into her hand. It's her badge. "I thought you might want it back."

"Thanks." She turns and gives him a ghost of a smile. "We need to get out of here. Which way?" she asks.

"That way." Neal points around her to a dusty set of stairs.

They are halfway up the stairs when loud voices reach their ears. They flatten themselves against the wall, listening, but ready to run.

"Damn! She's loose!" an unfamiliar voice calls out.

"Which way'd she go?" another accomplice asks.

"Don't know. Wait." Diana and Neal wait too. "There are footprints on the stairs."

Neal gives Diana a hard shove, sending her up the rest of the stairs. He follows close behind her as they find themselves in a large warehouse, filled with crates, cartons and steel cargo containers. They must be on the opposite side of the building from where they met with Markus. Of course, that puts them on the opposite side from where the surveillance van is, too.

Gunfire erupts around them. Diana throws herself behind a stack of cartons, Neal landing almost on top of her. They disentangle themselves as more gunshots ring out. A bullet hits a pillar just behind them, powdering their hair in concrete dust. Diana reaches for her weapon, cursing when she remembers she doesn't have it.

"We can't stay here," she hisses urgently. There are more shots.

"There!" Diana follows Neal's pointing finger. Twenty yards away stands a steel cargo container, it's door invitingly ajar. Unfortunately the twenty yards are all open, leaving them clearly visible targets.

Diana hesitates, looking for a less dangerous path, as more concrete dust showers them.

"Just RUN!" Neal orders frantically, grabbing Diana's arm, propelling her across the open area towards the relative safety of the container.

Diana hears the sharp intake of breath as Neal practically lifts her into the inside of the container. She marvels at his skill as he quietly closes the steel door behind them, careful to not give away their location. He leans back against the wall, wheezing and panting, as Diana inspects their hiding place.

It couldn't be better, she thinks. The steel walls and door should protect them flying bullets, while two vents in the ceiling provide them with air, dim light and the ability to hear what's going on outside the container. The gunfire has stopped, replaced by the sounds of searching, and finally snippets of conversation.

". . .where they went?"

"No. You?"

". . .over . . . those cartons?"

". . . not now. . . . back door?"

Damn, Diana thinks, there's a back door? They could have run for that if they'd known.

Tense moments pass while they hear nothing but silence. Determining their searchers have given up and gone elsewhere, Diana turns to Neal. He is still leaning against the wall. She finds it odd that he is still panting, and that his forehead is beaded in sweat.

"Geez, Caffrey," she says teasingly, "maybe you should work out more. It wasn't that bad of a run."

Instead of the blinding smile or smart-ass comment she expects, Diana can't believe her eyes when Neal's knees buckle and he crumples to the dusty floor of the cargo container like a marionette with its strings cut.

She is on her knees next to him in an instant. In the murky light she can see a darker shadow on the back of his dark suit jacket. She reaches out; the shadow is wet to the touch. She feels frantically for a pulse. When she finds it, fast and uneven, she almost weeps with relief. She lifts up the back of his jacket and sees the spreading red stain around the bullet hole in his tailored shirt. He's losing a lot of blood, she realizes.

"Caffrey. Neal!" Diana shakes him, gently at first, then harder. Receiving no response, she gingerly turns him face up and smacks at his cheeks.

"Caffrey!" This time she gets a feeble moan in response. "Neal, open your eyes!" she orders, smacking his cheek once again. His eyes open, glassy and unfocused.

"Look at me, Neal." Slowly his eyes focus on Diana's face. "You were shot. Why didn't you tell me?" she asks angrily. She knows this is unreasonable, but her anger keeps the panic away. His hands and face are cold to the touch; his breath comes in wet, labored pants. She has to slow the bleeding and find help – fast.

". . .was afraid . . . you . . . mad," is Neal's labored answer.

"Well, you're right. I'm mad." She looks quickly around for something to apply pressure to the wound, even though she knows there is nothing. She shrugs quickly out of her jacket. "Neal," she explains, "I have to slow the bleeding." He nods, his eyes shutting again. "This is going to hurt. I'm sorry." Again a feeble nod, before his head falls to one side. "Neal!" she tries again, but there is no response.

As she slips out of her blouse, a random thought crosses her mind. This is going to be chilly.

ooOoo

Diana takes one last look at her unconscious patient before she exits the cargo container. She's done all she can for him. Her blouse is wrapped tightly around his torso, slowing the flow of blood. She hopes it's not too little, too late. His skin is gray and icy to the touch, his breathing is wet and rasping. She's scared – terrified, actually – but need and adrenaline give her strength.

She doesn't want to leave Neal alone, it feels wrong, even if he isn't aware of her presence, but she has little choice – she has to get to a phone. She searched through his jacket pockets after she finished with her makeshift bandage, finding his cell in the inner breast pocket. Unfortunately, she also found the bullet that had passed through Neal's body, embedded in the now useless cellphone.

The back door of the building is easy to find once you know where to look. As she steps out into the alley, she shivers in the dusk. It's almost night, and the warmth of the day has disappeared. It was chilly without her blouse. Pulling her jacket tighter around herself, she heads to the right and the end of the alley.

Diana finds herself in the middle of a quiet, residential neighborhood full of bungalows and well tended yards. She sees no one on the street. She turns and heads for the closest house, hoping she can flash her badge before the homeowner shoots her – and runs straight into a Queens housewife pulling her grocery cart behind her.

"Hey! Watch where you're going" the woman barks as she regains her balance.

"FBI, ma'am," Diana says, "I need to use your phone. It's an emergency." She raises her arm and flips open her badge. The movement reveals a very nice lace bra, and nothing else, beneath her jacket.

"Listen, honey," the woman says, eying the agent with contempt. "We don't want your kind in our neighborhood. Go back to your corner."

Diana's carefully controlled emotions threaten to explode. All she can picture is Neal bleeding to death back in that warehouse while this woman accuses her of being a prostitute. Diana grabs at her arm, stopping the woman as she tries to get past her.

"My partner is seriously injured in that building over there. I need your phone to call for help. Now." Diana is horrified to hear the quiver in her own voice. She doesn't know whether it's from fear or from anger. It doesn't matter. Somehow Diana's plea has moved the housewife to look at the badge again.

She also sees the blood on Diana's hand and hears the emotion in her voice. She digs in her bag and silently hands Diana her cellphone.

Ten minutes later the alley and the street beyond are filled with emergency vehicles. Diana stands close by as the paramedics assess Neal's condition. For a horrible moment, looking at the motionless form, she thinks Neal is dead. She is relieved to see the medics spring into frantic action.

"Where are you taking him?" she asks as they rush by with Neal on the gurney.

"Manhattan Methodist. He needs a level one trauma center."

Diana watches as they load Neal into the ambulance. She starts to climb in but the paramedic stops her. "Sorry, but we need room to work." The door closes and the ambulance takes off in a cloud of diesel and flashing lights.

"I'll take you." Diana turns to see a young NYPD patrol woman standing behind her.

"Thanks," she says, climbing into the cruiser.

"Do you need me to call anyone?" The housewife who's phone she borrowed is looking at her.

Diana knows Christie is on duty at Manhattan Methodist.

"No, thanks, I'm good." The patrol car heads off after the ambulance.