Because Neal can't have all the fun...

Out of Bounds-Part One

It happened so quickly he had no time to react. One minute he and Peter were closing the deal and the next, two large hands hit his chest, shoving him backward.

In his experience, counterfeiters were a paranoid, jumpy bunch, and this guy was no exception. An older man, small in stature, he'd leveled the field by bringing two mammoth bodyguards along with him. They stood on either side of him, intimidatingly mute, as the terms of the exchange were discussed. Something had felt off; there had been a tension in the air that gave Neal an uneasy feeling. But since no one was armed and Jones and Berigan were monitoring and close by, he'd dismissed it.

The unexpected blow made him stumble; he tripped over the low barrier that edged the walkway, falling the six or so feet to the wooden dock below. There was a flash as his head hit the landing and the air was forced from his lungs. He didn't lose consciousness but, dazed, he lay there looking up at the night sky, trying desperately to get air into his lungs. After what felt like forever, he was able to get a shallow breath and then, as his body recovered from the shock of the fall, a more fulfilling one. His chest still felt tight and his body ached but now able to breathe, he looked over to see how Peter had faired. In the split second before he'd fallen, in his peripheral, he'd seen Peter receive a similar blow and tumble over the edge as well.

But not two feet away from where he'd landed, the dark water of the Hudson lapped against the wooden piles. He had landed on the dock but Peter hadn't; he was in the water. His pain forgotten, Neal rolled over and stumbled to his feet. He searched the water but saw nothing but light reflecting on its ripples. There was no sign of Peter. The squeeze of fear intensified the tightness in his chest.

"Peter!" What he'd meant to be a shout came out weak and breathless. "Peter!"

He heard pounding feet in the roadway above, a shout of FBI, Hands in the air then more shouts and intermingled voices. Diana and Clinton had moved in and were rounding up the counterfeiter and his companions. But they didn't know what was happening here by the Hudson. They didn't know Peter was in trouble. Each passing second in the icy water diminished Peter's chances of survival. Had he hit his head in the fall? Was he even conscious enough to fight against the dark water? Neal dropped his coat to the dock, and hastily kicked off his shoes. He was about to dive in when Peter's head broke the surface. Neal heard an audible gasp, then splashing as Peter clawed at the water, desperate to keep his head up. Beyond relieved, Neal crouched down and extended his hand.

"Grab my hand!" His voice still had little carrying power, and with all the thrashing about, Peter hadn't heard him. "Peter!" he cried again, stretching out even further, "Please!" Peter was just out of his reach. "Don't make me jump in there to get you."

This time Peter heard him and Neal saw his desperation as he flung a hand in his direction. Neal grabbed it, but it was wet and cold and he couldn't hold on. Peter sank beneath the surface. A moment later, he re-emerged, coughing and sputtering, his face almost immediately dropping again beneath the lapping water. But his flailing had brought him a few inches closer to the dock. Neal's outstretched fingers curled around the thick material of Peter's jacket, and with a grunt of effort, he pulled his friend alongside the pier.

Peter, still choking on the dirty river water, made a weak effort to hoist himself onto the dock but was unable to do so. Neal grabbed the back of his coat and pulled. Peter wasn't a small man, and with the added weight of his water-logged clothing, Neal struggled to get him out of the water. He tugged and strained with both hands, releasing one grip on Peter's coat to get another until he finally managed to pull him onto the dock. Peter was coughing violently. Hoping it would help clear his lungs, Neal rolled him to his side. A moment later, the intense coughing turned into retching as Peter expelled not only some of the Hudson River he'd swallowed during his ordeal but also the contents of his stomach.

"It's okay," Neal panted, trying to reassure himself as much as Peter.

For a couple of terrifying moments, he thought he'd lost him. He prided himself on his versatility, his ability to overcome, but a life without Peter Burke wasn't something he could accept. More than once over the past weeks Mozzie had expressed concern over what he saw as a growing attachment to the Suit. Though Mozzie had been (and continued to be) appalled at the thought of Neal using his skills to assist the enemy, he did recognize the benefit of his doing so. Mozzie was a full proponent of "the ends justify the means" and "necessary evils" and serving a sentence wearing a tracking device and a two-mile radius beat a cell in Maximum Security any day. But Mozzie had begun to suspect the relationship, at least on Neal's side, was becoming more than just a means to an end. He'd said as much, citing terms such as Stockholm Syndrome and warning Neal that losing sight of the reality of his situation was unwise. The relationship between him and the Suit was an arrangement, not a friendship, and that was all it could ever be. Neal had assured Mozzie that he was no fool and he knew what he was doing. Keeping Peter happy, healthy, and employed with the FBI kept him happy, healthy, and out of prison. That was all there was to it. It wasn't personal, it was pragmatic.

But when he'd looked out across the murky waters of the river and Peter was nowhere to be seen, the wave of fear that gripped him had nothing to do with pragmatism or job security.

He placed a shaky hand on Peter's straining back. "You're okay, Peter," he continued, still out of breath himself, "just take... it easy."

Having cleared his bronchial tubes, Peter rolled again to his back, his chest heaving. He met Neal's eyes with weak, grateful ones and tried to speak but it caused another bout of raw, painful coughing. Again, Neal helped him roll to his side, pounding his back firmly with the palm of his hand.

"Don't try... to talk, Peter," Neal told him. "Just...breathe." It was advice he was trying to take himself.

When the coughing fit passed, Peter again rolled to his back, his body beginning to shake violently. Neal was shivering too but at least he, for the most part, was dry. Peter had been submerged in the river and was soaked to the bone. Neal grabbed his discarded coat and spread it over Peter but knew it would do little good. Wet and in subfreezing air, Peter was losing body heat at an alarming rate. He needed out of his wet clothes and someplace warm. Neal didn't know if Peter would be able to walk, and by himself, he wasn't sure he could get him back up the metal stairs to the roadway.

He needed help. He glanced up. He could see the flashing of blue lights on the building above them, still hear voices from the wrap up above.

Where the hell was Jones and Diana?

Unwilling to wait any longer for reinforcements, Neal slipped a hand behind Peter's back. "We need to... get somewhere warm, Peter," he said, raising him into a sitting position. "Can you stand?"

Though his nod was nearly indistinguishable due to his shaking, Neal saw affirmation in Peter's eyes. He tried to rise but Neal held him back.

"Hang on," he said, removing the coat he'd covered him with and draping it over his shoulders instead. It wasn't much, but it provided some protection. The wind coming off the water cut like a knife. "Okay," he said, wrapping his arm beneath Peter's to get some leverage. "Let's go."

A moment later, he had Peter on his feet. With Peter leaning heavily on him, Neal started up the dock towards the stairs. Peter's feet shuffled along the wooden boards, each step taking longer than the one before.

"Come on, Peter," Neal urged as their progress grew slower and slower. "Just a...little further."

They were almost to the stairs when Diana appeared on the walkway above them.

"Are you guys-" The question was truncated at the sight of them. "What happened?" She hurried to meet them.

"He...went...in the water." Neal had never really gotten a good breath since the fall, and with the added exertion of lugging Peter up the dock, it was hard to speak. "He nearly...drown. He needs," he continued haltingly, "to get...warm."

"Jones," Diana spoke into her two-way as she quickly moved to the metal stairway. "Peter took a dunk in the river." She descended the stairs and came down the dock to meet them. "We need medical out here." She came alongside and wrapped an arm around Peter's waist, feeling first hand the violent tremors that were shaking him. "Get a blanket from one of the officers and get down here," she ordered. "Get two," she added, looking at him across Peter's sagging head. "Caffrey needs one, too."

"I'm fine," he protested, still out of breath. "Peter's...the one...who-"

"It's freezing out here, Caffrey," Diana cut in. "You don't have your coat and you're nose is bleeding."

A bleeding nose was news to him. He thought the moisture on his face was a mix of water spray and sweat.

Hearing Diana's voice, Peter turned his head slightly in her direction.

"It's okay, boss," Diana's voice was low. "We'll have you out of here in a minute."

They'd made it to the bottom of the stairs. Looking up the steep incline, Neal was glad Diana was there. His muscles were quivering and each breath sent a sharp pain through his chest. He'd have never gotten Peter to the top by himself.

"Stairs, Peter," Neal informed as Peter's feet shuffled slowly. "You gotta...step up." At his urging, Peter managed to raise a foot a few inches. "A little... more," Neal encouraged. "That's...it."

It was slow progress, but with one of them on each side and continued encouragement, they got Peter up the stairs to the roadway.

Jones hurried to meet them, requested blankets in tow.

"Medical is a minute out." He thrust one blanket towards Neal and quickly draped the other across Peter's shoulders.

"Where...where is..." Peter tried to speak but had trouble getting the words out. "Did...we," he continued, his shivering lips uncooperative, "did we get...him?"

His speech was halting and disjointed, but despite being soaked to the bone and in sub-freezing weather, Peter was still focused on the operation. White Collar was not just his job; it was his life. It was impossible to separate the man from the agent or the agent from the man. It was a fact that complicated things as far as Neal was concerned; it was easy to take Peter's appreciation of what he could do as something he wanted a lot more. Mozzie, of course, continually reminded him of the dangers of confusing the two.

"Yeah, boss," Jones replied. "We got Daniels and his associates. And recovered the plates and the cash."

Neal hadn't thought about either of those things; the only thing on his mind had been Peter. He could hear sirens and see the blue and red lights approaching.

"Good," Peter said between clenched teeth. "Where's... Neal?"

"He's here, boss," Jones informed before Neal could answer for himself. "Don't worry," he added, pulling the tracking device from his coat pocket. "I have his anklet right here."

The anklet's return always followed an undercover operation but for a moment Neal had thought Peter was actually worried about him and not his whereabouts. He felt his face grow warm despite the cold as Jones squatted down to reattach the electronic sign of servitude.

Peter's eyes, a bit clearer and sharper than they'd been moments before, fixed on his.

"Thanks...Neal," he stuttered, his hair still dripping with river water. "If you... hadn't pulled-" he stopped, peering more closely. "You...you're bleeding."

"I'm fine." Neal used his sleeve to wipe away any evidence to the contrary. "Just got...," the tightness in his chest, coupled with his shivering, was affecting his speech, "banged up... a little."

"Where are your shoes, Caffrey?"

At Jones' question, their exchange stopped, and everyone looked down.

"Oh," Neal answered, gazing at his socked feet. "I...guess I left...them on...the dock."

When he raised his eyes, he found both Peter and Diana peering at him oddly.

"Good grief, Neal," Diana snapped impatiently. "No coat and no shoes?" She pulled the blanket from his arm. "Don't just stand there holding it," she scolded, wrapping it around his shoulders. "Use it."

The gesture of concern warmed him more than the blanket and, though it provided some protection from the icy wind, Neal's shivering continued. Knowing any response would be broken and halted due to his chattering teeth, he elected to nod his thanks instead of verbalizing them.

Just as Jones rose from his task, the promised medical support arrived. The siren had been cut but the lights continued to flash as the unit stopped behind them. Two paramedics exited the vehicle. Diana met them and gave a quick rundown of the situation, nodding at the edge of the walkway where the incident had occurred.

"Agent Burke went in the water and Mr. Caffrey landed on the dock."

"How long ago?" The first medic asked, giving Neal a cursory glance before turning his attention to Peter.

"Ten minutes," Diana supplied.

Neal found it hard to believe it had only been ten minutes.

The medic peered at Peter's pale face and bluing lips. "How are you doing, Agent Burke?"

"Been...bet...better," Peter, like Neal, had a hard time speaking, "but...been... wo...worse, too."

The man nodded in understanding. "Let's see about getting you warmed up."

The medic placed a supportive arm around Peter's waist. Muscles stiffened by the cold, Peter moved slowly across the asphalt to the unit. Neal protested when the second medic directed him to the unit as well.

"I'm...fine," he insisted for the third time. "Just need...to," he clenched teeth, "..get my shoes...and get out...of the wind."

"Are you declining medical treatment, Mr. Caffrey?"

"No, he isn't," Diana announced firmly, her look telling Neal further protest was futile.

Dutifully, he did as he was told and accompanied the medic to the back of the rig. Peter was already inside and being eased down onto the gurney.

"Right up there, Mr. Caffrey," the medic instructed him. "Have a seat and let's have a look at you."

Motivated by a jabbing pain, he pressed his arm against his side and stepped up into the unit and sat down on the narrow, padded bench. The medic followed, pulling the door closed behind him. Four people made for close quarters; it reminded Neal of the surveillance van but at least it smelled better.

"Your nose is bleeding," the medic stated, digging in one of the compartments along the side of the unit. "Did someone hit you or did it happen in the fall?"

Neal was only half listening as he watched the other medic minister to Peter. Both his coat and Jones' blanket had been discarded and the medic was now helping Peter out of his soaked overcoat. Peter was silent, his movements slow and clumsy.

"Mr. Caffrey?" Neal pulled his attention from Peter's ashen face and focused on the more robust one in front of him. "Did someone hit you?" the man repeated, kneeling in front of him.

"No," Neal replied. "He just shoved me."

Again his attention was on Peter. He was now on his back, his remaining clothes being cut away by a large pair of shears.

"Did you hit your head in the fall?" The medic's fingers probed his head and Neal flinched when they came in contact with what he guessed was a large pump knot. "Are you in any pain?" the medic continued, fingers now moving down to his neck. "Headache, neck pain, shoulder or back pain?"

Reasoning the pain he was currently feeling in all those areas would be remedied once he could get a hot shower, Neal gestured the negative with a slight shake of the head.

"Did you blackout or lose consciousness?" Again, Neal opted for a negative non-verbal response.

Across from him, Peter was being covered with a large, silver blanket. His eyes were closed and his face unnaturally pale.

"Is he...gonna be...okay?" Neal asked in concern.

"He's going to be fine, Mr. Caffrey, my partner is taking good care of him. Can you look at me, please?" Neal complied. A moment later, a beam of light was directed first in one pupil and then the other. "Are you lightheaded or nauseous?" Again, Neal shook his head. The medic repeated the process.

"Okay," the medic said, switching the penlight for a stethoscope. He quickly unbuttoned Neal's shirt, exposing his chest. "Let's have a listen."

He pressed the instrument to his chest, listened intently, readjusted the position, and listened again.

"Any problems breathing?" the medic asked him, moving the scope yet again. "Shortness of breath?"

Neal knew his shallow breaths needed explanation. "The fall just...knocked... the breath out... of me. That's...all."

"Can you take a deep breath for me?" Neal tried to comply with the request but winced when the pain in his chest sharpened. "Does that hurt?"

"A little." There was no point in denying it now.

The medic began to press against his ribcage, moving his fingers along his side from top to bottom. When he repeated the action on the right side, Neal was unable to stop the quick intake of breath.

"Looks like a possible concussion and some rib damage, Mr. Caffrey. Easy, now." Deftly, the medic swept his feet up onto the bench and a moment later, Neal, too, was on his back and being strapped into place. "You ready to roll, Mark?"

"Yeah," the other medic replied, making sure his patient was secure as well. "We're good to go."

Neal's medic climbed into the driver's seat and the other fastened himself into a swivel chair. A minute later, they were moving. Neal heard the driver call in, giving a quick rundown of their conditions and an ETA of six minutes. Peter was suffering mild hypothermia but was in good condition.

Neal turned his head and was surprised to find Peter's eyes open and looking at him.

"You okay?" His voice was hoarse.

"Yeah, just got a few... bumps and bruises...that's all." It had already been hard to speak and being on his back made it more difficult. "How about you?"

"I'm okay, too, thanks to you." Peter regarded him thoughtfully. "You would've jumped in, wouldn't you?" His tone was incredulous. "If I hadn't come up?"

Neal remembered the panic he'd felt when he'd looked out at the water. It was only seconds before Peter's head had broken the surface, but in those seconds, Neal realized how much he meant to him. It wasn't about their arrangement or how it benefited him. It was about Peter, not the agent but the man. He would have jumped in; he would have gotten Peter out or died trying. It was as simple as that.

Mozzie was right, he had let things get personal and he'd crossed a line Peter never would. There were rules about the interaction between handlers and their assets and Peter was a stickler for the rules. Peter didn't know and didn't need to know how he felt about him. It was better that way, safer.

"But you did come up." His voice was low.

"And you pulled me outta the water," Peter said quietly. "You saved my life, Neal." The words hung in the small space. "Thank you."

The sincerity of his words caused Neal's throat to tighten and his eyes began to sting. Afraid he was about to betray himself he looked away, fixing his now blurry vision on the ceiling above. He felt tears spill over and trail down the side of his face. He hoped to God Peter couldn't see them. He swallowed hard and managed to reply.

"You're welcome, Peter."