Rating: I guess a strong T, for violence. Includes much Neal whumpage!

Summary: Neal shows his true colors when being "asked" for information. He's going to wait for Peter.

Disclaimer: *sigh* yes, they belong to Jeff Eastin. Sadly. Boy, if I owned those characters...

The blow slammed into his side, nauseating pain forcing the breath from his lungs, and afterwards it didn't come back. Something had snapped, and what little breath he could draw was burning painfully. A hand grabbed his hair, yanking his head back.

"Tell me, Caffrey," the voice murmured into his ear.

"Go to hell," Neal managed in return. Another something collided with his face, knocking him to the ground and bringing more of the coppery taste to his lips.

He really didn't know how much longer he could take it. Moore and his men wanted information, and Neal knew that he could give it to them… the voice in his head, screaming at him to just tell them everything, was getting more and more tempting with every blow.

But no, he wouldn't give in. Not with these stakes. He would wait, because Peter would come for him.

A sickening crack as Moore slammed his foot down onto his leg. Neal suppressed the raw yell that wanted to rip its way from his throat, wincing in pain as his lungs struggled to expand, and a sigh came from above when Neal remained silent. A kick to his stomach forced him into the fetal position before a rough hand pulled him back again and landed a blow to his already-swollen eye.

"I'm warning you, Caffrey, your FBI buddies aren't coming. You'd better talk or I'll put a bullet in your brain." His voice was dangerous, quiet, and Neal couldn't help a low moan as his grip tightened. He was so tired… something that felt more like cool, hard metal than the blood-warmed fist he was accustomed to smashed into his cheek once again, and Neal let out another weak groan. The sound of a safety catch clicking sounded crystal clear in his ears, and he closed his eyes, pain and exhaustion overtaking him at last.

And then a gun sounded. But once Neal opened his eyes, he saw the red blood pooling from Rogers' head, the gun that could have killed him skidding across the floor, and a pair of brown leather shoes racing toward him. Neal had never been so happy to see a pair of shoes in his life.

"Neal…" Peter's hand was on his elbow, gently pulling him up, and Neal swayed uneasily. "Neal? Hey… hold on, okay?"

"M'okay," he mumbled, stumbling forward.

"Like hell you are," muttered Peter. "Come on, lean on me… easy…" He allowed himself to be steered outside and toward an ambulance before collapsing into the hands of the paramedics. He could hear Peter's angry voice, wanting to ride along, and finally they consented. Neal lay still on the gurney, barely feeling the sting of the paramedics' work. Instead, he was concentrating on Peter's hand in his, the worried yet comforting presence he provided. Neal turned toward him, meeting his eyes, and weakly yanked the oxygen mask from his face.

"Didn't… tell him, Peter… I didn't tell him…" the paramedic forced the mask back, noting Neal's pain at drawing breath. Peter nodded.

"I know, Neal… I know." The pressure on his hand increased. "I'm sorry." Neal shook his head weakly, trying to smile before he succumbed to the medicine. Something good had come. Peter knew he could trust him now… everything would be okay. He squeezed Peter's hand back, and then he let go. It would be okay.

A/N: I suppose the ending is kinda ambiguous, but I didn't intend this to be a character death fic... just to clear that up... although you can see it however you want :P

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE review, this is my first story so I'd love to get feedback. Keep writing, stay away from this website forever, what's your opinion? Please no flames though.