Because I could not stop for Death

A/N: I was in a depressive mood when I wrote this. It shows.

Warning: ANGST! DEATH FIC!

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Tite is from the poem of the same name by Emily Dickinson.

"Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;

The carriage held but just ourselves

And Immortality." – Emily Dickinson

In truth, Peter had never been one to leap without looking, without thinking. That's got you hurt. It's what got you killed. There were very few times in his life that Peter Burke had ever let those raw, instinctive emotions cloud his rational judgment and propel him forward into danger. Letting those impulses free and loose and wild was reckless in some people's eyes, what a stupid man to sacrifice himself for a criminal, but Peter didn't think about that. He didn't care.

All he cared about was Neal.

And Neal was slowly fading away.

So ignoring the screams and the panicked shouts, Peter Burke tore off his jacket and tie and threw himself from the metal edge of the bridge.

From the bridge and into the water.

The deep, inky black, churning water that slopped and smacked at the banks of the river and it was cold. It was like the cold itself was the river, the pure bitter iciness that managed to slice through Peter's skin and slide in between his ribs, one clawed hand clutching at his lungs.

He couldn't breathe.

But he swam anyway, his muscles shrieking with blood-curling pain and his vision so distorted that Peter couldn't see an inch in front of his nose through the murky blackness.

He pumped his arms and swam downwards in the vague direction that he'd seen Neal fall, sink and disappear. He could have swam for seconds or even minutes, but for the agent, no measure of time could compare to the dread building up within his shaking body, enveloping all his senses.

Something told him to stop and allow the currents to reel him back to the surface just to save himself but that small, insignificant part of Peter couldn't dominate the desperation he felt.

He had to find Neal.

He had to save him.

If Peter hadn't been choking on the river water that twirled and danced around him, dragging and pulling with so much strength, he swore the water itself was alive, then he would have laughed with relief when his arms wrapped around Neal, a circle of safety.

He took the other under the shoulders and kicked with everything he had until his and Neal's heads broke the charred mirror surface and escaped perdition, the fading sunlight far too bright.

But Neal lolled, his head falling backwards into the crook of Peters neck, exposing the soft, pale skin of the conman's throat, milky white like a lily's petals. He was so limp, his arms hanging uselessly over the sides as Peter swam for them both, the sight of Jones on the river bank the only thing he could focus on, the only thing he could see over the rolling tide.

"Neal, dammit!" Peter breathed agonisingly, heart pounding at an unhealthy rate as he pleaded with his friend to stir, to choke, to do something, "Neal, wake up! Wake up!"

Peter wasn't sure how he did it, but he managed to lift Neal up into the waiting arms of Clinton Jones who cradled the CI with steady hands before laying him flat on the bare grass. Once the agent had dragged himself up onto the mud, he stumbled over to his best friend, unconsciously shoving Jones out the way because he had to help Neal.

It wasn't just the right thing to do, it was the only thing to do.

First, he took Neal's face in his hands, wincing at the coldness of his waxy, ivory skin and the sapphire blue tinge to his partner's lips that was so close to stunning shade of his eyes. His hair was black and slick and plastered to forehead, ticking his eyelashes that had clumped together like they so often did when a person cries, red-rimmed and sunken.

He shook Neal by the jaw, hating the way his head seemed to rattle like he was a china doll with frayed hinges and fractured joints.

"Neal! Neal, come on!" His voice was shrill, frantic as Peter ran his hands down his friend's lifeless body, "Caffrey, I order you to wake up!"

But Neal wasn't breathing.

You could tell just by glancing at his pallor, as sick and as white as Death and the way his limbs folded at the most awkward angles, twisted and crooked beneath him.

The most prominent indictor however was the way his chest didn't rise and fall with breath. It was still, frighteningly still and Peter didn't hesitate to tear the conman's shirt down the middle, its button popping to reveal Neal's motionless chest. He pressed his ear against his friend's sternum, praying for the familiar pulsing of a heart, irregular or weak, he didn't care, just as long as it was beating.

Silence.

No breath. No heartbeat.

"No, dammit!"

Peter barely registered Jones on the phone to the ambulance service, voice clipped and harsh and lacking professionalism as he placed the heel of his right hand just below Neal's breastbone, his other hand coming to lie on top, fingers interlaced.

He began compressions, quickly, efficiently, just like the Quantico first aider had taught him. He pushed gently at first, carefully, trying not to cause Neal anymore damage but the conman didn't react at all.

His head rolled to the side, cheek tickling the grass and Peter didn't try to hide the tears of pain and desperation that trailed down his face.

"Neal, buddy, come on." He urged, begged, "come on, you can do this. Just open your eyes."

After thirty compressions, Peter moved Neal's head again and tilted it upwards, chin lifted into the evening air and the agent ignored the burning of his own throat to take in a breath. He pressed his mouth over Neal's and breathed, watching as his partners chest rose once and fell again, making no effort to move by itself.

He tried a few more times, each breath more distraught and frantic than the last before he began to thrust down on the CI's rib cage again, his muscles seizing, but he kept going.

"Ambulance is about twenty-five minutes away." Jones had moved behind Neal's head, holding it between his hearts, his dark skin drained in the evening light. "They said to do thirty chest compressions, then two breaths and repeat five times."

"That's too long!"

"We won't get him to hospital any quicker, boss."

Peter pushed those thoughts away because they weren't welcome. Neal would make it, he had too.

"Neal, I know me and you haven't been getting on lately, but you can't just lie there, buddy." Peter's voice had dropped to a whisper, quiet and broken with a rasp, "I need you to wake up and breathe! Come on!"

"Come on, Caffrey!"

"Neal, in that vault, you did it before! Just come back again! Breathe."

But Neal wasn't listening. He was far away in a distant place, that warm, safe and beautiful place that called his name and beckoned him with white light.

Peter kept going. He wouldn't stop. Not ever.

"Neal Caffrey! You are not dying on me today!"

Aching fists, still chest, down, down, down.

Cold lips, harsh air, lungs inflating and falling like a dying rose.

"Neal, please."

Three times.

"Come on, buddy. Stop this now."

Four times.

"Just one breath, that's all I'm asking."

Eight times.

"Neal Caffrey!"

Over and over again and yet still, Neal did not move. He did not breathe.

His heart did not beat.

The sirens didn't come, at least, not before the sun had pulsed its violet light and sank low below the jagged, distant city skyline in a hue of purples and reds and electricity.

Ten minutes passed and then it was twenty.

Soon it been half an hour and Neal Caffrey was dead.

Clinton Jones knew it.

He could see it on the young man's perfectly cool features, slack, lacking any hint of past smiles and he looked like he was asleep.

So deeply asleep.

But still, Peter kept going.

"Peter! Peter…." Jones didn't realised he was crying until his voice broke and shook violently, "you have to stop….he's-"

"No! He's not dead!" Peters lip were bleeding from where his teeth had bitten into the flesh and his face was a crimson red with exertion, he could barely hold himself up over Neal's prone and limp form. "He can't be dead! Neal!"

A bird cawed somewhere over the ridge as it flapped it's beating wings as the wind picked up and howled like a wolf in the silent forest. Away from the city and the cars, it was incredibly quiet.

Desolate.

For Peter, it was like the whole world had shrivelled and died.

He didn't stop the compressions even when he heard Neal's ribs crack and splinter under the pressure, tearing into the soft tissue beneath.

Neal didn't bleed inside because his blood had stilled in his veins, frozen, a solid river of red.

"Neal…." Peter sobbed, choked on his own tongue as Jones pulled him away with trembling hands.

Bruised, beaten and blue lay Neal George Caffrey and yet, he still managed to appear peaceful. Content in the darkness.

Peter wept, his fingers pawing at the dirt at Jones put an awkward hand on his shoulder.

"He's gone, boss. You did all you could…but it was too late for Neal."

Agent Peter Burke nearly screamed at the sound of sirens, whining in the night and he wanted to curse and kill the man who pushed Neal off that bridge. The Ambulance had taken too long.

On scratched knees, Peter scrabbled forwards and gently, he put his arms under his friends back and lifted him up off the ground, supporting his head like a father holds his babies, too weak to hold itself.

He let his grip tighten around Neal as he cradled him against his chest, letting Neal melt into his embrace, arms folded in his lap as Peter ran his fingers through his friends hair.

It was nearly dry, curly and messy like when the young man had only just woken up after a long night of scheming with Mozzie.

But he wasn't going to wake up.

Peter seemed to wail silently, his lips moving soundlessly as he clasped onto Neal like they were all that remained in the world.

It was his fault Neal was dead.

Dead.

The sirens got closer and Peter's cries got quieter as he looked down at his friends face.

He swore Neal's blue lips held the faint glimpse of a smile.

A smile that was lost to this world.

A smile that was new and cherished in another.

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