Electricity

A/N: Just a little drabble. This could be seen as slash or friendship, which ever you prefer. I also posted this on Livejournal (or at least I will when I have time)

Warnings: Death fic! Angst, vivid descriptions of injury.

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters or plots from White Collar.

"Do not stand at my grave and weep.

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush,

I am the swift uplifting rush.

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry.

I am not there. I did not die."

-Mary Elizabeth Frye

It was white hot, quick and sharp and so very painful, like electricity, thatNeal swore he couldn't feel anything at all. He felt the slight tug of the fabric as the knife cut cleanly through the fibres of his suit jacket, the tip of the blade tickling the soft skin of his back. And then it sliced into his flesh, into the muscle and sinew and pink tissue beneath and it tore. It bled.

Neal remained standing for a few moments, each heart beat thudding with so much power that the pain blazed and ignited with each pulse, a wave of agony rolling in and out with the tide of his lifeblood.

Then the young man's legs gave out, shaking, weak.

His head felt forward, lolling, chin to chest, blue eyes rolling.

He couldn't put his hands out to catch his fall and he briefly panicked at the thought of smacking onto the gravel, the stones, the sharp pieces of grit indenting his palms.

But Neal didn't have to worry, because Peter was there to catch him.

Peter would always catch him.

"Neal, Neal, no, no, no-"

The older had his arms around Neal, a circle of safety, of friendship and he cradled him against his chest, hating the way his CI just slumped in his grip, strength ebbing, life fading.

"Peter." The word felt strange on Neal's lips, tingling, prickling with the thought that it might be the last word he ever said.

A name.

The name that had come to mean so much in such a short time, a life time.

"Neal, you're gonna be okay, just stay still." Peter spoke softly in his ear, a mere whisper, as if afraid that noise would shatter something that was already broken. "Stay still."

Neal couldn't have moved even if he wanted too.

The agent felt the warm stickiness on his hands, coating the sleeves of his shirt before he saw it. The bile rose in his throat at the redness, the deepest of all crimsons, the colour of a poppy's petals.

Neal let his head fall into the crook of the other man's neck, his temple resting on Peter's collarbone and it was comfortable, safe. He felt fingers tangle in his hair, smooth it back down and then cup his cheek, a thumb running across the pale skin.

His eyes were slits, half-closed so only a streak of cobalt blue could be seen through clumped eyelashes and Peter choked harshly at the dullness of them. The light of Neal Caffrey's eyes was dimming.

Soon it would be gone.

"Neal? Please, just stay with me, buddy. The Ambulance will be here soon, they'll fix you up, I promise. Just open your eyes for me."

Open your eyes.

So Neal did and it hurt. Damn, it hurt more than the gaping hole in his back, the jagged cut through his spine but Neal did it, for Peter.

"That's it, bud. Look at me, come on, Neal."

Neal almost wished he hadn't looked and if his jaw hadn't already hung loosely, chapped lips parted, he would have gasped.

Peter was scared, his body rigid, his expression laced with an indescribable fear that Neal couldn't quite grasp.

He wasn't scared of dying. It was just another one of those things. Perhaps he should have been. But there, embraced in his best friends arms, shielded from the wind and the night and the cold, he was at peace. Nothing could hurt him there.

No one could save him. But that was okay.

"Neal, stay here. Neal? We need you, all of us do. Elle, Mozzie, June, Jones, Diana...me. You're going to be fine." Peter was lying through his teeth and they both knew it and yet Neal managed to nod his head, sending a searing bolt of pain lancing down his body. "I'm here, Neal. I'm not going to leave you. I promise, I'm here."

And then Neal was falling asleep, the blissful oblivion whispering his name in the darkness in soft tones and streaks of light touched gently upon his skin, leeching the pain until it was a distant memory embedded in fog.

Neal let his eyes slip shut, his hand fall limp and away from where it had clenched at Peter's jacket. Strong fingers enclosed back around his own and Neal realised he'd never felt so cold.

But then he remembered Peter was there and the cold just slipped away, forgotten and Neal Caffrey drifted in that haven of warmth, protected from everything and everyone because Peter wasn't going to let anyone hurt him ever again.

So Neal let go and then like the last flakes of winter snow, he was gone.