NOTE: Ah, the obligatory disclaimer. I own nothing that you recognise. I also don't have people beta my writing. I don't proofread it, myself, actually, so just hope for the best. Oh, and this is totally random. Not much plot. I just adore the characterisation that these actors have done in this show. It's ingenious. Love it.

Peter awakened and rolled over to the sound of his phone – a text message. El groaned as she felt him move. "What is it, honey?" she mumbled, still half-asleep.

Peter read the message, then stared at his phone in irritation, as though the phone itself was the cause of his current state of awake. "Neal," he growled. "He says he needs to talk about something privately. Even gives a location."

"Right now?" El questioned. "It's just past 3 in the morning."

"I know. Well, whatever it is had better be good," Peter grumbled as he rose and threw his clothes on, hurriedly heading out for Neal's given location. This was totally unlike Neal's normal behaviour, so he figured something important must be going on.

Thirty minutes later, Peter found himself checking his watch – and for no reason, since Neal hadn't exactly given him a time to meet. He stood in the cold, wondering where Caffrey even was. If he was going to call an emergency middle-of-the-night meeting, the least he could do was have the decency to show up at a reasonable time.

When the hat and jacket became barely visible in the dark distance, he almost snarled audibly. Unfortunately, his quarry beat him to it.

"Peter," Neal called out as he strode into the light. "What in the world couldn't wait until morning?"

The agent stopped short, knowing internally that something was wrong but ignoring it in favour of having someone to chew out. "Me? You're the one that needed to see me . . ."

He trailed off as Caffrey's face fell into suspicion. "You mean you didn't –" The ex-con's eyes suddenly widened and he interrupted himself by shouting, "Peter, look out!" and diving forward.

Peter processed the warning just as a solid body plowed into him, and he felt that body jerk as the two of them crashed into the ground. And it was only then that he registered the twice-repeated "pfpth" of a silenced gun.

For several moments, Peter did nothing, allowing the action-packed previous seconds to wash over him. When everything sank in, he noticed Neal was still lying on top of him. Worry set in as he gently but quickly tried to roll the consultant's body so he could sit up. As he pulled away, his hands were sticky and wet, and he didn't need to look at them to know what was now covering them. Before he could find something to use as a bandage, he very clearly heard a deep voice say, "Agent Burke, DO NOT MOVE."

His body froze but his eyes flicked upward to land on a man in dark clothes pointing a gun at him. He dimly noted that the gun was not silenced.

"Don't try anything," the man went on calmly. "Your friend is still alive for the moment, but I can change that in an instant." Peter pulled his hands out to display them in a surrendering gesture. "Get up," the man continued. "And don't try to help your precious consultant. Dump him on the ground."

"Who are you?" he asked instead of moving.

"Look at the great Neal Caffrey," came the response. "And decide whether or not you'll obey me."

Glancing down, he saw the red dot of a laser sight. That must have been what Neal saw right before tackling Peter. Knowing he was at a distinct disadvantage and with a growing pit in his stomach, he slid himself out from under his partner and friend, studiously ignoring the low moan he heard from the ex-con as the latter's body hit the ground. In what was probably an unconscious gesture of protection, he stepped in front of his fallen comrade. Finally on his feet – which, ironically, somehow made him feel more empowered in spite of the fact that his situation had hardly changed, he asked, "What do you want?"

The man rolled his eyes. "I'm not a hopeless romantic like the wounded moron on the ground. I have no desire to monologue about myself."

Peter raised an eyebrow. Or he tried to, but was incapable. Curse those people who could easily do that. He imagined he should stall now. He didn't know why he'd stall, but he'd figure something out. The best way to deal with these white collar criminals was to engage their arrogant personalities. None of them could resist it so far. "Surely you'd like to brag about your brilliant plan, though."

"Honestly, the original plan was to kill you and force Caffrey to be my accomplice for a certain job I have coming up in the near future. Seeing how he couldn't mind his own business long enough for you to just die, though, I'm forced to make new plans. Right now, I'm leaning toward killing both of you. But I don't want to be hasty, because Caffrey is still breathing and may recover enough to be useful before he bleeds out."

"Maybe I can help you," he offered lamely.

The man, understandably, scorned that idea. "Unless you are a talented and capable artist, you would be useless."

"He'd be useless, too, if he doesn't get medical help. Let me –"

"Enough!" the man suddenly shouted. "You have to die. I see no reason why that part of the plan should change."

"You can use me," Peter said hopefully. "I mean, there's a reason why you haven't just shot me yet. You're trying to work out how to get out of this situation as cleanly as possible. Caffrey messed it up for you, but you think you can still win. And why not? I'm a federal agent. I can get you out of a lot of situations."

The man looked surprisingly uncertain. "No, no – you should die."

"Even if you're trying to pull a job, I can still help you," Peter offered again. "I mean, I can't forge something or talk my way into a building, but I can flash a badge and get in certain prohibited areas very quickly. I'm still useful."

The man was shaking his head. "No, I'll shoot you and take Caffrey to –" He stopped short. "Where did he go?"

Alarmed, Peter glanced down right behind where he stood and noticed the distinct lack of his consultant, although dark stains on the ground reminded him of the danger of the situation. Maybe Neal had run, which could only help. At least he wouldn't be trying to negotiate for the freedom of both of them.

"Where did he go?" the man snapped, obviously wanting an actual answer.

"I have no idea," Peter answered honestly.

"Don't mess with me, man," his captor growled. "Where is he? Did you two have some plan or something?"

"Listen, you made me dump him on the ground. I haven't really had the chance to chat with him since."

The man cursed at this, levelling the gun and pulling back on the trigger until he heard a click and felt something jab him in the back of the head. A voice, familiar to both men, said, "Drop the gun."

It was raspy and thin, and it almost made Peter flinch. In spite of the weakness that even the extraordinary conning talents of the great Neal Caffrey couldn't hide, the order was very clear and the threat was, too. He couldn't see the gun. He didn't have to; their captor could feel it and seemed to know it was real.

"Where'd you get the gun, Caffrey? I thought you hated weapons." It was brazen of the man to keep right on talking when there was a gun pointed at the back of his head.

"Drop it," Neal repeated.

The man licked his lips, glanced at the gun that he still had evenly aimed at Peter, and responded, "Really? You think you can shoot me before I shoot your friend?"

"Drop it," Neal said again.

"I know you care about him because otherwise you would have just escaped when you could have. But here you are, trying to save his life. And we both know you can't stop me."

"I don't have to stop you," the consultant rasped out cryptically.

The man now smiled. "Then what, exactly, do you plan to accomplish?"

Neal shifted, and Peter heard him try to stifle a groan, knowing the other man heard it, too. He could only hope that whatever Neal had planned was going to happen sooner rather than later. "DROP THE GUN," Neal ordered fiercely, his louder tone betrayed by his wavering voice.

This time, the man outright laughed. "Mr. Caffrey, while I appreciate what you're trying to do, I think we're all aware that you are in no condition to be giving orders. I'm not going to put my weapon down and you're either going to shoot me or you aren't. I'm banking on the latter."

"Damn." Neal's statement was more of a whispered breath than any real sound, but everyone still heard it. Then he straightened. "I guess I have to shoot you, then," he said louder.

The man was still grinning. "Then go ahead, if you have the guts. What are you waiting for?"

There was a long silence, and then Peter asked timidly, "Neal?"

More silence followed. Just as the man started to move in triumph, another voice – this one beautifully familiar to Peter – cut through the darkness. It was Agent Jones.

"FBI! Drop your gun and get on your knees!"

The man muttered something profane under his breath and reluctantly dropped his weapon, angrily collapsing to his knees as Peter rushed forward.

Neal mumbled, "I was waiting for that," and then let his own gun clatter to the ground, unable to stop his body from following it down. Peter didn't make it in time to catch him.

"Call a bus!" he ordered Jones, who was cuffing the man in front of them. He tugged at Neal's jacket, cursing both his own shaky fingers and Neal's habit of wearing too many frigging layers. Once that was off, he spotted the blood matting the back of Neal's shirt and used the consultant's discarded jacket to put pressure on the wound. There may have been two wounds. He didn't know, and he couldn't take the time to find out; there was already way too much blood covering everything from the concrete below them to the gun that lay beside them, not to mention the cloth and skin in between.

And taking a closer look at the gun now, he recognised it – his own. When Neal had had the time or ability to take it out of his holster, he didn't know, but he momentarily admired his friend's resourcefulness. It had just saved their lives. A squeak of a whimper drew his attention back to the ex-con, and he amended his mental statement: it had just saved the agent's life. Neal's life wasn't yet saved. But he'd do his best.

"Neal?" he called gently. There was no response. Caffrey was more out than in by that point. "Jones," he said instead. "Not that I'm not totally glad to see you, but what are you doing here?"

"Caffrey called me," came the answer from his fellow agent, who was now looking concernedly over at Neal and Peter while leaving one foot planted firmly in the back of the man who had tried to kill them. "He told me there was a situation and that I needed to bring an ambulance, so I called for it on my way here. Should be here any second. I called Diana, too. She's on her way."

Peter let out a sigh of relief, thankful that Neal had managed to keep his head even with a horrible injury. "I'm so glad," he mumbled.

Four hours later, he would have loved to be back in his bed, curled up with his wife, but then even if he hadn't had his tryst with a deranged criminal and a wounded partner, he would have been at work by then, anyway. As it was, Hughes had graciously allowed him to stay at the hospital until they got word on Neal Caffrey's condition.

Jones and Diana had handled the scene, permitting Peter to ride with the ambulance. Neal was taken into emergency surgery, and while Peter didn't know the exact damage, he'd heard shouted phrases of "hypovolemic shock" and "arrhythmia" and a bunch of other things he didn't understand; he knew Neal's condition was, at best, critical.

Jones called him after that to tell him that the guy they'd arrested was on the White Collar division's Most Wanted list. The guy was also on some other Most Wanted lists. He was apparently also a jerk. Peter smiled at that.

Diana called to say she'd informed Elizabeth of where he was and what had happened (without any details whatsoever), so El was on her way to check up on both her husband and his wayward consultant.

Hughes called to say he'd heard what happened and Peter should take the day off.

El showed up right after that, concern plastered all over her face as she ran in the room searching for him. "Peter," she called in relief. He stood to wrap his arms around her. "Is he okay?" she asked softly after a moment.

"I don't know," he replied, tucking her head under his chin. They stayed that way for quite a while. Eventually, though, El wanted to get coffee for the two of them and "suggested" that he tell Neal's friends what had happened. He argued that they didn't need to know until Neal came out of surgery, but Elizabeth was nothing if not persuasive. As she walked away, he pulled out his phone to start the calls again.

Mozzie nearly shrieked when he was told, but still predictably refused to be at the hospital. He told Peter he'd pace outside of the building until Neal came out. Peter didn't know if it was an exaggeration or not and realised it didn't matter one way or another.

June, on the other hand, wanted to drive straight to the hospital. Peter told her that Neal wasn't out of surgery yet and that it would probably be a while before they knew anything, so she might as well not bother. She told him she'd be there soon, anyway. She showed up thirty minutes later, with, ironically, an almost insane-with-paranoia Mozzie, whom she said she'd found at the entrance.

And so, three hours after that, the group was sitting quietly in the waiting room. Well, most of them; Mozzie was pacing, checking corners and cushions, and whispering so no one except the person two inches away from him could hear anything he said.

When the doctor finally came out, calling for "Family of Neal Caffrey," he was surprised to see four people rise eagerly to their feet. Skeptically, he said, "You're all his family?"

Peter said, "I'm his partner at the FBI. This is my wife, this is his landlady, and this is his . . . ah . . . attorney."

The doctor shrugged. "Far be it for me to question it. He's being moved to a room now, so you'll be able to see him in a few minutes. I'll send a nurse to get you when he's ready." Taking a breath, he continued, "His chances are surprisingly good, considering what he went through. We dug out both bullets. I'm not going to go into detail here about what kind of damage they did. Let's just say it was bad."

"So he'll be fine?" El asked hopefully.

"If I had to place odds on him, I'd say he'll be okay. Normally, with that kind of blood loss, there's cardiac arrest and possible brain damage and a host of other problems, but your friend's heart somehow managed to keep beating the whole time. By itself. He must be a strong guy."

Mozzie let out an unmanly yet grateful sound while Peter smiled and said, "You have no idea."

When Neal's eyes finally opened the next day, Peter was still sitting by him. Hughes hadn't given him another free day off, but he'd allowed the agent to take a sick day. Peter had sworn to himself that he wasn't going to leave until personally thanking the man who had saved his life.

He leaned forward as Neal's lashes fluttered and a low moan escaped the ex-con's throat. "Neal? You with me?"

"'f I ev'r need som'thin' at three in the mo'nin', I'll come ov'r," came the slurred, raspy, somewhat-understandable response.

"Duly noted. If I ever need something in the middle of the night, I'll call you. No text messages." He paused, watching as Neal's eyes finally slitted open. "I can't believe we both fell for that."

The consultant gave a half-grin and let his head roll in the direction of where he'd heard his friend's voice. "Yeah."

Peter scooted forward in his chair now that he had not only Neal's attention, but eye contact as well. "Neal . . ."

"S'ry I stole your gun," came the interruption, the slurring going away slowly the longer the ex-con was awake.

Peter laughed out loud. "I'm not. If you hadn't, we'd both be dead and Jones would have shown up to a pretty disgusting scene."

Neal looked confused. "'m not in trouble?"

"Of course not."

"Why're you here?"

The innocent question actually hurt. Peter hadn't meant to neglect their personal relationship. Perhaps Caffrey was still groggy. "To see if you're okay."

"Right."

He sighed, looking away because while saying the next sentence, he found it impossible to look at his friend. "And to thank you for saving my life."

He heard a soft snort of amusement that drew his attention right back to the man on the bed, who was looking at him intently, all traces of sedation suddenly vanished. "So Jones got him?"

Peter let the change of subject go. "Luckily. For a second there, I thought he was going to kill you."

"Almost did." Neal raised a shaky hand to his blanket-covered torso, where they both knew bandages covered serious wounds. "You didn't think I'd kill him?"

"No, I didn't." Neal's eyes flicked over at him as he went on. "You weren't going to shoot him. You knew it, I knew it, and even Cottrell knew it. I was just hoping your plan would come together before he decided to act on it. And it did."

"Cottrell?"

"Yeah," Peter said with a deep breath. "Lucas Cottrell. That's the guy who tried to murder us. He's a –"

"Counterfeiter," Neal supplied helpfully. Then, at the FBI agent's quizzical gaze, he added, "I met him once. Total jerk."

Peter smiled. "That's the exact word Jones used to describe him. I'm leaning toward something more colourful." Neal almost grinned back. Almost. "So . . . why didn't you run away when you had the chance?"

He'd been afraid to broach the subject, but the reaction he got was completely unexpected. He got absolute, unadulterated bewilderment, something he didn't often see on the con man's face. "I didn't have the chance, Peter. You must have noticed that."

"No, I mean after you'd stolen my gun and gotten away in the darkness. Why didn't you run?"

"Run where? You were still back there with a gun in your face." Peter shrugged, accepting that, knowing neither of them wanted to explore their feelings any more than they had. "Why did you have a gun, anyway?"

"What?" the agent asked.

"The gun. Why did you have it? If you really thought you were meeting with me, what in the world did you need a gun for?"

Peter laughed. "Habit, Neal. Don't worry; I wasn't planning on shooting you."

"Even though you thought I woke you up to meet?"

"I thought about it, but there would be too much paperwork." He paused. "You should warn me about old friends you have that might try to murder us."

Neal rolled his eyes. "You'd need a long sheet of paper for that, Peter. And does that mean you have to warn me about people who hold grudges against you?"

Peter shrugged. "Fair enough. But I can't believe you didn't tell me you worked with a psychopath."

"Well, he wasn't homicidal when we last communicated."

"And when was that?"

Neal swallowed, glanced down at his wounded body, then looked back at his friend. "Is it illegal to –"

"Never mind," Peter interrupted with a fond smile. "I don't want to have to grant you more immunity for anything you've done."

There was a companionable silence between the two, broken when Neal asked, "So . . . how about getting me out of here?" Peter glared at him but didn't bother with a response. "Oh, come on. We both know if it isn't sanctioned by someone, I'll end up breaking out anyway and then we'll both get in trouble."

With a long-suffering sigh, Peter stood. "No one in his right mind would let you leave this soon after having emergency surgery, but just so you know I'm trying, I'll go find a doctor to see about that. No moving until I'm back." He turned, took two steps, stopped, and turned back. "And when you do get out, you'll have to stay with us. El says she doesn't want to stay up worrying about whether or not you'll wake us up for another late-night meeting. Besides, she hasn't had anyone to hover over since the last time you did something stupid."

Neal groaned. "Aw, Peter . . . you two need kids."

The FBI agent chuckled on his way out the door. "You're pretty much the same as having a kid. But at least we can send you home when we're sick of your whining," he said.