The distinction between the past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.

— Albert Einstein

PART I

Peter's mouth was moving, but Neal couldn't understand the words. He just held onto his friend's jacket, his hands fisting the fabric, trying to remember what was real. If any of it was. God, maybe this was just an awful nightmare. He shut his eyes, willing it all to go away.

Then Peter's hands gripped his forearms, and the muddled sounds became clear. Screams and sirens, Peter's voice. "Neal? Are you hurt? Come on, buddy, look at me."

So Neal did, blinking against the smoke and the ash, trying to make sense of the chaos around him. Peter was still standing in front of him, his face smudged with soot, looking desperately worried. Neal wanted to reassure him, but his throat was too tight, and anyway, he wasn't sure he could form coherent words. It wasn't a problem that Neal Caffrey was used to; he could smooth over the rough edges of any scheme, talk himself into and then back out of a corner, without a falter in his smile. He always had everything under control.

But now, now . . . no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to let go of Peter's jacket, or stop the trembling of his hands. And he was feeling awfully unbalanced, dizzy, confused.

"Neal, maybe you should sit down."

It was a good idea, one that his legs agreed to before his brain. He sat down right there, in what was left of the street, dragging Peter down with him. The shaking got worse.

"I'm going to get you some help, okay, Neal? Just hang on for a second, I'll be right back." And then Peter tried to pull away, to uncurl Neal's fingers and stand up. A wave of panic, raw, electric, swept over Neal, and he clutched tighter.

"No," he said, hoping that it was audible. "Don't."

Peter crouched down beside him again, his eyes meeting Neal's. "Hey," he said. "It's gonna be okay. I'm just going to grab a medic. I think you hit your head."

Neal blinked, confused. "I don't remember . . ."

The words made Peter frown. "Stay here, Neal. I'll be right back, I promise."

And Neal had no choice but to obey, since, now that he thought about it, his head really did hurt, and he didn't think he could get up. He stared at his hands, not sure what to do with them now that he wasn't holding onto Peter's suit.

Peter . . . he'd been so sure that the FBI agent was dead. Consumed by the blast of flame from the warehouse, or else blown apart in the explosion. Neal felt a wave of nausea at the thought, and then an intense fear. Peter couldn't be dead, could he? Not like Kate, gone, as though she'd never been . . . bits of metal raining down, waves of heat rolling off the wreckage . . . But no, Peter was holding him back. Peter . . . hadn't he just been here? Neal closed his eyes. He had the vague feeling that his thoughts were going in circles.

Someone grabbed his arm, shouting his name, and the words were so panicked that Neal opened his eyes. Peter was bending over him, looking worried—when had he decided to lie down?—and Neal felt lightheaded with relief. "You're not dead," he told Peter. Or something like that, since he wasn't sure how well he was stringing words together.

Peter exchanged a meaningful look with someone on Neal's other side and then took Neal's hand. He gave it a reassuring squeeze. "I'm fine, Neal. I got out just in time. Not even a scratch on me."

"I tried to find you," Neal whispered. "I thought . . ."

"It's okay, buddy," Peter soothed. "Is that how you got hurt? Going to look for me?"

Neal didn't know. The moments after the explosion were awfully blurred in his memory, like they were from a dream, or another time. He tried to piece the bits he remembered together, because this seemed very important to Peter. "I heard the explosion. You were inside, and the plane was on fire –"

"The plane?" Peter asked, looking startled, but Neal barely registered the interruption, forcing the rest of the words out.

"—and you were dead. And Kate . . . I couldn't . . . you were in there, Peter."

"Neal." Peter's voice was very gentle now, his eyes sad. "I'm just fine. And you will be, too, okay?"

Neal closed his eyes again. "Okay."

He felt more hands on him now, lifting and pushing, and then there were straps across his chest and legs. Voices floated around, the words washing over him, but nothing made much sense.

"Peter?" Neal whispered, suddenly exhausted.

"Yeah?"

"Don't go. I . . . can't, not Kate again." The words didn't really make sense, even in Neal's head.

But Peter seemed to understand. "This isn't like that, Neal. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

Neal relaxed, the terrible fear that had been scattering his thoughts finally subsiding. "Trust you, Peter," he whispered, and then everything slipped away.

Author's Note: I'm experimenting with a new style in a new fandom. Please let me know how I'm doing! Reviews are much appreciated.