A/N: Alright, so this story needs a bit of explanation. I don't have cable, so I have to wait for the seasons of White Collar to come to Netflix. However, my dad watches the show and one night I was over there and I saw the scene where Peter tells Neal he's criminal and wouldn't be anything else until his sentence was over. And it made me very angry. It needled at the back of my mind until this story was born.

So, I don't know what's happening in season 5. I don't know if this story is even close to being accurate as far as displaying the characters' feelings. And I don't care because I'm going to teach Peter a lesson about being a jerk.

Now, as I was writing this story I came up with four different endings, and none of them would leave me alone, so I combined them into this Groundhog Day-esque storyline. It has a supernatural element, but it isn't too big. It was just the only way I could get the story to work.

With all of that out of the way, enjoy the story and look for more explanation at the end. Also, standard disclaimer and all that crap.

Thanks for reading!

Bleeding Out

Seven hours and thirty-eight minutes before Peter would come face to face with his worst nightmare, Emi Holleran had a mental breakdown in the white collar conference room. Up until that point, the day had been a good one. The day after a long, hard case, it was an easy going office day, nothing but paperwork to finish and coffee to drink. Peter had been looking forward to the day's end when he could head home and eat takeout with Elle. He hadn't expected any drama that day.

Neal, apparently, had other plans.

It wasn't really his fault, but that wasn't going to stop Peter from blaming him. Nor was the fact that he'd been right. Maybe that was what irritated Peter the most.

It'd started months ago when Emi, a sweet little intern that blushed at the mention of her name and used way too many flower shaped sticky notes, was transferred to the white collar department. One day into her new assignment, it was obvious to the entire office that she'd developed a crush on Peter. She brought him special coffee, but conveniently forgot cups for everyone else. She offered her time and service even for cases she had no experience with, and stayed late hours despite not being paid. He thought it was cute; he even felt flattered.

But Neal insisted it was more than an office crush. As the days turned into weeks, Neal grew more certain that Emi was borderline stalking Peter. When Neal raised the topic, Peter brushed it off and told him to drop it, calling him paranoid and jealous. Neal was just making a mountain out of a mole hill.

Neal hadn't taken the hint, and had, in fact, taken the matter over his head.

So, now on this otherwise good winter's day, Peter stood with Neal, Emi, and Connie Davis, the Human Resource director, in the middle of the conference room, watching as Emi dissolved into tears.

"You can't do this," she sniffled, wiping giant tears from her wide, doe eyes, "I love working in this department, and my internship is up in only a few weeks. Why would you transfer me?"

Connie flicked her eyes to Neal, an unspoken conversation passing in a single glance. Peter ground his teeth. They were conspiring together and had been for weeks. Why couldn't Neal just drop it?

"Emi, you've already learned so much from white collar, but your area of study won't be here. Most interns spread their internship over two or three departments so that they get as much experience as possible."

Emi shook her head, "But I don't need to. Peter's been teaching me everything I need to know."

Peter flinched at the mention of his first name, but said nothing. Emi's attention may not always be appropriate, but it wasn't as problematic as Neal and Connie were making it out to be.

"It isn't just for your benefit," Connie continued, "Three of my interns have left. The other departments need the help and White Collar has all the help it needs."

"But it isn't fair," Emi protested. She turned to Neal, her tiny hands clenching into fists, "You did this, didn't you?"

The heated accusation threw Peter for a loop. He'd never heard something so venomous come from Emi before. Neal didn't answer her, but lifted his eyes to Peter as if proving a point. Peter had to admit, Emi's reaction to being transferred wasn't exactly normal.

"It was my decision," Connie insisted firmly, "and it's final."

Emi didn't seem to hear. She wasn't fear-inspiring in the least. Standing at just over five feet, she weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet and had the skeletal structure of a bird. She was pretty enough with innocent, wide eyes; a smattering of freckles over a delicate nose; and a small, heart-shaped mouth, none of which were intimidating. But anger made her features sharp and her eyes dark, and as she stood in front of Neal, Peter actually felt a flicker of doubt that he'd misjudged the situation.

"This is your fault," she hissed, "You've always been jealous of my friendship with Peter, and now you've gone and ruined it."

"I'm not trying to ruin anything, Emi," Neal said quietly, trying to keep his voice peaceable, "but I think you need some help."

Emi's eyes sparked with fire, "I don't need any help from you, convict."

Unable to stay quiet any longer, Peter stepped forward, "Emi, maybe it's time for you to go home."

Startled by Peter's voice, Emi jerked and turned to him, her wide eyes confused and suddenly full of tears again, "What?"

"I think you've had a stressful day," Peter said, "and you're obviously having a hard time with this change. So maybe you should take the rest of the day off. Get rid of the distractions and clear your head."

"Get rid of the distractions?" Emi repeated quietly.

Peter nodded, "What do you say?"

Slowly, Emi nodded, "You're right. You're right, that's exactly what I should do. I'm sorry for losing my cool. I'll just go now."

The trio watched her leave and walk down the stairs to her desk. When she was out of sight, Connie let out a powerful sigh of relief.

"That went better than I expected," she muttered and squeezed Neal's arm, "You were right, Neal. She's not right."

"I'll admit she has problems," Peter conceded when Neal looked at him, "but I still don't think she's dangerous. I mean, look at her. What harm could she possibly do to any one?"

Neal shrugged, "I know you don't believe me, Peter, but just because she's small doesn't mean she can't hurt someone. She's mentally unstable."

"Don't go throwing out psyche reviews, Neal. You aren't a shrink."

"I've been right so far, haven't I?"

He had been, and that was what set Peter on edge. How had Neal seen what no one else had? What made him an expert in stalkers all of a sudden? Was he planning some kind of con around Emi's behavior, working some kind of angle?

No matter how Peter tried to analyze it, he knew the reason it bothered him so much: Because Neal had cared enough to look out for him, even after Peter had dismissed him, even after Peter had told him he was a criminal and would be nothing else until his sentence was up.

So much for a good day.

The rest of his not-so-good day went by like molasses. By the time he was ready to go home six hours later, Peter was exhausted out of sheer boredom. Needing a small pick-me-up before heading home, he stopped at the vendor cart at the end of the block. Vincent sold hot beverages and pretzels, some of the best in the city, and Peter was dying for a hot cup of coffee. But surprisingly, it wasn't the robust Italian standing at the cart, but a young woman, dressed in a white trench coat and lavender, fingerless gloves.

"Hello, what can I get for you?" she asked, smiling wide.

"Large cup of coffee, black," Peter ordered, "Vincent gone for the day?"

"He's sick, actually, but he'll be back tomorrow." She poured the coffee, capping it quickly and expertly, "Are you sure you don't want anything else?"

"No, the coffee's fine."

"Really? Because I've got this awesome apple cider Vincent ordered last week. It's worth the try. Here, take a cup. On the house."

She handed him the coffee and offered him the smaller cup of cider, but Peter waved it away, "No, thank you. I don't think I'll need it."

The girl smiled, watching him with steel grey eyes, "Are you sure? You never know what one decision will do for the rest of your day. Maybe something good will happen if you take this cider."

Peter scoffed, "I don't think a cup of cider is going to make a big impact on my day. Besides, what would I do with it? I've already got the coffee."

"Maybe you know a friend that could use it."

Peter briefly thought of Neal, and how he'd not really thanked him for helping with Emi. But he quickly shook the thought away, laying the cash on the cart.

"No, I'll just take the coffee."

The girl's smile fell and she shrugged, "Your choice."

Bothered by the girl's sudden change in demeanor and the odd conversation, Peter hurried away. As he headed to the parking garage, he spotted Neal standing on the curb, hailing a cab as snow began to fall lightly around them. Turning up his collar and ducking his head, Peter hastened his pace, hoping Neal hadn't spotted him.

After stopping for Chinese takeout, Peter drove home, relaxed for the first time in hours. He was looking forward to arriving home, kicking off his shoes, and eating with Elle, both of them too exhausted and too content to cook. He drove lazily through the streets, listening to some new pop song he was actually beginning to enjoy.

"…I'm bleeding out, so if the last thing that I do is bring you down, I'll bleed out for you…"

And then, his phone rang.

Still humming to the lyrics he didn't know, he answered without looking at the caller ID, but all he got in return was heavy breathing.

"Hello? Who is this?"

"P-Peter…"

Something leaden and cold settled in the pit of Peter's stomach as he heard Neal's shaking, uncertain voice come over the line. It wasn't necessarily concern, more of a frustrated dread, a feeling that he seemed to get regularly whenever Neal was involved. It was as if Neal had become a chore, something he had to deal with but didn't want to in the slightest.

"Neal, what do you want?" Peter asked, hoping to keep the irritated grind from his words. It wasn't as if Neal had done anything to warrant such hostility.

"Are you…" Neal breathed heavily, swallowing audibly over the phone, "Are you home?"

"On my way now. Did you need something other than my location?"

"You have to get home," Neal said, seemingly more alert, a note of urgency in his voice, "You have to get there before she does."

"Neal, what are you on about?"

"She's going after Elle."

The weight in his stomach turned to ice as fear rushed through him; his blood roared in his ears so loudly that for a moment he wondered if he'd heard Neal correctly. Immediately, his mind went through possible threats, but nothing stood out. None of the cases they were working were very dangerous and he hadn't been threatened by anyone.

"What are you talking about? Who's going after Elle?"

A pained grunt was his only answer followed closely by a whimper. Peter clutched the phone tightly in his hand, grinding the plastic casing together. He was torn between concern for Neal and fear for his wife, but it didn't take long for his marital bond to take over.

"Damn it, Neal. Answer me!"

"Em…Emi."

Some of the fear dissipated, like the air being let out of a balloon. Emi was not a threat, no matter what Neal claimed; she wasn't capable of hurting a fly. Still, his gut clenched and he pressed his foot harder on the accelerator.

"Neal, for crying out loud. Why are you so insistent that Emi is dangerous? She hasn't done anything to hurt anyone."

"I b-beg to d-differ."

"What's going on with you? You sound like you've been swimming in a frozen lake."

"D-doesn't matter. You have to hurry, or she's gonna-"

"I'm not playing this game with you, Neal. Whatever angle you're working, whatever con you're trying to pull, I'm not doing it."

"She's going to kill her."

The fear laced back through his veins like spider's web, thick and all-encompassing. He turned the next corner sharply, now only two blocks from his home; he could see the porch, half decorated with the lights he promised he'd put up over the weekend.

"Neal, if this is a trick-"

"God damn it, Peter," Neal said sharply, "I know you think I'm the scum of the earth, but I'd never play with Elle's life. If you ever believed in me at all, get home before it's too late."

Cursing under his breath, the weight solidified through his stomach and chest. Because Neal was right. No matter what had happened between them, no matter what Neal was or wasn't, he'd never hurt Elle or even pretend to.

"Alright, I'm here. I'm here, Neal."

"Thank God."

The two words, said in a hushed, exhausted whisper, were all that Neal had left. No matter how loudly Peter yelled, he didn't answer again. Concerned, but more worried for Elle, Peter snapped the car into park and ran into the house, letting the door bang open against the wall, knocking a frame to the floor.

"Elle? Elle, where are you?"

At first, there was no answer, and Peter's heart bottomed out as his mind went back to the night his wife had been taken. But then Elle appeared from the kitchen, her gloved hands dripping soapy water on the carpet as she stared at him with wide, fearful eyes.

"Peter, what's going on? What's wrong?"

Relieved beyond measure, he stepped across the room and took her in his arms, resting his chin on her head as she hugged him awkwardly with her elbows, not wanting to get his suit wet.

"You're scaring me," she muttered, her voice muffled in his lapel.

"We need to leave," he said, pulling her out to arms' length.

"Peter, I don't understand-"

"I know, but you have to trust me. We have to go."

Still skeptical, she started pulling the gloves off her hands, "Alright, just let me drain the water and-"

"No, Elle, now. We have to go now."

Grabbing her sopping hand, he turned towards the door and pulled up short. Behind him, Elle gasped and pressed her body into his back, hiding behind his protective stance. Standing in the gaping doorway with blood on her face and rips in her shirt was Emi. Pale and disheveled, she stepped past the threshold, kicking the door shut with her heel. Her left arm dangled uselessly by her side, the shoulder obviously displaced from its socket; her right arm was poised and tense, a thick kitchen knife held deftly in her fingers.

"Peter," she said with a smile, her tone light but strained, "you're home early."

"Emi, what are you doing here?" Peter asked, holding out his hands palms down.

"I came for a visit," she smiled, cocking her head to the side, "I'm doing what you told me to. 'Get rid of the distractions.' That's what you said, right?"

Peter nodded, eyeing the knife, "Yes, I did say that."

"Yeah," Emi chuckled, "those are the words you used, but I knew what you meant. We'd already been pulled apart by so many other things; it was time we get rid of those distractions once and for all, right? I know that's what you wanted me to do, so we could be together."

"Peter," Elle whispered, pressed against his shoulder, "what is going on?"

Peter didn't answer her, only watched as Emi moved closer, one small step at a time. Her appearance and injury meant she'd been in a fight, but it hadn't been with Elle. What other 'distraction' could she have meant? Surely she viewed Elle as the biggest threat to her, the biggest obstacle between her and Peter. Yet she hadn't come here first. He glanced at the knife, noting the expensive brand and the blood tinged blade, and his mouth went as dry as the Sahara.

"Emi, what did you do?"

"I did what you wanted," she smiled sweetly, "No more distractions."

As she raised her arm, Peter changed tactics.

"Alright. Okay, Emi. You're right. I don't want any more distractions between us. So let's get away. Just the two of us, we'll leave right now and just drive somewhere. What do you say?"

The knife lowered slightly, "You mean it?"

"Of course. We can go anywhere you like. You name it."

A wistful look crossed her crazed face, "Niagara Falls. They have a chapel there, you know, for couples."

He felt nauseas at what she was implying, but he fought it down. He had to get her away from Elle; it was the only thing that mattered.

"Then let's go. We'll leave right now."

She smiled wide at him, her eyes brimming with tears, so happy and loving that it made his stomach turn. She dropped her arm, the knife swaying precariously by her hip.

"Oh, Peter. You've made me so happy," she turned her eyes to Elle, "but first we have to get rid of her."

"No," Peter said sharply. At Emi's startled look, he quickly softened his tone, "I mean we don't want to attract more attention. If we kill her, we'll have the cops on our tail, but if we just leave, no one will care."

"But, darling," Emi said, tilting her head to the side, all sweetness vanishing in an instant, "I've already killed tonight."

Elle gave a strangled gasp, curling her fingers tightly into his suit jacket. Before Peter could process what Emi had said, the deranged woman had raised the knife above her head and stepped around Peter, slashing the blade toward Elle's face. Peter shouted and acted instinctively, pushing Emi to the side as he used his body to shield Elle. Pain erupted across the palm of his hand as the blade sliced through his flesh. Emi and Elle screamed, their shrill echoes mixing together as one woman dove to the ground for cover and the other crashed against the table.

Emi whimpered in pain as her left shoulder connected with the corner of the table, her body spinning with the momentum of Peter's shove. She landed in a heap on the ground, screamed in pain and surprise, and lay still on the carpet. Red soaked her shirt on her left side where the knife had inadvertently stabbed her.

Peter stood paralyzed, cradling his injured hand to his chest. Already he could feel the warm blood seeping into the fabric of his shirt, saturating each thread and fiber. He stared with morbid fascination as a black-red puddle spread out from under Emi's crumbled body. It had all happened so quickly that if felt surreal, unimaginable.

From her place next to the couch, Elle sat up and pulled her legs to her stomach, watching the corpse of a woman she'd never met grow stiff in her dining room. Snapped out of his shock by her movements and stifled sobs, Peter knelt next to her, using his shoulders to block her view of Emi.

"Are you alright?" he demanded gently, touching her cheek with his uninjured hand. A bruise was beginning to form just under her cheek bone where she'd hit the couch arm in her haste to escape. Granted, he may have had a hand in it, pushing her out of the way as he had, but a small bruise was nothing compared to the damage the knife would have caused.

Elle nodded, tears slipping over her cheeks, "I don't understand. What just happened?"

"She…I don't know. I just thought she was a girl with a crush. I didn't think she'd…Neal was right. God, he was right and I didn't listen."

"Peter," Elle gasped, taking his left hand tenderly in hers, "Your hand!"

"It's alright," he said, but even as the words left his mouth, the pain came alive, hot and sharp as the skin around the cut stretched and tensed. He cupped it carefully, hoping to alleviate the radiating pain.

"It's not alright," Elle hissed, sobs catching in her throat, "She hurt you, and she was going to kill me! Why would she do that?"

Peter didn't know, so he just held his wife as she cried and called the police to come sort things out. They moved to the bottom of the stairs, as far from the body as they could get. Elle was stronger than any one he'd ever met, so Peter knew just how much she'd been rocked by Emi's attack as she dissolved into tears in his arms.

When the police came, followed closely by an ambulance, Peter told them about Emi's attack. As the paramedics stitched up his hand, Detectives Ramona and Grady listened patiently as Peter explained that he'd never seen Emi as a threat, never believed that she could be dangerous, and how close he'd come to being too late.

It wasn't until Detective Grady asked in a bored tone how Peter knew Emi was coming for Elle that Peter remembered Neal. And as the nagging worry in the back of his mind blossomed into full blown panic, all of the pieces fell into place.

"Neal, for crying out loud. Why are you so insistent that Emi is dangerous? She hasn't done anything to hurt anyone."

"I b-beg to d-differ."

"But, darling," Emi said, tilting her head to the side, all sweetness vanishing in an instant, "I've already killed tonight."

Peter barely remembered tearing away from the paramedics, mindless of the unfinished stitches in his hand and the shouts from the detectives. He yelled something about an ambulance and spouted off Neal's address before tearing off in his car as fast as he could. If nothing else, they'd follow him just to arrest him for driving recklessly.

The drive to Neal's apartment was a blur and he thanked God he'd made it without causing an accident. Barging into June's house without so much as knocking, he took the steps two at a time to the apartment door. Opening it, he was thrown into a war zone.

The table and chairs were over turned; bottles were broken and shattered and bleeding wine into the carpet. One pane of the balcony's door was shattered, the pieces littering the floor like diamonds. And lying behind the over turned table was an unmoving body.

"Neal," Peter breathed, the name choked by tears and pain. He crossed the room as his heart thundered in his chest, already knowing what he would find as he rounded the table.

Neal lay on his stomach, one arm tucked under his body, the other nestled next to his face, his phone propped up by limp fingers. Still dressed in the slacks and dress shirt he'd been wearing at the office, he looked as if he were asleep as the shadows of the street lights danced over him through the balcony windows.

But Peter knew better, even as his heart played with the hope that Neal had just been knocked silly by Emi and not mortally wounded. He knelt beside Neal, calling his name in a broken whisper as he shook the other man's shoulder. When Neal didn't answer, didn't even stir, Peter took a fortifying breath and turned him over.

Neal was like pliable clay, falling limply to his back, his head lolling across the rug as if it were barely attached. Now, with the light casting over Neal's stomach and his face turned towards the ceiling, Peter saw with perfect clarity exactly what Emi had done.

A jagged, open wound was slashed across Neal's chest, the blood still glistening across the saturated shirt, the fibers too full to absorb more. Below that were two stab wounds, one on the left side only inches from his heart, the other just to the right of his navel. Both had bled profusely, turning the light blue shirt a rust colored red. His face was paler than the moon and speckled with flecks of blood, his lips stained with it as his body had tried to expel the blood filling his punctured lung.

Peter's hands hovered over the wounds, begging to do something but knowing nothing he did would help, too shocked to move. No, not shocked. Devastated. Neal was dead. There was no chance of survival, no threadbare fragment of hope that he could be saved. Because Neal was dead.

The cell phone was still cupped in Neal's upturned hand, the screen splattered with dots of blood and bloody thumb prints where Neal had touched it. Realization dawned on Peter with the weight of a thousand bricks. Neal had been bleeding out, dying, as he called Peter to warn him about Emi. He had been weak, barely able to hold the phone much less dial, but instead of calling 911, instead of taking the slight chance that he could be saved, he'd called Peter, desperate to save Elle's life over his own.

The conversation replayed over in Peter's head and his mind latched on to all of the obvious signs of distress: the way Neal had stuttered, the way he had sounded so feeble, as if he could barely get the words passed his lips. And his last words to Peter, Thank God, had been said with his last breath of strength as his spent body gave out, nothing left to hold on to when his mission had been completed.

Peter gently picked up the phone, cradling the cold device as if it were a holy relic. The screen came to life as he touched it, lighting up the darkness with its tiny white face. Startled, Peter glanced at it and was shocked by its display.

Neal, alone and dying, bleeding out from wounds too numerous to count, had used his last remaining moments to type out two words, knowing that Peter would be the one to find him, knowing that it would be far too late for either of them to say what they wanted.

Bye Pete

Neal never called him Pete, and the implications of the unused nickname were almost too much for him to bear. Either Neal had been too weak to type the entire name and had given up, or he had died with his thumb hovering over the r, determined to finish the farewell, but succumbing to death before he could. It was the knowledge that Neal had used what little life he had left to tell him goodbye that became Peter's undoing.

The sobs, hot and painful, choked him, lodging an unmoving mass in his throat. Blinded by tears, Peter gathered the body in his arms, shuddering as Neal's head fell back over his arm as if attached by a string, and pressed his face in the space between Neal's shoulder and neck. He rocked back and forth, gasping for breath as he cried. Already, Neal's body had begun to cool and it felt disturbing in contrast to the warm, congealing blood staining his shirt and the carpet around them.

For once, Peter had no plan of action. He had no idea what to do next, how to go forward. There was only this moment and beyond that was an unimaginable void that would swallow him whole if he let himself consider it. At some point, he would have to get up and call the police. He would have to tell Elle and June and Mozzie. He would have to move on.

But for now, he held the cooling body of his friend, and mourned the life that had been taken and all of the things he never said.

Outside the luxurious home, standing on the opposite side of the street under a flickering lamp post, stood a young woman dressed in a white trench coat, holding a steaming cup of hot chocolate. As the sounds of mournful keening echoed down from the balcony, her heart ached a little, and she wished she could take away his pain. There was nothing as heart breaking as losing someone you loved too soon, too suddenly. But she knew she couldn't change what had happened; she could only do her job.

Her steel grey eyes sparked and glimmered, and the world began to shift.

"Stop. Go back."