White Collar Fic: The Long Haul Back
The Long Haul Back
Rating: PG-13 - gunshot wound, blood
Summary: No cellphones, no tracking anklet, and a lot of miles to cover before Neal and Peter are out of the woods. The non-figurative kind of woods. To help the odds, Neal's shot in the leg.
A/N: Written for the lovely kanarek13, who supplied this prompt on collarcorner. Hope you don't mind me ganking the title straight off your post (and that it's what you were looking for)! ;) Thanks and cookies to imbecamiel for the time she spent editing this on-demand for me. You are made of Wonderful. :D
I may have confiscated a little bit of Neal and Peter's resourcefulness in order to make this story work-because man is it hard to come up with a scenario these two wouldn't be able to Brain their way out of somehow. But I needed them utterly lost, no slick back-tracking skillzors allowed. And in their defense, and mine, they are city boys. ^^
***
“Hold still.”
“I am.”
Peter bit down on words that wanted out-in an angry barrage of released stress-and said with restraint: “Hold stiller.”
“'Stiller'?” Neal echoed.
“Yes.”
“Is that a word?”
“It is right now.” Peter understood. Really, he did. Neal was distracting himself from the pain by trying to engage in inane banter. But that was one of the funny differences between them. When Peter was caught out in the woods, in the middle of the night, with a bleeding CI on his hands, the need for practicality and efficiency tended to occupy the forefront of his mind.
Neal, on the other hand, would remain obsessed with the art of turning a clever phrase-or, at this precise moment, obsessed with pointing out Peter's complete inability to say anything even remotely intelligent. Grunts and monosyllables were currently his preferred method of communication, because-hello, reality-check-to-Neal-he was presently trying to deal with a bleeding gunshot wound to the leg. Neal's leg. Which meant Neal needed to stop squirming every time Peter tried to apply more pressure.
A stifled whimper from Neal drew Peter out of his internalized rant. “Hey,” he softened his tone, “just a few more minutes, then we'll get this bandaged up.”
“You said that, a few minutes ago.”
“Well, I lied.”
“Are you lying now?”
Peter closed his eyes, counting to ten. And then he counted to ten again before asking calmly, “How's the pain?”
“Painful.”
“Funny.”
Peter could “hear” Neal grimace. “No. Not really. I haven't quite gotten to the euphoric stage of hypovolemia.”
“Hate to break it to you kid, but I think you're confusing blood loss with strangulation.” A twig was making permanent indents in his left knee, and Peter shifted slightly, trying to keep steady pressure with the heel of his palm.
Neal gave another small, pained grunt. “Then do me a favor and strangle me if I go into shock.”
Peter smiled ruefully to himself-because, really, in the poor light of a crescent moon neither of them could make out more than the pale ovals of each other’s faces. “Hate to break it to you, kid, but I think you're already in shock.”
“Huh,” Neal replied vaguely, and seemed to drift for a minute before rallying with: “How're we going to get out of here?”
“By walking.”
“Brilliant. ” There was a shiver in Neal's voice, and trembling beneath Peter's hand, running in spasms through Neal's frame. “Brilliant, if you've got two legs that work. Which I don't, at the moment.”
“Between the two of us, I think we'll manage with three.”
Neal considered that another moment before mumbling, “I think this is the part where I heroically volunteer to stay behind, placing my complete faith in your equally heroic return...”
“Try it,” Peter interrupted, “and I'll be dragging your worthless hide along behind me.”
“I guess that's as close you're going to come to heroically offering to carry me.”
“Can we stop with the talk of heroics and try to focus on surviving?”
Neal mumbled something about “no fun,” but was quiet.
Peter's relief lasted about two minutes. Despite the reassurance the shivering gave him that Neal was still conscious, he compulsively prodded, “Keep talking.”
“Do you think we really lost them?”
“Yeah. I do.” Peter said it less out of conviction and more out of the need for it to be true.
“I think you might actually be getting worse at lying.”
“Well, would you believe me if I said that there's no way of couple of paid guns like that are going to risk chasing us into the wilderness in the middle of the night?”
“By 'paid guns' you mean 'city boys.'”
“Got it in one, Calvin Klein.”
“Oh, come on,” Neal countered, “So I'm hardly dressed for a hike. But a little aftershave and a tasteful jacket are hardly putting me at a disadvantage here.”
“My jacket's tasteful, and practical.”
“Sure it is, Davy Crockett.”
“That's Special Agent Crockett to you.”
Neal snorted softly. “You really are the genuine article, Peter. Which is more than can be said for Reed. Even I know a lodge like that doesn't count as 'roughing it.' His secretary made it sound like he was a real outdoorsman, who needed to come here to commune with nature.”
“I think Reed's got a few slightly more detrimental marks against him than his lack of taste for the authentic out-of-doors experience.”
“'Marks against him,' like sending his men to murder us and dump our bodies in the woods?”
“'Marks against him,' like whatever skeleton he's got in his closet that makes him think murdering us and dumping our bodies in the woods is his best option.”
“Suddenly this is looking like a not-so-straightforward case of art theft and corporate fraud.”
Peter grunted in reply. That was a worry for another time. Such as after they'd survived to not become two bodies dumped in the woods. Whether or not they'd lost their pursuers, they needed to get moving.
Judging that it had been well over ten minutes, Peter eased back from holding pressure on the wound. The lack of light was frustrating, but he couldn't risk removing the impromptu bandage he'd made from his once-white undershirt. Neal had already lost enough blood, and Peter was trying hard not to think about their complete lack of gear. They had no water, no means of warmth, and no clue where they were, other than somewhere in the middle of Harriman State Park.
He supposed neither of them should complain. After all, it had been a miracle they'd given Reed's goons the slip, and only paid for it with a bullet wound to Neal's leg. But from where Peter was sitting, the glass sure looked half empty-and, from Neal's perspective, it was probably down to the dregs.
Peter removed his belt, using it to secure the cloth tightly enough to hold it in place. It was a clumsy, rigged affair, and Neal hissed a pained agreement of his assessment as Peter finished. It was the best either of them could do, considering their first aid supplies were limited to the clothes on their back. Even if there was coverage here, they had no cellphones to try calling. No anklet to tip rescue off on where to come swooping in. The first, Reed had confiscated from them at the lodge. The second, Peter himself had removed when they'd gone in undercover as potential buyer and his art specialist.
Peter stood, knees stiff and unwilling from having knelt in the same position for so long. It was nearly the end of September, and while the daytime highs were still fairly warm, right now the temperature bit with just a touch of the encroaching fall-to-winter decline. He reached a hand out, and Neal gripped it for leverage, pulling himself upright with Peter's help, and without a word of protest.
They both knew this was going to be a long night, and no clever quip was going to help them.
***
“Come on. I need a break.”
“You're just...saying that, because you...think I'm about to pass out.”
Peter laughed. Tiredly. “I'm saying that because I know you're about to pass out-because I'm about to pass out, and I don't have a bullet hole in my leg.”
Neal made a disgruntled noise, but didn't argue when Peter helped him to a seat on a nearby fallen tree. He probably didn't have the oxygen left for further argument, judging by the way his breath was audibly sawing in and out.
He needed water. Peter knew neither of them were going to make it much further without it. Since they'd started off on their trek several hours ago (give or take; Peter’s watch had been broken at some point in the course of their run), they'd maintained a steady enough pace. And Neal had been steadily, and more steadily, relying on Peter as his one good leg had grown increasingly taxed. Peter's left arm ached from gripping Neal around the waist. He couldn't imagine what Neal felt like-and he was left to do just that, because Neal hadn't been saying much of anything.
“Sun's coming up,” Peter pointed out, casting a sidelong look in Neal's direction. In the predawn light Neal's eyes were half-lidded, his jaw set, face pale. Just as Peter could've predicted. After all, he'd had a ringside seat to Neal's decline: felt the continued tremors shaking him remorselessly, and the way his limping had gone from determined to dragging and belabored. But the sight still made him feel a surge of exhausted rage at the man with the gun, and ultimately at Reed, who was forcing Peter to force Neal-who, according to every law of first aid should be lying down, with his foot elevated and a generous dose of painkillers in his bloodstream-into hiking through thick underbrush, hungry and dehydrated, and so clearly near the end of his endurance.
“Think there's maybe a mud puddle somewhere around here that we could drink out of?” Neal's breathing had evened out a little, but the dryness of his voice hurt just to hear.
“Better than that. The ground’s been sloping down for a while, and the vegetation around here looks pretty green. I'm hoping we hit a stream, or some sort of water, before long.”
Neal gave Peter a temperate look of some combination of ridicule and admiration. “Wow. Special Agent Crockett strikes again.”
Peter tried to hide his own doubts. It was all a shot in the dark, following the kind of Boy Scout tips for survival that a person could go their whole life understanding theoretically, and never need to test in an actual life-or-death situation.
Neither of them had mentioned the fact that they might very well be traveling further away from civilization with every step. They'd been blindfolded when they were taken from the lodge, and their subsequent mad dash to get away from Reed's men hadn't done Peter's sense of direction any good, either. Now that the sun was up they at least knew they were going in a vaguely north-easterly direction. For all the good that information did them. Peter had made the executive decision, somewhere in the middle of the night, to make their goal the discovery of a source of water, since that more than anything was what their ability to keep going depended on. He could only hope the direction of water coincided with the shortest route to a busy road. Or that Diana and Jones had been quick to suspect foul play and deployed a SAR chopper by now, and it was only a matter of holding on until it found them. If, that was, said chopper could find them without a smoke signal, or single piece of bright clothing between the two of them, with which to attract attention.
“You know,” Neal began quietly, tilting his head back, eyes closed, “I don't think I've spent this much time in the woods...ever.”
Peter chuckled. “Enjoying our little commune with nature, are you?”
“It's not exactly an ideal introduction. But it's not all bad. You know, there's the early morning birdsong, the fresh air-not to mention the excruciating pain in my leg, the permanent stitch in my side, and the persistent need to vomit up the non-existent contents of my stomach.”
“Consider it a free vacation from Uncle Sam.” Despite the light-hearted tone of Neal's voice, and Peter's own attempt to reciprocate, he decided it was time take another look at the wound now that the light was better.
Neal gave a long-suffering sigh as he watched Peter. “I was kidding, Peter. It's not that bad...”
“Really?”
“No,” Neal admitted begrudgingly. “Just tell me it looks better than it feels,” he added, submitting to the examination, then stiffening as Peter touched his leg to peel back the edge of the “bandage” and test the skin around the wound for heat with the back of his hand. Neal jerked a little at the contact, complaining, “Your fingers are like ice.”
Peter frowned unhappily. His fingers might be like ice, but Neal's skin was definitely hotter than it should be. Hot enough to make his fingers tingle with instant warmth, as if they were touching a water radiator. Despite the fact that he'd already established the wound was through-and-through (and through the fleshy part of the calf, at that, without looking to have hit the bone), he supposed it would be a wonder if Neal didn't develop an infection, unsanitary conditions considered. But a man could hope for miracles.
“We should get moving again,” Neal stated quietly, making no move whatsoever to rise.
Peter stood from his crouch, removing his jacket and draping it over Neal's hunched shoulders. “Take another couple of minutes.”
“You need to stay warm, too, Peter.”
“I'm warm enough from carrying around more than my fair share of the weight.”
Neal returned the smirk. “Diet and regular exercise, Peter. That's the key.” He clutched the lapel of the jacket in a white-knuckled grip of obvious gratitude. “Just take it back when you need it.”
“I'll snatch it right off your skinny shoulders,” Peter promised.
***
Neal stumbled over a branch, nearly sending himself and Peter sprawling before Peter could stabilize him. He realized Neal was gasping for air, and felt a pang of conscience.
As if he could change anything. As if he wanted to push Neal.
“Hey, you alright?” Peter asked, even though he knew the answer.
“Yeah,” Neal panted, lying willfully, because they both knew there wasn't another option. “Yeah. I'm fine.”
They paused by unspoken agreement, but neither made a move to find a seat because if they did they might never get up again.
Neal's head was drooping, his arm-long ago draped across Peter's shoulders and around his neck-was tense with the effort of holding on. It was hard to tell where the continued feverish shivering left off, and the quivering of overexerted muscles began. And it's wasn't just Neal's overexerted muscles that were giving up, either.
But no matter how often the words “giving up” crossed their minds, they were just as often disregarded as irrelevant. Neither of them was going to say it.
“I really...really think I want to just stay here, Peter,” Neal whispered.
Or, then again, maybe saying what they were both thinking was just plain healthy. “Healthy” being a relative state of being that neither of them was lightly to visit any time soon.
Peter closed his eyes, too tired to come up with any words of wisdom, never mind encouragement. “I think I hear a stream up ahead.”
“Lying again...” Neal murmured disinterestedly.
“How do you know? The wind's picked up. It's hard to hear above the sound of the leaves rustling.”
“That's almost poetic,” Neal groused.
“Just keep thinking about streams full of ice cold water.”
“And Giardia-causing organisms.”
“Alright, ray of sunshine. Eyes on the goal.”
Neal just groaned.
And they kept going.
***
In fairness to Neal, he didn't really give up. It was his body that had done that. And even if it had been an issue of a lack of willpower-really, how could Peter hold it against him, when he was nearly sobbing from the pain with every step?
Neal's breathing had gone from strenuous to desperate before he'd all but begged to stop, using a tone that Peter couldn't have refused if he'd had a heart of stone.
They'd been taking short rests periodically, trying to pace themselves. But this time Peter could tell it was different. Neal didn't bother with sitting. He all but slumped to the ground the moment Peter began to lower him, and lay there, oblivious to the sticks and stones that had to be digging into his back, his eyes closed and his chest heaving.
Peter slumped down next to him, placing a hand on Neal's shoulder and giving it a reassuring pat. “Just rest a while. I could use a longer break, too.”
Neal didn't answer. Several minutes later his breathing calmed, and then succumbed to the steady rhythm of the blissfully unconscious.
Peter automatically reached out to shake him awake, and then thought better of it. The kid looked dead. Not figuratively, either, but white-and-limp-as-a-corpse dead. Optimism notwithstanding, it was time to acknowledge that they were past the “serious” stage and progressing into the “urgent.”
Peter let Neal sleep for a good quarter of an hour before tapping him on the shoulder.
Neal only moaned and shivered in response.
“Neal, wake up.” Peter shook him gently. “Come on. We've got to find you some water.”
Neal's eyes opened slowly. He stared up at the canopy of trees for a long moment with a look of incomprehension on his face.
Peter leaned over, blocking his view. “Neal? You with me?”
“No,” Neal croaked, shifting-and promptly gasping in pain. The look he gave Peter was not one Peter wanted to see.
“No, Neal,” he said firmly, “now is not the time for heroically volunteering to stay behind while I go get help. If I'd planned on doing that I could've abandoned you an hour ago.”
“It wouldn't be abandoning me,” Neal countered, despite everything still managing to pick out the key wording of Peter's refusal. “I want to stay here.” He'd closed his eyes again, no doubt trying to present Peter with a picture of complete tranquility. “I insist.”
“You're the CI, and I'm the special agent. You don't get to insist.”
“So shoot me. Or send me back to jail.”
“Neal,” Peter warned, “I'm serious. We need to find some water soon.”
Neal swallowed thickly. He was serious, too. “I can't Peter,” he said, so quietly it was almost a whisper. “I just...can't.”
“Fine, then.” Peter stood, with difficulty. “Since you force my hand.” He reached down, grabbing Neal's arm and pulling him into a sitting position.
The last time he'd attempted the fireman's carry he'd been several years younger, and a whole lot less closer to collapse, himself. Not to mention people in need of being carried usually didn't try to squirm. Neal was doing so weakly, but with a will.
“Peter, you can't-”
“-No, you can't,” Peter contradicted, taking a moment to make sure he had a firm grip, and to pull in some deep breaths. “You just said so. And I'm not leaving you here so I can get out of this alive only to be murdered by my own wife. So heroic carrying you over my shoulder it is.”
“I think I could walk...a little more, if I...”
Peter knew that Neal wasn't actually trying to sound pathetically unconvincing. But he was succeeding.
“Neal, relax. Just enjoy the ride for a bit, huh?”
He could feel the resistance bleed from Neal. The clammy heat of Neal's fever was like an electric blanket draped over his shoulders.
Peter surveyed the gently sloping, underbrush-covered ground ahead, and put one foot in front of the other.
***
Peter stood staring at the vision of moving water for a long moment before he could stir himself to action. “Action” being a loose term for the stumbling, dogged forward motion he'd fallen into.
The rocks of the stream bank made it harder than ever to walk without losing his footing, forcing him to slow down even more. Reaching a bolder near the water, he finally-finally-lowered Neal from his shoulders, sinking to his knees and unable to rise for several minutes, unable to move, even at the galvanizing incentive of water.
What did make him get up again was a glance aside at Neal. He'd been so wrapped up in simply continuing he hadn't had time to consider how Neal's condition had or hadn't gotten worse.
It was definitely worse.
The light of day wasn't kind enough to conceal anything. Neal's face was flushed, hair matted to his forehead by sweat. Breathing shallow. Eyes remained shut, even when Peter tapped the side of his face.
Peter scrambled, and half standing, to the edge of the water. He scooped up a few handfuls of water for himself before cupping up some more to bring it back the few feet to where Neal lay against the boulder.
“Come on, buddy. Enough sleeping and leaving me to do all the work.”
Neal spluttered feebly as Peter trickled the water onto his lips. Peter made another trip for water, repeating the process, and coaxing more loudly, “Neal? I'm done playing hero. Time to wake up. Neal...”
Neal opened his eyes, squinting at Peter in confusion. He reached up a hand to wipe at the water trailing down his chin and opened his mouth, clearly intending to say something, and then broke into a fit of coughing instead.
“Yeah, don't talk just yet. Let's get you some more water.”
Together, they limped their way down to the water's edge together-where Neal would've drunk himself into an overdose if Peter hadn't stopped him.
After that, they both succumbed to much-needed rest. Peter knew he probably should stay awake, alert for danger. But at the moment exhaustion was their worst enemy, and he knew if either of them were going to make it out of this they needed rest as much as water.
***
When Peter woke, he was surprised to find Neal watching him-eyes feverishly bright, but surprisingly aware.
“If I get Giardia, I'll make sure to puke on your couch.”
Peter ran a hand over gritty eyes. “Well, good morning to you, and you're welcome.”
“It's not morning,” Neal informed him. “Never mind a good one. And...thanks. For not leaving me behind.”
“Don't mention it.” Peter sat up, groaning loudly to express the aches of a thousand complaining muscles. “You're heavier than you look, you know that?”
“All muscle.”
“Well, muscle, you think you're up to carrying me for a while?”
Neal grimaced. “Maybe I'm up to carrying myself, if you're lucky.”
“Hey.” Peter nudged him with an elbow. “If we survive this, and the Giardia, my lips are sealed about the piggyback ride.”
Neal looked at him, surprised, and in his weakened, wrecked, sweat-drenched state suddenly very young. “Thanks, Peter.”
“Two thank yous in under a minute,” Peter rose stiffly, wincing through a stretch, “I think I'll count myself repaid.”
Neal propped himself up on an unsteady elbow, and Peter reached down to help him to his feet before he could do a face plant onto the rocks. They had some water for lunch (or possibly an early dinner, judging by how far along the sun had progressed, touching the tops of the eastern treeline, opposite the stream), and both of them found their energy, if not redoubled, at least semi-existent.
At least Peter kidded himself into thinking Neal was doing better. He was, after all, at least helping with the walking again, and now that they were following the stream (a course of action that had needed no vote) water was on-demand. On one of their breaks, he even managed to clean Neal's wound a bit, flushing it-bandage and all-until the cloth was moistened enough to pull away. The bleeding hadn't started again, but Peter spent the next silent part of their belabored hike trying not to think about the angry red color of the skin around the wound.
When Neal collapsed, it brought all the repressed panic bubbling to the surface.
None of his demands for a response were answered, and no amount of urgent shaking could even elicit a moan or protest. The thready pulse beneath Peter's finger only went so far to reassure.
“God, kid...” he breathed, staring down at Neal with exasperation, and worry, and a growing sensation that the whole situation was beyond surreal. It was so viscerally real, and at the same time somehow so far-fetched and dreamlike that Peter was having a hard time wrapping his mind around the fact that he couldn't just pick up his cellphone and call for an ambulance. Maybe Reed's henchmen had done the smart thing after all, recognizing them as the two city boys in the scenario, running off to get themselves killed in the wilderness. It seemed impossible that they could've walked for as long as they had without finding any signs of civilization. Or maybe they'd sleep-walked their way past civilization in their zombified state.
“You're really going to do this to me again?” Peter continued interrogating Neal's unconscious form. He sighed at the predictable non-response he received, coming to grips with the fact that Neal had pushed himself as far as he could, and it was time for Peter to do the same. “Alright,” he relented, wearily, “So you're really going to this to me again.” Which meant that it was his turn once again. He pulled Neal into position to load him onto his shoulder. “Just keep breathing, and my promise holds true. No tattling. Scout’s honor.”
Neal showed his gratitude by continuing to play the limp rag. There was no squirming this time-no protesting that he could walk just a little further. And so, somehow, Peter found a way to keep going.
***
Ironically, it wasn't much further before Peter found the hiking trail. It was as if the wilderness had been out to test his true mettle, throwing one last challenge at him to see if he'd keep throwing it right back.
“Neal? Neal, you with me?”
Neal wasn't. He hadn't been since his unceremonious collapse.
Peter looked both directions along the trail, coming to the dismal realization that even now that he'd found it, it was still a tossup as to which direction he should take. There was a ludicrously quaint, moss-covered bridge crossing the river, only wide enough for one man abreast. On either side of the bridge was an option.
Peter went with his gut and took the right, ignoring Robert Frost and picking the road that looked, to his eye, finitely more traveled. With any luck, more than one hiker had chosen the bridge as a turn-around point.
After indulging in one last drink-and trying to get some down Neal's throat, with limited success-he started off with what would never have been mistaken for enthusiasm by an observer. But it was forward momentum, which was all the enthusiasm Peter had to spare.
For that same reason, when Peter found himself standing in front of the small log cabin that served as a ranger station, knocking on the door with a feeling too numb to count as actual relief, the only words he had for the ranger who answered were: “Hi. I could use a little help.”
He didn't quite lose consciousness shortly thereafter. Details just got a little hazy.
***
“The next thing I remember I was in the ER.”
Elizabeth looked from Neal to Peter. “How far did you carry him?”
“It wasn't that far.” Peter spared a warning look in Neal's direction. A look that went completely ignored, judging by the self-satisfied smile on his face. He knew he was sitting pretty, laid up in a hospital bed, with Elizabeth there to protect him. The idiot.
Elizabeth bestowed him with one of her complicated looks; the kind where the only emotion Peter could definitively decipher was fondness. That, he could handle. It was the touch of something like admiration that made him squirm, resisting the urge to stand and pace away towards the window.
“Hon, don't look so embarrassed.” She leaned forward in her chair to touch his arm. “You could get your name in the newspaper with heroics like that.”
“Now there's a thought.”
Peter kept his tone light, and his look hard. “I think you've done enough, Neal.”
“Peter,” Elizabeth said, with a laugh, “he's done nothing but sing your praises. Now stop looking so grumpy. If it embarrasses you that much, I promise to stop adoring you so openly. And not a word to the press.” She stood, leaning down to kiss Peter. “Now say goodnight to Neal, and let's get you home.”As she left she stopped to give Neal's hand a light squeeze. “I'm just glad you're both alright.”
“I thought we weren't going to say anything,” Peter growled, as soon as she'd left the room.
“You promised not to tell. I was delirious, and in no condition to do anything of kind.” Neal settled his head on the pillow. Smugly. “Peter, your wife thinks you're a hero.”
“I know.”
“So stop looking so grumpy. If you're going to be like that, I think we'd better continue this discussion later. After you've gotten your beauty sleep.”
Peter scowled. “You're one to talk. Who's the one who’s going to be spending a few days in the hospital, and who's the one going home?”
“Going home, to a wife who adores him, and considers him a hero,” Neal pointed out. “You can thank me later for that.”
“Uh uh. You've still got too much groveling to do for the tables to be turned yet. I dragged your butt for miles, kid.”
“First he blushes, now he boasts...” Neal yawned. “You're more complicated to figure out than a teenage girl, Peter.”
“You're just asking for a fight, you know that?”
Neal pointedly rearranged his IV line and fussed with the covers, stretching with a theatrical wince.
“Alright, you invalid,” Peter said, standing-slowly, and with every muscle in his body protesting, regardless. “Take your antibiotics like a good boy, and rest while you can. We got Reed and his goons in the end, but the paperwork is piling up.”
“Peter?” Neal's voice stopped him before he'd reached the door. His smirk was audible. “You know, that really was pretty heroic.”
Peter knew his scowl didn't quite cover his smile. “I'll tell the nurses you've had enough morphine for tonight. Now shut up and convalesce.”
***
Thanks for reading!
Rating: PG-13 - gunshot wound, blood
Summary: No cellphones, no tracking anklet, and a lot of miles to cover before Neal and Peter are out of the woods. The non-figurative kind of woods. To help the odds, Neal's shot in the leg.
A/N: Written for the lovely kanarek13, who supplied this prompt on collarcorner. Hope you don't mind me ganking the title straight off your post (and that it's what you were looking for)! ;) Thanks and cookies to imbecamiel for the time she spent editing this on-demand for me. You are made of Wonderful. :D
I may have confiscated a little bit of Neal and Peter's resourcefulness in order to make this story work-because man is it hard to come up with a scenario these two wouldn't be able to Brain their way out of somehow. But I needed them utterly lost, no slick back-tracking skillzors allowed. And in their defense, and mine, they are city boys. ^^
***
“Hold still.”
“I am.”
Peter bit down on words that wanted out-in an angry barrage of released stress-and said with restraint: “Hold stiller.”
“'Stiller'?” Neal echoed.
“Yes.”
“Is that a word?”
“It is right now.” Peter understood. Really, he did. Neal was distracting himself from the pain by trying to engage in inane banter. But that was one of the funny differences between them. When Peter was caught out in the woods, in the middle of the night, with a bleeding CI on his hands, the need for practicality and efficiency tended to occupy the forefront of his mind.
Neal, on the other hand, would remain obsessed with the art of turning a clever phrase-or, at this precise moment, obsessed with pointing out Peter's complete inability to say anything even remotely intelligent. Grunts and monosyllables were currently his preferred method of communication, because-hello, reality-check-to-Neal-he was presently trying to deal with a bleeding gunshot wound to the leg. Neal's leg. Which meant Neal needed to stop squirming every time Peter tried to apply more pressure.
A stifled whimper from Neal drew Peter out of his internalized rant. “Hey,” he softened his tone, “just a few more minutes, then we'll get this bandaged up.”
“You said that, a few minutes ago.”
“Well, I lied.”
“Are you lying now?”
Peter closed his eyes, counting to ten. And then he counted to ten again before asking calmly, “How's the pain?”
“Painful.”
“Funny.”
Peter could “hear” Neal grimace. “No. Not really. I haven't quite gotten to the euphoric stage of hypovolemia.”
“Hate to break it to you kid, but I think you're confusing blood loss with strangulation.” A twig was making permanent indents in his left knee, and Peter shifted slightly, trying to keep steady pressure with the heel of his palm.
Neal gave another small, pained grunt. “Then do me a favor and strangle me if I go into shock.”
Peter smiled ruefully to himself-because, really, in the poor light of a crescent moon neither of them could make out more than the pale ovals of each other’s faces. “Hate to break it to you, kid, but I think you're already in shock.”
“Huh,” Neal replied vaguely, and seemed to drift for a minute before rallying with: “How're we going to get out of here?”
“By walking.”
“Brilliant. ” There was a shiver in Neal's voice, and trembling beneath Peter's hand, running in spasms through Neal's frame. “Brilliant, if you've got two legs that work. Which I don't, at the moment.”
“Between the two of us, I think we'll manage with three.”
Neal considered that another moment before mumbling, “I think this is the part where I heroically volunteer to stay behind, placing my complete faith in your equally heroic return...”
“Try it,” Peter interrupted, “and I'll be dragging your worthless hide along behind me.”
“I guess that's as close you're going to come to heroically offering to carry me.”
“Can we stop with the talk of heroics and try to focus on surviving?”
Neal mumbled something about “no fun,” but was quiet.
Peter's relief lasted about two minutes. Despite the reassurance the shivering gave him that Neal was still conscious, he compulsively prodded, “Keep talking.”
“Do you think we really lost them?”
“Yeah. I do.” Peter said it less out of conviction and more out of the need for it to be true.
“I think you might actually be getting worse at lying.”
“Well, would you believe me if I said that there's no way of couple of paid guns like that are going to risk chasing us into the wilderness in the middle of the night?”
“By 'paid guns' you mean 'city boys.'”
“Got it in one, Calvin Klein.”
“Oh, come on,” Neal countered, “So I'm hardly dressed for a hike. But a little aftershave and a tasteful jacket are hardly putting me at a disadvantage here.”
“My jacket's tasteful, and practical.”
“Sure it is, Davy Crockett.”
“That's Special Agent Crockett to you.”
Neal snorted softly. “You really are the genuine article, Peter. Which is more than can be said for Reed. Even I know a lodge like that doesn't count as 'roughing it.' His secretary made it sound like he was a real outdoorsman, who needed to come here to commune with nature.”
“I think Reed's got a few slightly more detrimental marks against him than his lack of taste for the authentic out-of-doors experience.”
“'Marks against him,' like sending his men to murder us and dump our bodies in the woods?”
“'Marks against him,' like whatever skeleton he's got in his closet that makes him think murdering us and dumping our bodies in the woods is his best option.”
“Suddenly this is looking like a not-so-straightforward case of art theft and corporate fraud.”
Peter grunted in reply. That was a worry for another time. Such as after they'd survived to not become two bodies dumped in the woods. Whether or not they'd lost their pursuers, they needed to get moving.
Judging that it had been well over ten minutes, Peter eased back from holding pressure on the wound. The lack of light was frustrating, but he couldn't risk removing the impromptu bandage he'd made from his once-white undershirt. Neal had already lost enough blood, and Peter was trying hard not to think about their complete lack of gear. They had no water, no means of warmth, and no clue where they were, other than somewhere in the middle of Harriman State Park.
He supposed neither of them should complain. After all, it had been a miracle they'd given Reed's goons the slip, and only paid for it with a bullet wound to Neal's leg. But from where Peter was sitting, the glass sure looked half empty-and, from Neal's perspective, it was probably down to the dregs.
Peter removed his belt, using it to secure the cloth tightly enough to hold it in place. It was a clumsy, rigged affair, and Neal hissed a pained agreement of his assessment as Peter finished. It was the best either of them could do, considering their first aid supplies were limited to the clothes on their back. Even if there was coverage here, they had no cellphones to try calling. No anklet to tip rescue off on where to come swooping in. The first, Reed had confiscated from them at the lodge. The second, Peter himself had removed when they'd gone in undercover as potential buyer and his art specialist.
Peter stood, knees stiff and unwilling from having knelt in the same position for so long. It was nearly the end of September, and while the daytime highs were still fairly warm, right now the temperature bit with just a touch of the encroaching fall-to-winter decline. He reached a hand out, and Neal gripped it for leverage, pulling himself upright with Peter's help, and without a word of protest.
They both knew this was going to be a long night, and no clever quip was going to help them.
***
“Come on. I need a break.”
“You're just...saying that, because you...think I'm about to pass out.”
Peter laughed. Tiredly. “I'm saying that because I know you're about to pass out-because I'm about to pass out, and I don't have a bullet hole in my leg.”
Neal made a disgruntled noise, but didn't argue when Peter helped him to a seat on a nearby fallen tree. He probably didn't have the oxygen left for further argument, judging by the way his breath was audibly sawing in and out.
He needed water. Peter knew neither of them were going to make it much further without it. Since they'd started off on their trek several hours ago (give or take; Peter’s watch had been broken at some point in the course of their run), they'd maintained a steady enough pace. And Neal had been steadily, and more steadily, relying on Peter as his one good leg had grown increasingly taxed. Peter's left arm ached from gripping Neal around the waist. He couldn't imagine what Neal felt like-and he was left to do just that, because Neal hadn't been saying much of anything.
“Sun's coming up,” Peter pointed out, casting a sidelong look in Neal's direction. In the predawn light Neal's eyes were half-lidded, his jaw set, face pale. Just as Peter could've predicted. After all, he'd had a ringside seat to Neal's decline: felt the continued tremors shaking him remorselessly, and the way his limping had gone from determined to dragging and belabored. But the sight still made him feel a surge of exhausted rage at the man with the gun, and ultimately at Reed, who was forcing Peter to force Neal-who, according to every law of first aid should be lying down, with his foot elevated and a generous dose of painkillers in his bloodstream-into hiking through thick underbrush, hungry and dehydrated, and so clearly near the end of his endurance.
“Think there's maybe a mud puddle somewhere around here that we could drink out of?” Neal's breathing had evened out a little, but the dryness of his voice hurt just to hear.
“Better than that. The ground’s been sloping down for a while, and the vegetation around here looks pretty green. I'm hoping we hit a stream, or some sort of water, before long.”
Neal gave Peter a temperate look of some combination of ridicule and admiration. “Wow. Special Agent Crockett strikes again.”
Peter tried to hide his own doubts. It was all a shot in the dark, following the kind of Boy Scout tips for survival that a person could go their whole life understanding theoretically, and never need to test in an actual life-or-death situation.
Neither of them had mentioned the fact that they might very well be traveling further away from civilization with every step. They'd been blindfolded when they were taken from the lodge, and their subsequent mad dash to get away from Reed's men hadn't done Peter's sense of direction any good, either. Now that the sun was up they at least knew they were going in a vaguely north-easterly direction. For all the good that information did them. Peter had made the executive decision, somewhere in the middle of the night, to make their goal the discovery of a source of water, since that more than anything was what their ability to keep going depended on. He could only hope the direction of water coincided with the shortest route to a busy road. Or that Diana and Jones had been quick to suspect foul play and deployed a SAR chopper by now, and it was only a matter of holding on until it found them. If, that was, said chopper could find them without a smoke signal, or single piece of bright clothing between the two of them, with which to attract attention.
“You know,” Neal began quietly, tilting his head back, eyes closed, “I don't think I've spent this much time in the woods...ever.”
Peter chuckled. “Enjoying our little commune with nature, are you?”
“It's not exactly an ideal introduction. But it's not all bad. You know, there's the early morning birdsong, the fresh air-not to mention the excruciating pain in my leg, the permanent stitch in my side, and the persistent need to vomit up the non-existent contents of my stomach.”
“Consider it a free vacation from Uncle Sam.” Despite the light-hearted tone of Neal's voice, and Peter's own attempt to reciprocate, he decided it was time take another look at the wound now that the light was better.
Neal gave a long-suffering sigh as he watched Peter. “I was kidding, Peter. It's not that bad...”
“Really?”
“No,” Neal admitted begrudgingly. “Just tell me it looks better than it feels,” he added, submitting to the examination, then stiffening as Peter touched his leg to peel back the edge of the “bandage” and test the skin around the wound for heat with the back of his hand. Neal jerked a little at the contact, complaining, “Your fingers are like ice.”
Peter frowned unhappily. His fingers might be like ice, but Neal's skin was definitely hotter than it should be. Hot enough to make his fingers tingle with instant warmth, as if they were touching a water radiator. Despite the fact that he'd already established the wound was through-and-through (and through the fleshy part of the calf, at that, without looking to have hit the bone), he supposed it would be a wonder if Neal didn't develop an infection, unsanitary conditions considered. But a man could hope for miracles.
“We should get moving again,” Neal stated quietly, making no move whatsoever to rise.
Peter stood from his crouch, removing his jacket and draping it over Neal's hunched shoulders. “Take another couple of minutes.”
“You need to stay warm, too, Peter.”
“I'm warm enough from carrying around more than my fair share of the weight.”
Neal returned the smirk. “Diet and regular exercise, Peter. That's the key.” He clutched the lapel of the jacket in a white-knuckled grip of obvious gratitude. “Just take it back when you need it.”
“I'll snatch it right off your skinny shoulders,” Peter promised.
***
Neal stumbled over a branch, nearly sending himself and Peter sprawling before Peter could stabilize him. He realized Neal was gasping for air, and felt a pang of conscience.
As if he could change anything. As if he wanted to push Neal.
“Hey, you alright?” Peter asked, even though he knew the answer.
“Yeah,” Neal panted, lying willfully, because they both knew there wasn't another option. “Yeah. I'm fine.”
They paused by unspoken agreement, but neither made a move to find a seat because if they did they might never get up again.
Neal's head was drooping, his arm-long ago draped across Peter's shoulders and around his neck-was tense with the effort of holding on. It was hard to tell where the continued feverish shivering left off, and the quivering of overexerted muscles began. And it's wasn't just Neal's overexerted muscles that were giving up, either.
But no matter how often the words “giving up” crossed their minds, they were just as often disregarded as irrelevant. Neither of them was going to say it.
“I really...really think I want to just stay here, Peter,” Neal whispered.
Or, then again, maybe saying what they were both thinking was just plain healthy. “Healthy” being a relative state of being that neither of them was lightly to visit any time soon.
Peter closed his eyes, too tired to come up with any words of wisdom, never mind encouragement. “I think I hear a stream up ahead.”
“Lying again...” Neal murmured disinterestedly.
“How do you know? The wind's picked up. It's hard to hear above the sound of the leaves rustling.”
“That's almost poetic,” Neal groused.
“Just keep thinking about streams full of ice cold water.”
“And Giardia-causing organisms.”
“Alright, ray of sunshine. Eyes on the goal.”
Neal just groaned.
And they kept going.
***
In fairness to Neal, he didn't really give up. It was his body that had done that. And even if it had been an issue of a lack of willpower-really, how could Peter hold it against him, when he was nearly sobbing from the pain with every step?
Neal's breathing had gone from strenuous to desperate before he'd all but begged to stop, using a tone that Peter couldn't have refused if he'd had a heart of stone.
They'd been taking short rests periodically, trying to pace themselves. But this time Peter could tell it was different. Neal didn't bother with sitting. He all but slumped to the ground the moment Peter began to lower him, and lay there, oblivious to the sticks and stones that had to be digging into his back, his eyes closed and his chest heaving.
Peter slumped down next to him, placing a hand on Neal's shoulder and giving it a reassuring pat. “Just rest a while. I could use a longer break, too.”
Neal didn't answer. Several minutes later his breathing calmed, and then succumbed to the steady rhythm of the blissfully unconscious.
Peter automatically reached out to shake him awake, and then thought better of it. The kid looked dead. Not figuratively, either, but white-and-limp-as-a-corpse dead. Optimism notwithstanding, it was time to acknowledge that they were past the “serious” stage and progressing into the “urgent.”
Peter let Neal sleep for a good quarter of an hour before tapping him on the shoulder.
Neal only moaned and shivered in response.
“Neal, wake up.” Peter shook him gently. “Come on. We've got to find you some water.”
Neal's eyes opened slowly. He stared up at the canopy of trees for a long moment with a look of incomprehension on his face.
Peter leaned over, blocking his view. “Neal? You with me?”
“No,” Neal croaked, shifting-and promptly gasping in pain. The look he gave Peter was not one Peter wanted to see.
“No, Neal,” he said firmly, “now is not the time for heroically volunteering to stay behind while I go get help. If I'd planned on doing that I could've abandoned you an hour ago.”
“It wouldn't be abandoning me,” Neal countered, despite everything still managing to pick out the key wording of Peter's refusal. “I want to stay here.” He'd closed his eyes again, no doubt trying to present Peter with a picture of complete tranquility. “I insist.”
“You're the CI, and I'm the special agent. You don't get to insist.”
“So shoot me. Or send me back to jail.”
“Neal,” Peter warned, “I'm serious. We need to find some water soon.”
Neal swallowed thickly. He was serious, too. “I can't Peter,” he said, so quietly it was almost a whisper. “I just...can't.”
“Fine, then.” Peter stood, with difficulty. “Since you force my hand.” He reached down, grabbing Neal's arm and pulling him into a sitting position.
The last time he'd attempted the fireman's carry he'd been several years younger, and a whole lot less closer to collapse, himself. Not to mention people in need of being carried usually didn't try to squirm. Neal was doing so weakly, but with a will.
“Peter, you can't-”
“-No, you can't,” Peter contradicted, taking a moment to make sure he had a firm grip, and to pull in some deep breaths. “You just said so. And I'm not leaving you here so I can get out of this alive only to be murdered by my own wife. So heroic carrying you over my shoulder it is.”
“I think I could walk...a little more, if I...”
Peter knew that Neal wasn't actually trying to sound pathetically unconvincing. But he was succeeding.
“Neal, relax. Just enjoy the ride for a bit, huh?”
He could feel the resistance bleed from Neal. The clammy heat of Neal's fever was like an electric blanket draped over his shoulders.
Peter surveyed the gently sloping, underbrush-covered ground ahead, and put one foot in front of the other.
***
Peter stood staring at the vision of moving water for a long moment before he could stir himself to action. “Action” being a loose term for the stumbling, dogged forward motion he'd fallen into.
The rocks of the stream bank made it harder than ever to walk without losing his footing, forcing him to slow down even more. Reaching a bolder near the water, he finally-finally-lowered Neal from his shoulders, sinking to his knees and unable to rise for several minutes, unable to move, even at the galvanizing incentive of water.
What did make him get up again was a glance aside at Neal. He'd been so wrapped up in simply continuing he hadn't had time to consider how Neal's condition had or hadn't gotten worse.
It was definitely worse.
The light of day wasn't kind enough to conceal anything. Neal's face was flushed, hair matted to his forehead by sweat. Breathing shallow. Eyes remained shut, even when Peter tapped the side of his face.
Peter scrambled, and half standing, to the edge of the water. He scooped up a few handfuls of water for himself before cupping up some more to bring it back the few feet to where Neal lay against the boulder.
“Come on, buddy. Enough sleeping and leaving me to do all the work.”
Neal spluttered feebly as Peter trickled the water onto his lips. Peter made another trip for water, repeating the process, and coaxing more loudly, “Neal? I'm done playing hero. Time to wake up. Neal...”
Neal opened his eyes, squinting at Peter in confusion. He reached up a hand to wipe at the water trailing down his chin and opened his mouth, clearly intending to say something, and then broke into a fit of coughing instead.
“Yeah, don't talk just yet. Let's get you some more water.”
Together, they limped their way down to the water's edge together-where Neal would've drunk himself into an overdose if Peter hadn't stopped him.
After that, they both succumbed to much-needed rest. Peter knew he probably should stay awake, alert for danger. But at the moment exhaustion was their worst enemy, and he knew if either of them were going to make it out of this they needed rest as much as water.
***
When Peter woke, he was surprised to find Neal watching him-eyes feverishly bright, but surprisingly aware.
“If I get Giardia, I'll make sure to puke on your couch.”
Peter ran a hand over gritty eyes. “Well, good morning to you, and you're welcome.”
“It's not morning,” Neal informed him. “Never mind a good one. And...thanks. For not leaving me behind.”
“Don't mention it.” Peter sat up, groaning loudly to express the aches of a thousand complaining muscles. “You're heavier than you look, you know that?”
“All muscle.”
“Well, muscle, you think you're up to carrying me for a while?”
Neal grimaced. “Maybe I'm up to carrying myself, if you're lucky.”
“Hey.” Peter nudged him with an elbow. “If we survive this, and the Giardia, my lips are sealed about the piggyback ride.”
Neal looked at him, surprised, and in his weakened, wrecked, sweat-drenched state suddenly very young. “Thanks, Peter.”
“Two thank yous in under a minute,” Peter rose stiffly, wincing through a stretch, “I think I'll count myself repaid.”
Neal propped himself up on an unsteady elbow, and Peter reached down to help him to his feet before he could do a face plant onto the rocks. They had some water for lunch (or possibly an early dinner, judging by how far along the sun had progressed, touching the tops of the eastern treeline, opposite the stream), and both of them found their energy, if not redoubled, at least semi-existent.
At least Peter kidded himself into thinking Neal was doing better. He was, after all, at least helping with the walking again, and now that they were following the stream (a course of action that had needed no vote) water was on-demand. On one of their breaks, he even managed to clean Neal's wound a bit, flushing it-bandage and all-until the cloth was moistened enough to pull away. The bleeding hadn't started again, but Peter spent the next silent part of their belabored hike trying not to think about the angry red color of the skin around the wound.
When Neal collapsed, it brought all the repressed panic bubbling to the surface.
None of his demands for a response were answered, and no amount of urgent shaking could even elicit a moan or protest. The thready pulse beneath Peter's finger only went so far to reassure.
“God, kid...” he breathed, staring down at Neal with exasperation, and worry, and a growing sensation that the whole situation was beyond surreal. It was so viscerally real, and at the same time somehow so far-fetched and dreamlike that Peter was having a hard time wrapping his mind around the fact that he couldn't just pick up his cellphone and call for an ambulance. Maybe Reed's henchmen had done the smart thing after all, recognizing them as the two city boys in the scenario, running off to get themselves killed in the wilderness. It seemed impossible that they could've walked for as long as they had without finding any signs of civilization. Or maybe they'd sleep-walked their way past civilization in their zombified state.
“You're really going to do this to me again?” Peter continued interrogating Neal's unconscious form. He sighed at the predictable non-response he received, coming to grips with the fact that Neal had pushed himself as far as he could, and it was time for Peter to do the same. “Alright,” he relented, wearily, “So you're really going to this to me again.” Which meant that it was his turn once again. He pulled Neal into position to load him onto his shoulder. “Just keep breathing, and my promise holds true. No tattling. Scout’s honor.”
Neal showed his gratitude by continuing to play the limp rag. There was no squirming this time-no protesting that he could walk just a little further. And so, somehow, Peter found a way to keep going.
***
Ironically, it wasn't much further before Peter found the hiking trail. It was as if the wilderness had been out to test his true mettle, throwing one last challenge at him to see if he'd keep throwing it right back.
“Neal? Neal, you with me?”
Neal wasn't. He hadn't been since his unceremonious collapse.
Peter looked both directions along the trail, coming to the dismal realization that even now that he'd found it, it was still a tossup as to which direction he should take. There was a ludicrously quaint, moss-covered bridge crossing the river, only wide enough for one man abreast. On either side of the bridge was an option.
Peter went with his gut and took the right, ignoring Robert Frost and picking the road that looked, to his eye, finitely more traveled. With any luck, more than one hiker had chosen the bridge as a turn-around point.
After indulging in one last drink-and trying to get some down Neal's throat, with limited success-he started off with what would never have been mistaken for enthusiasm by an observer. But it was forward momentum, which was all the enthusiasm Peter had to spare.
For that same reason, when Peter found himself standing in front of the small log cabin that served as a ranger station, knocking on the door with a feeling too numb to count as actual relief, the only words he had for the ranger who answered were: “Hi. I could use a little help.”
He didn't quite lose consciousness shortly thereafter. Details just got a little hazy.
***
“The next thing I remember I was in the ER.”
Elizabeth looked from Neal to Peter. “How far did you carry him?”
“It wasn't that far.” Peter spared a warning look in Neal's direction. A look that went completely ignored, judging by the self-satisfied smile on his face. He knew he was sitting pretty, laid up in a hospital bed, with Elizabeth there to protect him. The idiot.
Elizabeth bestowed him with one of her complicated looks; the kind where the only emotion Peter could definitively decipher was fondness. That, he could handle. It was the touch of something like admiration that made him squirm, resisting the urge to stand and pace away towards the window.
“Hon, don't look so embarrassed.” She leaned forward in her chair to touch his arm. “You could get your name in the newspaper with heroics like that.”
“Now there's a thought.”
Peter kept his tone light, and his look hard. “I think you've done enough, Neal.”
“Peter,” Elizabeth said, with a laugh, “he's done nothing but sing your praises. Now stop looking so grumpy. If it embarrasses you that much, I promise to stop adoring you so openly. And not a word to the press.” She stood, leaning down to kiss Peter. “Now say goodnight to Neal, and let's get you home.”As she left she stopped to give Neal's hand a light squeeze. “I'm just glad you're both alright.”
“I thought we weren't going to say anything,” Peter growled, as soon as she'd left the room.
“You promised not to tell. I was delirious, and in no condition to do anything of kind.” Neal settled his head on the pillow. Smugly. “Peter, your wife thinks you're a hero.”
“I know.”
“So stop looking so grumpy. If you're going to be like that, I think we'd better continue this discussion later. After you've gotten your beauty sleep.”
Peter scowled. “You're one to talk. Who's the one who’s going to be spending a few days in the hospital, and who's the one going home?”
“Going home, to a wife who adores him, and considers him a hero,” Neal pointed out. “You can thank me later for that.”
“Uh uh. You've still got too much groveling to do for the tables to be turned yet. I dragged your butt for miles, kid.”
“First he blushes, now he boasts...” Neal yawned. “You're more complicated to figure out than a teenage girl, Peter.”
“You're just asking for a fight, you know that?”
Neal pointedly rearranged his IV line and fussed with the covers, stretching with a theatrical wince.
“Alright, you invalid,” Peter said, standing-slowly, and with every muscle in his body protesting, regardless. “Take your antibiotics like a good boy, and rest while you can. We got Reed and his goons in the end, but the paperwork is piling up.”
“Peter?” Neal's voice stopped him before he'd reached the door. His smirk was audible. “You know, that really was pretty heroic.”
Peter knew his scowl didn't quite cover his smile. “I'll tell the nurses you've had enough morphine for tonight. Now shut up and convalesce.”
***
Thanks for reading!