White Collar belongs to USA and I'm only playing with their toys.

This is my first fanfiction ever, not to mention White Collar and also the first time I write in English, which is not my mother language and I'm mostly self taught. It has not been Betaed either, so I'm sure there are plenty of grammar mistakes I'm not even aware exist, but I still hope you can enjoy it. Reviews are greatly appreciated and if you notice any mistake, please let me know to correct it.

At first all he could feel was pain, and with the pain came the fear, primitive, animal, atavistic. He wanted to move, to escape the pain and to escape the fear. To move hurt, but worse was to feel how something kept him in place holding him tightly. Then fear led to panic and he fought with all his might to get rid of whatever it was that kept him trapped in this world of pain, though whatever it was that held him was simply stronger and soon he had exhausted all his power, only leaving him with enough energy to shake uncontrollably there where he laid. Exhausted, defeated, terrified, struggling to get every breath in painful inspirations. Survive.

So whatever it was that only seconds ago had caught him hard, like the tentacles of an octopus who wanted to keep him underwater, was now rubbing his arm up and down, up and down, up and down. Neal realized he could keep pace, inhale and exhale, inhale and exhale and this relieved the burning sensation of suffocation. Still hurt to breathe, but the pain was much more tolerable now that his chest expanded just enough to let the amount of air to fill his lungs with the needed oxygen. The violent shaking of his body was slowly decreasing, from those violent convulsions that seconds before had completely shaken him up to a slight tremor, a constant vibration that still spread through his members. And that thing that rubbed his arm was also losing some of its strength, becoming a sort of caress. Keeping pace.

After the first moment of panic the ex-con tried to organize his head a little, though his thoughts seemed to swim in a soup too thick, leaving him unable to put them in order on the tide of fear, pain and utter confusion that still held him clutched in its talons. Neal hated that feeling, there couldn't be a worst nightmare in his mind that this total lacks of control, not knowing where he was, what had happened, the reason for all the pain that enveloped his body. Neal loved the control, loved the order, to know where everything was, to know everyone was, he loved to calculate all his steps, the steps of those around him and to know in advance where all the exits were. It had been a training process he had spent all his life practicing until it had became a keen instinct that had allowed him to survive. But now he was not in control.

It was then that he realized something, the darkness and silence. It was that and not the pain what had actually panicked him so deeply and now that brief spaces of something as close to lucidity to what he could aspire for moments reached to break the surface of his puzzled brain Neal could tell that he was trapped in some way he could not explain. And to be trapped, a prisoner, was in itself one of his bigger nightmares. And yet it wasn't darkness, the blackness was not like waking up in the middle of the night, but on the contrary, it was a blinding light, a white and red and yellow light that didn't allow him to see and injured his eyes with a dull pain that penetrated into his brain. Neal wanted desperately to escape the light and when blinking hard not only sharpened the pain he tried to shield himself, to hide from that light behind his forearms, but the strength that had kept him from moving before once again prevented the gesture, holding him firmly and bringing his hands to his sides. For a moment the young man felt panic rise from his chest to his throat but with a great deal of that part of his mind that had not yet defeated to animal fear, he managed to control himself and surrender to the gentle force that held him still, more afraid of the burning sensation of suffocation that had previously wrapped him than to feel trapped. He couldn't help but the tremors returned to control his body, not as violent as before, but enough to slowly consume the adrenaline that his first reaction had released.

Yet neither it was silence, it was a mix between a deep murmur, like the sound of a train approaching and a sharp buzzing, penetrating, painful to his ears as the light to his eyes.

Breathing shouldn't be so difficult. As consciousness pushed through, the various pains that embargoed his whole body became more and more noticeable. His eyes, his face, his hands, his head, his back... but mostly his chest, everything hurt. How much he wanted to keep his chest still! That for a moment, even for a single moment he didn't have to be forced to extend and contract it with every breath, because every time he did he felt an acute pain, like daggers that tore inside him with every movement of his ribs. But he knew, he was conscious enough, that breathing was important, very important, that he should continue to do so beyond the pain and to stop was to face the last defeat, and that literally, to keep breathing was a matter of life or death. The hands seemed to have realized his fight, because they had stopped affirming his forearms, his shirt had been opened in one quick motion, without bothering with the buttons and now Neal could feel its touch on his chest. For a split second the icy cold hand contact had been a blessing, a relief, but only for what lasted the flutter of a hummingbird, because then they pressed gently into several parts, taking his pain level to a point that until now he had not thought possible. A howl must have escaped his lips, he was not sure since he could not hear it with the incessant roar in his ears but he was pretty sure it had been, because he had a rough feeling at the bottom of his throat, forcing him to swallow to alleviate it and because the hands were now not so still, and they did not inspire that firm confidence that had shown at the beginning and now they moved fast and nervous, one cradling her cheek and the other gently stroking his forehead , clearing it of the wet strands of his hair as his breathing was back to normal, or what was closer to it .

Neal noticed that his eyes were tightly closed, so hard that it hurt and he slowly relaxed his brow and tried to open them. He had been secretly hoping that somehow some shape would show up to him, something, anything to help him to understand where he was and what had happened, but there was only light, intense, blinding, aching intensely. But more than the pain in his eyes he felt the squeezing and oppressive shadow of entire despair. This had to be a nightmare, it could not be more than a nightmare and he should have woken up by then. The hand still clutching his face dried with his thumb a rebel tear that escaped from his useless eyes.

His energy was slipping, leaving him faster with every second and the idea of succumbing to unconsciousness was more and more tempting with every heartbeat. To sleep would be nice, because then he could wake up elsewhere, where this nightmare had actually finished and where to breathe were not an agonizing struggle. But his body had other ideas and did not include to rest. As an unexpected punch in the stomach that had let him out of air his abdominal muscles and diaphragm contracted in unison, compressing his stomach like a balloon and letting a mouthful of acidic and bitter flavor that flooded his mouth down to his nose. The hands were quick and with a single energetic and efficient movement they turned his body and left him lying on his side, leaning slightly forward, allowing the acidic contents of his stomach, which was sent out in waves with each heave, hit the ground and not to get within his already abused lungs. The retches continued for a long time, even long after every contents of his stomach had been expelled in painful contractions and a cough fit tore his chest and made him feel like his head was going to explode at any moment.

The hands were still there, securing his shoulders and his head to avoid submerging his face in his own vomit, but Neal was not afraid anymore of the force holding him, but let his weight rest on them when they gently turned him around again, this time not completely on his back, but over something softer, slightly keeping him upright. Neal wanted to touch them, to feel them, to recognize them because at this point they were the only thin thread that held him from falling back into the hot panic and he sought them with his own hands. The hands knew and reached his to grasp them gently, but Neal's fingers were strangely swollen and sore so he couldn't make anything with them. He wanted to raise his hands, to touch the face that were probably linked by arms and body to this other hands, but though he tried he could not find the strength to lift them as high, less now that the heaves and coughs had depleted his last reserves and his thoughts were turning increasingly confused and cloudy. Neal could feel how his body was fading, how the tremors decreased in intensity and he knew that to lose consciousness was inevitable, but in the darkness and silence he also knew that at least he was not alone. With his last reserves of energy Neal guided the hand holding his to his face and inhaled as deeply as he could without chocking. He could feel the smell of fear, sweat, burnt and blood, but there was also another scent he knew very well, a mix of wood, leather and grapefruit.

"Peter..."

Unless some weird inspiration strikes me in between, I think next chapter will be Peter POV and then you'll be able to understand more of what is happening... at least more than Neal. But first let me know if it is worth continuing or I should change my hobby to knitting or something.