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"It's simple," Peter had said beforehand, which meant it was going to be complicated. "You just have to talk to the guy until he confesses to moving the paintings. You're good at talking."
"Not to violent criminals." Neal was particularly shaky before this job, and he wasn't sure why. Something about guns being waved around like plastic toys makes him nervous. "One of these days, I'm going to get shot."
"I won't let you get shot." Peter said cheerfully. "That would be too much paperwork."
"I don't like your tone."
"Just get the job done." Peter patted him on the shoulder.
So Neal did, knowing that Peter, Diana and Jones were all waiting outside if he needed them. They're always just a minute away if he needs them.
The issue with that, is that they're a minute away, and an awful lot can happen in a minute.
When the mark - Neal never got into the habit of saying suspect - pushes him backwards, his reaction isn't to push back. Fight or flight, he always picks flight. It's the conman's instinct. Unfortunately, the way for Neal to flee right now is downwards, assisted by gravity, onto the concrete floor.
He sees stars, but he doesn't black out. It rattles his brain inside his skull so much that he can't think straight enough to flinch when the mark puts a gun in his face. Carefully, he counts down the seconds until the FBI barrel through the door and take the mark for - at the very least - common assault.
"FBI!" A woman yells - oh, that must be Diana - as the door flies open. Forty-eight seconds, not bad. The mark turns and runs out of the back door, which is nice because now Neal doesn't have a gun pointed in his face. Then, Peter appears above him, gun aimed at the ground like the sensible man he is.
"Jesus, Neal!" Peter yells, so loud and so close that it makes Neal's ears ring. Or maybe his ears were already ringing - he's struggling to tell one moment from the next. "I need a medic in here!"
"'M fine." Neal insists, words a little slurred. He tries to sit up and feels something wet and warm trickle down his neck.
"No no, don't move." Peter pushes Neal's chest until he's back on the ground. He's taking off his suit jacket, for some reason. "You're losing a lot of blood."
"From wha'?" Neal is pretty sure he didn't get shot. He leans up again and touches the back of his head. His fingers come away blood-slick. "Oh no."
"Where's my medic?" Peter yells, pressing his jacket to the back of Neal's head. "We have a man down!"
The next hour is a blur. Someone presses a new cloth to the back of his head, then he's loaded up onto a gurney and a light is flashed in his eyes. He doesn't like that, it makes his head throb. Someone asks him who the president is, and his answer of "which country?" seems to be sufficient. As he's being rolled into the ambulance, Peter appears beside him, and stays with him all the way to the hospital.
Neal starts to refocus when he's sitting on a bed in the hospital, having his skull glued back together by a very pretty female nurse. Unfortunately, he's too rattled to think of anything clever to say to her, so he sits still like a good boy until the nurse says he's all fixed. He can't leave, though, because his unromantic date with the concrete floor has left him with a concussion. They have to monitor him overnight.
"You could've died!" Peter says, pacing back and forth across Neal's hospital room. The sound of his footsteps makes a painful reciprocating sound inside Neal's head. "Seriously, El, you should have seen the amount of blood coming out of his head."
"Head wounds bleed a lot, even minor ones." Elizabeth says, sitting delicately at Neal's bedside. She doesn't need to be here but as soon as Peter called her to say Neal was hurt, she showed up to mother him. "Honey, can you please sit down?"
"He could've died!" Peter gestures to Neal, who regardless is still not dead and doesn't intend to be any time soon. Elizabeth gives him a look, and Peter sits down in a chair besides Neal's bed. "Don't do anything like that again."
"I didn't get a concussion on purpose." Neal mutters. "What, you think I do this for fun?"
"I never know with you." Peter muses. "So, the doctor says you need to stay up all night to make sure you don't have anything more wrong in your head."
"You two can go home. I'll be alright." Neal insists.
"Don't be silly." Elizabeth reaches into her handbag. "I have plenty of entertainment for you. I brought an old photo album from when Peter had his moustache."
"Yes please." Neal snatches it out of Elizabeth's hands before Peter can get it first. "What kind of moustache? Handlebar? Charlie Chaplin?"
"You're feeling better already." Peter mutters.