If I Were A Weapon - a White Collar AU, serial killer Neal
Title: If I Were a Weapon
Author: aunt_zelda
Characters, Pairings: Neal Caffrey/OFC, Peter/El, Neal/Peter, Neal/Peter/El, Mozzie, OMC.
Rating: R, for violence, disturbing content, and sex.
Word Count: 3,792
Warnings: Dub-con, descriptions of serial killings, possessive behavior, obsessive behavior, light bondage, un-beta’d.
Disclaimer: I do not own White Collar, this is made for fan-purposes, I am making no money off of this, etc.
Summary: 6 drabbles for a White Collar AU. Neal is a serial killer instead of a con artist. So is Mozzie. Neal finds lodging with a hybristophiliac instead of June. Otherwise, the story is pretty much the same, except with murders instead of white collar crimes.
A/N: So, I discovered the community comment_fic and, while scanning through reposts of prompts, discovered one that just wouldn’t let me go: “White Collar, Neal, he's a serial killer, not a con artist.” So I filled it that night, despite being tired and busy with essays. And then I started to write more, and people wanted more, and god help me but I couldn’t stop writing. So here’s some “drabbles” that ran away and dragged me along for the ride.
Mozzie
Mozzie had found Neal in an alleyway practicing on a junkie too stoned out of his mind to notice when Neal slipped and severed the wrong artery.
He’d leaned against the wall and offered advice to Neal, and hadn’t even flinched when Neal had waved the bloody knife up in Mozzie’s face. Mozzie had then twisted Neal’s wrist behind his back so hard he’d dropped the cheap knife. Upon examining Neal’s spasming fingers he’d murmured “Painter, huh? Very nice. Show me your work sometime.”
And Neal had staggered, almost on his knees then from the pain in his wrist, and jerked his head towards the bleeding junkie. “I’ve shown you mine, why don’t you show me yours?”
And Mozzie had laughed, and let go of Neal, and led him to one of his dens where he’d pulled a shivering teenage runaway out of a freezer and done lengthy and painful things to him involving a blowtorch and several long metal spikes. Neal had stayed completely silent, observing with wide eyes, never even considering that perhaps Mozzie had lured him here to make Neal his second victim of the night.
“Teach me,” he’d begged, when the runaway was long dead, dissolving in a barrel of a solution Mozzie had concocted himself.
“I’ll teach you what I can. But ultimately, it’s up to you. You can’t be my copycat. I’ll teach you how to avoid the police, and being caught, if that’s what you want. I’ll teach you how to catch people, what kind of people, where and when. I’ll teach you about anatomy. But I can’t teach you what kind of killer you’re going to be, that’s up to you.”
And Mozzie had been good to his word. Within three years, Neal was making headlines. And it was another five years before the police had linked more than two or three of the cases together and realized they were dealing with a serial killer. At that point, Neal wanted them to know, wanted the whole city, the whole world, to know his work.
Pilot
(First posted HERE)
It makes Peter sick, being so close to Caffrey. True, Caffrey is in jail, but Peter's always been of the opinion that life without the possibility of parole was too good for him.
"What is this, Neal? Want to rub it in my face how you could have escaped all along?"
Neal smirks. He had escaped, last week, at the news that Kate was leaving the country for parts unknown. Kate, his alleged accomplice who they'd never been able to pin anything on but everyone knew was the Bonnie to his Clyde. Kate was long gone by the time Caffrey had made his way to her apartment. Peter had caught him, thankfully before Caffrey decided to take things out on some hapless passerby.
"You need me." Neal pushes yesterday's paper across the table in the visiting room. The front page is splattered with reports of the latest serial killer: "The Dutchman Strikes Again! Grisly Murders Baffle Police!"
"We don't need you, Neal. I hate to break it to you, but we've got these wonderful things called criminologists -"
"You can't catch him. I can." Neal taps the paper. "He's making mistakes. You can't see them, but I can."
Peter raises an eyebrow. "Enlighten me."
"Nuh-uh-ah …" Neal shakes his head. "Let me out of here first."
Peter gets up to leave. "We're done here."
"Look, you can put one of those tracker anklets on me! You can lock me up every night! Just please let me out of this place! I'm … I'm bored."
And Neal sounds so pathetic, so desperate. Peter relishes hearing that in the voice of this killer, this monster, the man who smiled and seduced and sliced up each and every one of his lovely victims and used their blood to accentuate the paintings he made his living off of.
"Neal, I'd rather you were locked up in here with all the other monsters than roaming out in the world with innocents, tracking anklet or not."
Neal smiles, all teeth and icy eyes. "I broke out before. I can do it again. They'll get sloppy, they'll think I've given up. Next month, next year, ten years … I'll get out. I'll find a way. And when I do, I'll come for you first. Maybe I'll lure you out with some cute little college girl, you'd like that, wouldn't you? Just like Juliet Waters -"
And Peter lunges for him, without thinking, knocks Neal out of his chair and onto the floor. Neal spits blood onto the concrete and laughs as the guards come to drag him away and haul Peter out.
"His next victim's going to be Asian! He'll tie her to a tree, I know he will!" Neal yells before locked doors slam shut between him and Peter.
He's right, of course. The next victim is Asian, a 25 year old NYU grad tied to a tree in Central Park, clothes in tatters and strange shapes carved into her torso and legs, just like the previous victims. The tree is new, though, as is her ethnicity, all the previous victims have been Caucasian.
Three days later, Neal is limping slightly as he follows Peter, the anklet giving him some trouble. If Neal slips up at any time, it's right back in prison forever, with no library privileges for a year. So long as he provides assistance on cases, he can stay on the outside, provided he remains in his apartment ("lockdown") at certain randomly decided hours and doesn't purchase any knives.
"When do I get to meet your wife?" Neal asks as they wait for the subway.
Peter nearly crushes his coffee cup. "Never. Leave her out of this."
"But I want to meet her, I want to know what kind of woman could satisfy you." Neal leans forward, breath on Peter's neck. The crowds are so close that Peter can't move away, wants to flinch but doesn't want to give Neal that satisfaction.
"You never gave up. I sent clues that nobody could understand, and still you didn't give up. Did I ever tell you how that made me feel, being hunted like that? The hunter being hunted …"
The train arrives and Peter hurries onboard, Neal trailing after him. When the car shudders and starts to rattle out of the station, Neal stumbles and clings to Peter's arm.
"We should play again sometime." Neal says.
"That … that wasn't a game, Neal. Please tell me you understand that." Peter hisses through gritted teeth, disentangling himself from Neal's clingy arms.
"What's there to understand?" Neal pokes him in the chest, smirking. "Tag … you're it."
First Kill
Peter has seen Neal kill before. On security footage, on the secret tapes Neal and (allegedly) Kate made themselves, even, on one memorable and nightmarish New Year’s Eve, in person. Peter was chained to a radiator and full of drugs, blearily watching as Neal sliced a young woman apart and used her blood to add the finishing touches to a landscape he was painting on the far wall. There are some nights still when Peter wakes up at 3am, the image of Neal’s bare chest splattered with blood, fading in and out of focus as Neal made his way towards Peter’s sluggish and helpless body.
“I’m saving you for later, Agent Burke.” Neal had said, hauling Peter into a sitting position and resting the still-wet blade of the knife against Peter’s throat. “You’re going to be my masterpiece.” He’d said other things too, but Peter had passed out at that point and didn’t hear more than random words like “canvas” and “paint” and “certainty.”
Peter is remembering that now, as he watches Neal sneaking up behind the Richmond Ripper. The Ripper himself is holding Peter and El at gunpoint in a boathouse. He’s been gloating about taking out the man who hunted Neal Caffrey, taunting them. Peter was worried about how El would deal with this, but she’s managed to keep her composure when the Ripper is present, only breaking down and crumpling against Peter when the Ripper is out of the room. She doesn’t want to show him any weakness, wants him to think he’s not getting to her.
Neal hits the Ripper over the head with an oar. The gun flies out of his hands and slides underneath a sailboat. Neal and the Ripper grapple briefly, with Peter and El squirming against the ropes that tie them to one of the wooden beams keeping the building up.
Neal wins, slamming the Ripper’s head into the ground again and again. El winces, but keeps watching. Peter winces too, as blood starts to pool on the concrete.
“How dare you!” Neal snarls. “These … are my … people!” Neal is growling as he shakes the Ripper’s semi-conscious form. “Mine! You can’t have them! They’re mine!” he slams the Ripper down one final time and stands up, panting. His eyes are wild, his hair is a mess, and his hands are covered in blood. Neal strides over to Peter and El, shaking Peter so hard he nearly wrenches Peter free of the ropes.
“How could you be so stupid?!” Neal demands, slapping Peter as if for punctuation. “You’re supposed to be smart, you have to smart, if you’re not smart you’re not worth it, don’t you understand? You caught me, you beat me, I see you … you’re different, different than other people. But if you’re stupid, you’re just like everyone else! Do you understand?” Neal is hysterical now, eyes wide and hands bringing bruises to Peter’s shoulders.
“Neal …” Peter says, calmly and slowly, as if he’s talking down a wild animal … which is actually a lot like what he’s doing. “Neal, you have to calm down and -”
“Calm down?! CALM DOWN?!” Neal shrieks, pacing now, pointing at the Ripper’s body. “I just killed someone for the first time in a year, and you want me to CALM DOWN?!” Neal shudders. “It was so … it wasn’t like I usually … so … clumsy and … no precision …” Neal slumps, tracing his finger through the pool of blood and making a spiral shape. “Wasteful … I could have … he’d have been …” he started muttering to himself and sketching with the blood.
Eventually Peter and El squirm free of their bonds and are able to clean Neal up before their “rescue” team arrives. Neal is sulking at this point, staring as the Ripper’s body is photographed and then put into a bag and carried away.
“Such a waste,” Neal sighs.
“Next one’ll be better,” Peter says, before thinking.
Neal turns in shock, a delighted grin spreading over his face. “You’re right!” he hugs Peter tightly. “You are worth it, you know,” he whispers, pulling back and winking.
Peter doesn’t know how to feel about that. He drops Neal off at the apartment, then goes home and takes a very long shower. He can still feel the Ripper’s blood and Neal’s touch on his skin, even after he crawls into bed with El. It’s at that moment that El breaks down and sobs, clinging to Peter’s body as the strain of the past two days pour out of her.
Peter holds her tightly and does his best to soothe her. He tries not to think about Neal in bed with them, soothing El himself, staring at Peter with those wide, searching eyes.
The Apartment
At first Peter hadn’t believed it possible. Nobody would want infamous serial killer Neal Caffrey living in their house. It was hard enough to get him an apartment, and they’d had to promise supers of the FBI’s constant monitoring in case of any incidents.
But Neal had, of course, found something. Or, rather, someone. He’d gone onto some skeevy tortureporn website and started chatting with people, and gotten around to asking if anyone in New York City had a room for rent, or better yet an apartment. After the FBI’s vetting process, he was allowed to go in for interviews to three, and of those three, two were scared off by the agents and the physical manifestation of Caffrey, one woman not even opening her door out of fear.
Rebecca Wyatt is a little nervous, but she opens the door and goes through with the interview, even offering tea to the agents who sit awkwardly on chairs and do some subtle and not-so-subtle poking around her apartment.
“You’d get the upstairs, bed and bathroom, nice closet, decent view. We can share the kitchen, or you can get some appliances for up there, if you’d rather. If you’re into tv we can work out a sharing schedule, there’s like two shows I can’t miss but otherwise it’s yours.” Rebecca smiles and gulps. “Am I talking too much? I’m talking too much. Sorry, this is just … this is really surreal …”
“In your postings you mentioned identifying more with the aggressor in your fantasies, rather than the victim. That’s very interesting, most women I’ve encountered prefer the sexualized victim role, even though they know they shouldn’t want it.” Neal leans back against the couch and eyes Rebecca up and down.
Rebecca coughs and sets her tea down. “If you read all my postings, you’d know I admitted to sometimes slipping into the victim role. But I feel more comfortable as the aggressor, having the power, especially over a man … it just really turns me on, y’know?”
“You enjoy subverting traditional gender roles,” Neal nods. “That’s not something I’ve done a lot with, unfortunately. Maybe we could … discuss that. If I’m allowed to rent your upstairs.”
Rebecca looks very flushed when the agents return to escort Neal out. Neal winks at her on his way out the door. “Thank you for the tea, Ms. Wyatt!”
Neal moves in next week, after the FBI install new security cameras around the outside of the apartment building, to keep an eye on the entrances and the surrounding streets. The cameras can’t see inside the apartment. All the little awkward moments of Neal’s move-in are missed by the FBI. The safe dinner of pasta and salad is completely unknown to them. As are the movie marathons that start with Neal and Rebecca on opposite sides of the room and, seven months later, end with Neal letting Rebecca straddle him and put her hands around his throat.
“Oh … oh … oh god … oh fuck …” Rebecca moans as Neal jerks and twitches beneath her.
But that’s seven months from now: Neal has to work to coax Rebecca into enacting her fantasies.
Vegetables
Neal has been sharing the apartment with Rebecca for exactly five weeks when he comes up behind her as she’s preparing dinner. There’s a slim knife in her hands, dicing zucchini. Neal approaches her and leans down, smelling her hair. Rebecca freezes, then slowly continues chopping up the zucchini. Neal can see her skin turning red, the blush spreading from the back of her neck and up across her cheeks, and down underneath her shirt. He gets the sudden urge to pull her shirt down, watch her blush’s progress, bring the blood into the air with a very thin and very sharp knife, flay her skin …
Neal closes his arms around Rebecca’s body, putting his hands over hers. Together, they grasp the knife; together they start slicing a carrot with uniform precision. Rebecca is sweating now, and Neal knows that it’s a combination of fear and arousal. Her knees buckle slightly and he presses against her, letting her lean into him. She gasps slightly, feeling his erection pressing against the small of her back.
“Keep going,” Neal whispers, teeth teasing her ear.
Rebecca cuts up everything for dinner, Neal’s hands still over hers, and then stops, panting and shaking slightly.
Neal guides her over to the sink, bends her over so her face is hovering over the tap. He places her hands on the edges of the sink and takes the knife from her, bringing it up to her throat. Rebecca chokes back something, a sob, a plea, a cry? Neal can’t tell.
“Shhhhhhh …” he murmurs, pressing the flat of the blade against her lips. “Lick it clean.”
She does, knuckles white from clutching the rim of the sink. Neal doesn’t let the knife waver, doesn’t cut her tongue. He withdraws the clean knife and presses it against her neck. This time Rebecca does sob, a wet and strangled sound that comes only once.
Neal reaches down and hikes up her skirt, pushing her panties down around her knees. He sees the damp spot on them and smirks, sliding his free hand up Rebecca’s thigh.
“Tell me you don’t want it,” he whispers, tracing the knifepoint along her collarbone. “Tell me and I’ll put the knife down, and this never happened.”
She shakes her head and whimpers. “Please … please … whatever you … want …” there are tears dripping down her face, now, she knows she shouldn’t want this, but she does, and she hates herself for it.
Neal bites his lip, holding back a primal sound he doesn’t think Rebecca’s earned, not yet. His fingers thrust up into her, thumb stroking her clit. She rocks back against him, and he keeps the knife against her neck.
“Want to … mark you …” he growls, fingers going deeper, curling, stretching her open. “So everyone would know …”
She nods, gasping as he unzips his pants and starts to push into her with his cock.
Dinner is a quiet and quick affair, with Rebecca fleeing to her bedroom as soon as the dishes are clear and locking the door behind her. Neal could break the lock easily, but he doesn’t. He gives her time and space. There’s a chance he moved too fast, or overestimated her hybristophilia, or she’s simply not capable of sustaining a kind of relationship with him.
Rebecca is skittish for about a week, but tentatively cuddles up to him during their weekly movie night. Neal puts his arm around her shoulders and smiles. She’s not Kate, but she’ll help to fill a void that he so desperately needs full. Neal needs people like Kate, Rebecca, Peter, and now El, so he has something to focus on other than his desires to slice, rip, cut, kill, and paint.
Rebecca goes to her own room that night, but she doesn’t lock her door. It’s a start.
Dinner
Nobody’s exactly sure how it happens, but one night Neal is eating dinner at Peter and Elizabeth’s house.
“This is so, so wrong,” Peter whispers when he goes to “help El with the salad” and takes a deep drink from a beer.
“He cares about us,” El says. “In a weird, twisted way … he cares about us.”
Peter shifts uncomfortably, remembering the Ripper, Neal covered in blood and shaking him in that boathouse. “He’s not like most people, El. It’s not … it’s not love, not really. I think it’s like what he had with Kate -”
“Allegedly had with Kate,” El interjects, attempting a laugh nervously.
“Yeah. It’s like … possessions. He doesn’t want other … people like him, touching his stuff.”
El rests her head on Peter’s shoulder. “Well, I’d rather be his ‘stuff’ than what everyone else is to him. Wouldn’t you?”
And Peter wants to say no, he’d rather be Neal’s enemy, rather fight and chase and hunt Neal down and throw him back in jail where he belongs.
But that’s not true. Neal has helped them catch so many killers, put so many horrible people behind bars or in the ground. The Dutchman was only the start. Considering his unique insights and ability to analyze the killers they hunt, it’s not a bad price to pay: letting Neal live in an apartment, eating organic food and (Peter suspects) playing kinky games with his landlady. He can’t be killing: he’s on too tight a leash. Peter hopes that someday Neal will have lost the taste for it, whatever drive that pushes him to kill will have been satisfied with hunting down other killers. But that’s far in the future, if it can ever happen.
“My ears are burning,” Neal grins when they come back out to the table. “Talking about me?”
El carefully lays a hand on his shoulder as she slides the salad bowl across the table. “It’s not always about you, Neal.” She smiles warmly and sits down. “The world does not, in fact, revolve around your pretty face.”
Neal raises his eyebrows and leans back, giving El an appraising look. Peter feels the sudden urge to move between them, to protect El from the dangerous murderous man. Then he realizes that Neal isn’t looking at El like a serial killer, he’s looking at her like a man. He wants her, and not sliced up with a knife.
“Don’t look now, honey, but I think Neal wants to sleep with you.” Peter says, passing the bread to El.
“Really?” El glances sideways at Neal. “Do you think he’s going to do something about that? Will you let him?”
“You know, I think I just might,” Peter grins, taking a deeper drink from his beer.
Neal’s starting to flounder, having lost control of the situation for once with both El and Peter teaming up against him.
They barely make it through dessert before the flirting escalates to touches. Peter grabs Neal and hauls him up the stairs to the bedroom, throwing him onto the bed. Neal’s shocked expression is almost funny.
“Like I’d let you take charge here.” Peter growls, pinning Neal down as El grabs the handcuffs from the top drawer and secures Neal to the headboard. “Do you have a safeword?”
“Adler.” Neal’s mouth twists in disgust.
Peter wants to ask, but decides not to push, not tonight.
“How long have you wanted this, Agent Burke?” Neal asks, hips arching up.
“I don’t know, how long have you?” Peter asks, sliding his hand down underneath Neal’s waistband. “Huh, feels like a while.”
El’s hand joins his. “Mmmmm, yeah. He’s been awfully patient, Peter. I think we should reward him for that.”
The cuffs stay on all night, though Peter does detach them from the headboard so Neal is still cuffed, but there’s no danger of circulation issues.
Neal looks peaceful and content, sleeping deeply, curled up between Peter and El, chained wrists curled up over his chest.
“Mmmmmm ... mine ...” Neal mumbles, turning over slightly to rest his head on Peter’s shoulder.
Peter stares at the ceiling and waits for sleep to overtake him. Maybe things will make sense in the morning. Or maybe not.
(The end, for now.)