fic: my lips have the sin [1/4]

[hoosierbitch]

Title: my lips have the sin
Author: hoosierbitch
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Nonconsensual sex, rape recovery, post-traumatic stress disorder.
Word Count: 29,300
Author’s Notes: I thought this story was going to be a couple of comments long when I started it on the first round of collarkink (first thread here, second thread here). That was 29,000 words and 20 months ago. I wouldn’t have finished this journey without a lot of help from some amazing women. Thank you rabidchild67 for betaing, brainstorming, and falling in love with Brad. elrhiarhodan-when I started writing this, I could barely spell your username. You gave me the laptop I used to write the middle portion of the story, welcomed me into your house for the weekend where I finished it, and then betad the whole damn thing. And last but not least, photoash, who was simultaneously first reader, cheerleader, asskicker, researcher, midwife, and handholder. I wouldn’t have gotten here without you. And finally, thank you to everyone who read this in all of its fits and starts at the meme. Your feedback and encouragement meant (and means) so much to me.

Prompt:

Neal runs for a reason that Peter understands but the judge doesn't, and he's sent back for life with parole. In prison the second time, when everyone knows he's been working for the Feds, he gets really messed up. He gets turned out and passed around and brutally abused for the first year or so. After a while, he realizes the only way he'll survive is to pair up with someone, so he has a series of questionable "protectors".

Meanwhile, Peter realizes how bad things are for Neal and is desperately trying to get him back out. Several years in, he finally gets Neal released on parole and gets the old arrangement more or less back (how more or less is up to anon). Cue confused post-prison Neal who is still in the mind-set of needing a "protector" and looking to Peter to fill that role. Not just thinking he can use his body to gain Peter's favor (although that's cool too), but also actively seeking out Peter's companionship and touch when he feels panicked and needs reassurance he's safe.


Peter said he was sorry. He took the tracker off one last time and then stayed on his knees, bent down before Neal like he was expecting to be knighted. “I can’t believe this is happening,” Peter said, and because Neal had learned that Peter’s words could become law he wasted a second wishing that it was a joke, maybe it could be a prank gone too far and any second now Peter would reattach the anklet and Neal would laugh and help him stand up and they’d drive home together, maybe pick up dinner on their way, call Elizabeth and see what she’d like for dessert-

"Get up, Peter. You’re going to hurt your knees."

Peter stood and held the anklet awkwardly in front of him like an offering, a gift, an apology. As if the guards weren’t going to search Neal and take everything away from him as soon as Peter left the room. "I’ll get you out," Peter promised, and Neal tried to smile and say thank you, or I believe you, or Peter please don’t leave me here, Peter, Peter, Peter.

Instead he nodded and stayed absolutely still while Peter brought him in for a tight hug that stole the air from his lungs and the resolve from his mind (Peter, Peter, please). Then Peter turned, anklet dangling from his hand, and left Neal alone.

This wasn’t Neal’s first time in prison. He had a lot of memories and a strong imagination. He thought that he knew what was in store for him, thought that he could handle it.

He let Peter go and held his pleas behind clenched teeth.

When the first inmate sidled up behind him and whispered snitch into his ear, he realized that this was going to be so much worse than he ever could have imagined.

*

The first year was by far the worst. In the first year, Peter and Elizabeth and June and Moz visited him every week. Peter would tell him about the appeals he’d filed, Elizabeth would complain about her business with a big fake smile plastered on her face, June would tell him stories about Byron, Moz would say nothing at all.

He tried to bribe the other inmates not to bruise him where it’d show. He didn’t want the others-his friends, coworkers, family, Peter-to worry.

His first time in prison, they hadn’t let him out in the yard. They’d limited his activity time, watched him like a hawk during work hours, brought him his meals so he wouldn’t somehow escape from the mess. Apparently this time around they thought he’d been rehabilitated, declawed; that he was no longer a threat. Not a flight risk. And so they left him to fend for himself.

They got him his first day outside. He’d been sticking to the perimeter of the fence, hoping to avoid notice, and they grabbed him when he was strolling past the bleachers. One of them kicked his legs out from under him; another knocked his head against a metal support. His vision blurred. He could feel blood trickling down through his hair and thought at least the bruise will be hidden.

They pressed his face into the ground and the smell of dirt and grass and cigarette butts overwhelmed him.

They were careful with the uniform (they’d had practice). They took turns with him. Mike was the biggest, so he had to go last. Nelson’s was smallest. They laughed at him, teased him, it burned like acid when the first one spit on Neal’s hole and shoved in. Damon was second. It was a smoother entry, the second time. Neal tried to catalog the facts and sensations, said to himself: this, you can bear. This, you can live with later. It is easier to push out than to tighten, easier to breathe through your nose than your mouth so you smell earth instead of semen, easier to concentrate on the sensations than to listen to them talk.

"You like being used, boy? You like it when the FBI used you? I bet you did. I bet you’re having second thoughts now, though!" They laughed again, they all laughed. "FBI’s little bitch boy, right here on my cock. I feel honored."

At least they were quick about it. Maybe twenty minutes and he was left alone, half-naked under the sun and god and anyone else who cared to glance over. Twenty-two minutes and he finished jerking himself off because he had a prostate and they’d hit it, they’d rubbed his dick against the ground and he’d responded. He didn’t have to convince himself he didn’t want it, it wasn’t his fault, he wasn’t a whore. (Not that time. Not yet.)

After his first gangbang he got better at staying under the guards’ eyes. Then the other prisoners got better at distracting them. He was passed around like a party favor, a toy, a blow-up doll, a convenient set of holes. Fucked until he bled, passed out, came, believed what they were saying about him.

After the first year he realized Peter wasn’t going to be able to save him, took everyone off his approved visitor list, and set about saving himself.

*

Hector was a family man. He showed Neal pictures of his family; his two daughters, his son who’d passed away in a car accident, his parents (God bless them and keep them), his wife. Hector had been in charge of the largest drug-running operation in New England before his brother turned him in.

"You stay with me, querido, I’ll take care of you."

Neal had stopped talking months earlier, so he just nodded and took the hand Hector was offering him. Hector pulled him up from the floor easily, like he weighed nothing. Hector was a big man, and Neal hadn’t been eating well. Hector took him to the infirmary, waited patiently while the RN looked him over, and waited two weeks before he even touched Neal. It was the longest Neal had gone without contact for eleven months and when Hector finally kissed him, caressed him, fucked him, Neal was grateful for it.

Life was...simpler, with Hector. Hector would talk about his family (Neal was slowly learning Spanish), his business, what he was planning to do after his release. "Pero, you’re here forever, si?" Neal hmmd and leaned against him. "Poor little bird, pobrecita, trapped in her little cage."

They played endless games of blackjack. Hector had paid handsomely for the biggest double-cell on the block, and they drank crappy alcohol while Hector laughed and tried to figure out how Neal was cheating, laughed and call him by his wife’s nicknames, laughed and never once tried to get him to talk.

Hector didn’t make love to him often. He wanted blowjobs most mornings and nights, but he only fucked him on visiting days. He did it missionary style, he’d call Neal Maria, kiss his neck, he’d be gentle. "Gonna get you pregnant again, mi amor, fill you up inside-unh-"

He didn’t touch Neal’s cock himself (it would have ruined the illusion), but he let him jerk off, let him come.

He overdosed in June, and Neal saw his family when they came in to claim the body. His daughters were beautiful. His wife looked nothing like Neal.

After Hector there was Tom, and then Nelson (who’d been the first one to fuck him, over two years earlier), then Francois. Francois who Neal thought maybe he could have fallen in love with, if they’d met at a different time, before-before.

Francois was tall and strong, with a laugh that made the other inmates groan, it bounced through the halls and into their cells (he’d laugh while Neal rode him, laugh and kiss him and run his hands through Neal’s hair which had grown so much longer). He wasn’t French, didn’t speak a word of it, but Neal could imagine them in France. Walking down the Champs hand in hand, Francois with his tan and sun-bleached hair, white teeth gleaming in one of his huge grins. Or in Provence, in one of the hostels Neal had stayed in with Alex, living like poor art students and eating pastries in bed.

Francois didn’t know who Neal was or why he was in prison, and he spent the time they weren’t fucking making up elaborate back stories for him. "I think you murdered your whole family," he guessed the first night. "You’ve got a crazy clever look about you, Neal. I bet you did it real weird, too. With-with kitchen appliances. Because you were a chef. Were you a chef, sweetie?"

Neal shook his head but gave Francois a small grin, which made him laugh (it boomed, echoed, was too loud, surrounded him). "You’re gorgeous when you smile, baby. You don’t have to, or nothing," Francois said when it faded. "But it sure makes you look-real pretty, Neal. Real, real pretty."

Francois was gay. He had a boyfriend on the outside, a string of other lovers behind him, and he knew how to make Neal come, moan, cry. The first time Francois rimmed him Neal orgasmed before he even knew what was happening. Francois didn’t just touch him in the yard, didn’t have Neal hold onto his belt loop or pocket, he kept his arm wrapped around Neal at all times. Like they were dating, like they were partners, like he cared.

Francois was in jail for fraud. He’d robbed thousands of people of their life savings. Didn’t have that much pull on the inside, but he was built like a beast; no one wanted to challenge him. Francois had been sentenced months after Neal had gone back inside. He wondered if it might have been his team-Peter’s team-who caught him.

Most of the time Neal tried not to think about the bonds he’d forged. He’d stolen $500,000 dollars from a corporation worth billions. And for that he would be spending the rest of his life behind bars.

Peter’s deal hadn’t been worth it. Neal should have served the four years he’d forfeited for Kate, should have told Peter his deal wasn’t good enough, shouldn’t have chased the man he’d thought was their mark past his two-mile tether.

By the end of his third year, Francois’ impossible stories filled his head. At first they were all about Neal’s mysterious past-had he been a family-killing chef, or a trainer at Sea World who’d violated the dolphins, maybe a schizophrenic tranny with a shoe fetish, a crazed stalker of Hall & Oates who’d taken his obsession one tragic step too far?-but then the stories started to change.

When Francois began to tell stories about the future, Neal did his best to nod and smile. "We’re going to be big stars on Broadway, Neal," Francois said, and Neal smiled and pushed back harder, getting the final inch of Francois’ cock at just the right angle. "Going to get a house-and an electric car-and you can cook, or paint, or sing-"

Neal thought about the Burkes’ house, about the dreams he and Moz and Kate had shared, and tried to say I’m in here for good, I’m in here forever but somewhere along the line the silence had gone from a choice, a habit, a shield, into something else. Somewhere along the line he’d lost his voice. He’d lost so many things before that he didn’t regret its absence until he tried to say I’m no good, I’m trapped, I’m a bird in a cage, querida, Francois, stop talking.

He had hickeys on his neck, a well-fucked ache in his ass, and the unbalanced feeling of Francois not standing at his side when Peter Burke filed one final, successful appeal, and got him out.

*

Peter knew Neal.

If there was one thing that had remained constant through the eight years they’d known each other, it was that Peter knew everything about Neal. He knew Neal’s shoe size (11), favorite brand of toothpaste (apricot tartar control), what he liked (beautiful women, money, Kate, Peter), what he needed.

The Neal that the guards brought him after he showed them his paperwork wasn’t the same man. Yes, his hair was longer and he was thinner, he looked different, but Peter had braced himself for that. It was the spark of Neal Caffrey-the magic that had made him seem as though he was always just a second away from either picking your pocket or kissing you, the magic that let you know that either choice would be an adventure-it simply wasn’t there anymore.

Maybe there’s a mistake, he thought, even though he knew there hadn’t been. This was Neal. This was Neal now. They’d just have to-to start over. Neal flinched when Peter stepped closer so he stopped.

"I’m going to get you out of here," he said. Neal nodded, like he’d expected Peter was going to say that, like it wasn’t a big deal, like he didn’t care. "You just need to sign some forms, and I can take you home."

He gave Neal the papers and a pen and Neal sat down at the table and started reading. Reading the fucking papers like there was a choice in the matter, like working with Peter might be worse than what he already had.

"It’s a good deal," he tried to explain. "Just the three years you had left." Neal turned a page. "I know it’s not perfect, but it’s the best I could do." Another blank stare and page turn.

Peter thought of the hours he’d put into getting the judge to release Neal, the hours and money and energy, the worry, and he wanted to-to shake Neal, shake him and hug him and take him home and feed him.

"Aren’t you going to say anything?"

"He don’t talk," the guard behind him said.

"What do you mean, he doesn’t talk? Of course he talks, I’ve heard him talk. Did something happen to him?" He turned to Neal. "Are you sick? Was your throat damaged?" He did his best not to think of how hollow Neal’s voice had been three years ago, how much could happen in three years, all the ways damage could be inflicted on the delicate lining of a throat.

"No, he just don’t talk." Peter’s stare of incredulity was interrupted by the scratch of a pen across paper. Neal was signing, he realized, and he took a moment to let the relief to wash over him.

"Now let’s get you out of here."

Peter waited outside while Neal went through processing. He’d forgotten that Neal had gone back in during the summer; he was shivering in just a thin white t-shirt when he walked out into the snow. Peter quickly took his coat off and draped it around Neal’s thin shoulders. He was careful not to touch him, thinking about boundaries and flashbacks and all of the reports that had crossed his desk. The photos he’d seen of Neal.

He opened the passenger side door and Neal didn’t say thank you or smile at him or mock him. Just slid in and stared out the window like he had nothing better to do.

"June’s willing to take you back," he said, as he navigated through traffic, trying to see if he could make out the bulge of the anklet through Neal’s thin slacks. Just making sure. “It’s just that she packed everything up and gave most of Byron’s things to charities, after you-it’s all in storage. It’ll take a while to set everything back up. But after that she’ll do it for $700, just like last time."

He switched on the turn signal and they sat at a red light. "You’ve got two choices: we can get you a room at the hotel while June readies your room, or you can take the guest bedroom in our house." He waited for an answer that couldn’t come. "Right. No talking. Uh-hold up one finger for the hotel, two for the guest room."

Neal put his two fingers in the crook of Peter’s arm. It sent a jolt through him. Like Neal might have been a ghost this whole time, a mirage sprung from the well of Peter’s desperation. The pressure of Neal’s hand through his suit jacket meant it was real. All of it, everything, was real.

When Peter drove until they neared the city limits, Neal made a small questioning sound. A little hmm? , and Peter had to clench his jaw to keep from crying. Some analytical part of his brain noted that Neal could still make noises; another part just screamed.

"We moved," he said, when he’d recovered himself. "New house. We have a bigyard, if you can believe it." Neal turned back to the window.

*

Elizabeth ran outside when they pulled up in the driveway. It was still gravel; they’d get it paved, hopefully this year if the Christmas bonuses came through. El ran up to the car, a pair of Peter’s boots jammed on her feet, oversized sweater hanging lopsided off her shoulder. Neal didn’t even open his own door. He sat there and waited for Peter to come around, to take his elbow and guide him out onto the snow, to tell him what he was supposed to do. El was visibly torn-she wanted to hug him, touch him, welcome him-but he looked so small and worried and he was clinging so desperately to Peter’s sleeve.

"It’s good to see you again," she said, and when she stepped towards him, Neal sidestepped behind Peter. "Right." She nodded, like that was understandable behavior, like he’d said ‘hello,’ instead of staring ahead like their new house was a fairytale castle and she was the wicked witch. "You must be cold. Let’s get you inside."

Peter gave him the grand tour. They’d moved to an old farmhouse, with a lot of land and plumbing problems. It was a real fixer-upper. But the rooms were huge and open; the windows looked out over fields that were barren at this point in the season, covered in white. He told Neal that in the Summer they would become a dark, deep green, in the Spring there would be deer, in the Fall the surrounding trees turned would turn a red deeper than fire. It was a place where El could grow her own herbs, and Satch could chase squirrels until he fell over, and they could begin to think about raising a family.

It was a place where Peter could retreat. He’d needed that space, the past three years. But he had thought-with Neal back-that the echoing corners of the huge house would be filled. That the attic and the back staircase and the empty closets wouldn’t seem like they belonged to someone else; that Neal would paint them or fill them or bring them to life.

Three years before, Neal had fit into their lives like a missing puzzle piece. He was the brother and friend and son they’d never had, the beautiful adventurous man they’d had to learn they wanted. He’d scared and excited and challenged them, and before-their relationship had been building, deepening, thriving. Now Peter followed Peter like a well-trained dog, obedient at his heels, keeping his head down and his mouth closed. All Peter could hear was the uncomfortable monotony of his own voice, giving Neal the tour.

Eventually he showed Neal to the guest room. He opened the door and led the way in, but stopped with an abrupt halt after a few seconds. This was the first time Neal had let himself get more than a foot or two away from Peter since they’d met at the car. Neal had stopped in the doorway and was staring at the pictures they’d rescued from his apartment at June’s, the few sketches of Neal’s they’d found and had framed, the suits already hanging in the closet. Moz had donated a stack of books. He’d mailed them over, not even including a note. El said he was holding a grudge. Peter couldn’t blame him.

He straightened the comforter awkwardly while Neal stood on the edge of the room. "I hope you like it," he said finally, when he couldn’t stand the silence anymore. He’d have to get better at that, get used to it, try to get rid of it. "If you don’t, you can change it." He gave Neal what he knew was an unconvincing smile. "It’s your room."

It was Neal’s room, but this wasn’t Neal. Who touched the first edition Ginsberg with such hesitant fingers, who avoided eye contact, who had stolen so many things he hadn’t earned (beautiful, expensive, priceless things) but looked so overwhelmed by the slippers on the floor, the hats hanging by the door, by Peter, who was still (he would get used to it, he would) waiting for Neal to say something.

"Do you need anything?" Neal shook his head. "If you do, we’re down the hall. We have to leave early for work. The commute’s a little over an hour."

Neal looked worried. He gestured at himself-at his lips, his throat-then shrugged helplessly.

"I don’t know," Peter said, because he had no idea how Neal would be able to work with no voice. "We’ll figure it out. Neal-" (and he meant it, he did, he had to-) "I promise that you’re not going to go back there."

Because Peter was the only one who could ever catch him if he ran. If Peter didn’t chase-Neal’s eyes got big and his hands (wrapped around the bedpost) tightened. "Try and get some sleep," Peter said. And he closed the door and went downstairs to his wife and his dog and the dinner Neal hadn’t been able to eat, and started planning.

*

He didn’t magically get better.

The bed was too soft. And so empty-there was no heavy arm wrapped around his stomach to keep him anchored, no hot breath in his ear to lull him to sleep, and only the last lingering ache of Francois to remind him that this house-this beautiful house, this home-existed in the same world as grey walls and metal bars.

He wandered the house in the dark hours of morning. Satchmo followed him (clack of nails on wood); together they patrolled. There was food in the kitchen; he ate an apple. It was the first time in three years he hadn’t eaten at a predetermined mealtime. He left the core on the top of the compost bin. Peter would see it and be happy that he’d eaten.

He walked outside by himself and grabbed a lawn chair off the back porch. He carried it into a far corner of the backyard, the snow soaking his bare feet and the bottom of his pajama pants. He walked to the fence and sat down, awkwardly cross-legged on the plastic chair. He held his feet in hands that were only slightly warmer and breathed through the panic attack that threatened to overwhelm him. This was harder than the adjustment to June’s had been. New York City had been busy, the streets full, June’s guest rooms small enough-he’d been able to close his eyes and pretend, taking comfort in the steady noise and close walls. He couldn’t do that here. There was no ring of clanging doors, no rasping breath in his ear, no horns blaring. He breathed in the silence.

He stared out at the moonlit fields and knew that if he ran, right then, if he decided it was all too much right in that moment, he would freeze to death. He was already shaking. It was, he’d heard, a relatively painless way to die.

He rubbed his toes and watched the stars. Picked out the constellations he knew. And he tried -he tried to whisper their names, the stories of how they got into sky (how they had become myth), but all that came out of his mouth was his breath.

Aries was above his head. Aries who had tried to rescue two abused children and was murdered by the surviving boy for his fleece. Known for his stubbornness. The ram in the story had never seemed particularly stubborn to Neal before. But right then, surrounded by black and the option of running and the impossibility of going into the FBI office the next morning and opening his mouth and having nothing come out-right then he thought about the strength it took to simply keep moving. Thought about the mulish set to Hector’s jaw when he made up his mind, the angry bruises Francois’ hands had left on his wrists, the papers Peter had brought him.

He thought about what he knew of strength and wondered if what he had done-choosing the lesser of two evils-he wondered if that counted. He looked at the stars for the first time in three years and remembered Peter’s promise and the ram’s long trek across the sky and cried. On a plastic lawn chair with no shoes or words or hope he cried until hoarse sounds spilled out of his mouth, obscene, until nothing else came out.

He looked out at the empty fields, picked up the chair, and went back inside.

*

He woke up at six because he always woke up at six, half an hour before the alarms went off and the guards starting banging on the bars. Enough time to relieve himself and prepare before his cellmate woke.

Only this morning he woke up to sunlight streaming in through his window. He had to force himself to stay in bed for the next thirty minutes. His skin itched with warning, with danger, with urgency. It would be worse for him if he didn’t prepare and they took him dry. Worse if they had to wait to get their rocks off.

He wondered if he should get up and go through the familiar motions; keep to his old routines. It would make the transition back to prison easier when this fell through. But Peter-Peter had promised him. Peter had promised not to chase him (run, run, run). So he clenched his teeth, ignored his instincts, and stared out the window until six thirty.

At six thirty he went to the bathroom (only it wasn’t one step away anymore), brushed his teeth (an unopened toothbrush was sitting on the counter next to his favorite kind of toothpaste), took a shower (hot water, scented shampoo, no one’s hands but his on his body), and opened his closet. He had to decide what to wear.

He breathed in the scents of his old cologne mixed with Byron’s and the unmistakable smell of mothballs. The fabric under his hands was smooth, the colors a spectrum of grays and blues. He’d always prided himself on his sense of color, his sophisticated palate, but after neon orange everything seemed subdued.

The choice-not the amount of options, but the fact he had to choose-stunned him. You’ve done this before, he chided himself. Come straight out of prison and landed not just on his feet but in a penthouse. But he’d-he’d been himself that time, in that prison. Isolated, yes. Literally bored to tears and frustrated and desperate-but himself.

And he’d had Kate, then, to visit him every week and tell him she loved him no matter what.

He was pretty sure ‘no matter what’ didn’t include gangbangs that left him so open they’d gotten two fists inside him at the same time, but Kate was dead. And no one else had ever made him that promise.

He decided on a navy blue suit with pin-stripes that he’d never worn before because it had been too small. It wasn’t until he figured out that he’d still have to wear a belt to hold the slacks up that he realized how much weight he’d lost. Maybe Peter’d had a point when he’d tried to get Neal to eat the night before. He’d have to relearn that. Eating until he was full.

There was no mirror in his room but he looked at his body-my body, mine-and ran a hand over the pronounced ridges of his ribs.

He snatched his hand away and retreated against the wall before his body remembered that he was alone. No one to see him touch himself and make him keep going, or forbid him the right, or replace his hands with their own. He was alone. Alone, alone, alone. His body ached with old bruises and the expectation of more.

His hands shook as he put on the undershirt and did up the buttons. A shirt with buttons. A novelty. I probably look like a cartoon, he chided himself as he straightened the jacket and selected a hat. A boy playing dress up. A fraud.

But since he’d been a fraud since he first learned the value of a lie, he took a deep breath and walked out of his room. He’d be playing the role of Neal Caffrey today. Smooth, elegant, smart. He ignored the way his hands shook, the way he felt unbalanced without Francois at his side to lean against, and his horrid, useless, missing voice.

He plastered on a smile to hide the fact that he couldn’t breathe. His clothes felt too tight, his skin itched, he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He put them in his pockets. Keeping them clasped behind his back would be too submissive for Peter. He’d have to be subtler than that.

Elizabeth was in the kitchen when he went downstairs. The radio was on, playing some song he didn’t recognize. There was no CD player in his room (did they still use CDs?), but he bet if he asked, they’d get him one. He bet if he asked, they’d give him pretty much anything. Of course, he couldn’t ask.

His smile faded. He hadn’t wanted to speak so badly since Nelson had tried to ‘convince’ him that it was in his best interest to beg for cock out loud. Most of the scarring from that incident had faded. He couldn’t read the words, anymore, unless he was touching them (running the tips of his fingers of the familiar ragged lines and uneven curves). A brand on his hip, the curve of his hip up to his stomach, right under the belt that he’d just tightened to its last notch. It read ‘useless fucktoy.’ Nelson had taken pleasure in the crudeness of it all, the sharp blade and blunt words. At least it was spelled correctly.

There was a pad of paper on the table next to a half-full glass of orange juice and an empty plate. He tapped his fingers on the wall to alert Elizabeth of his presence. She jumped and whirled around, wooden spoon pointed at him like a weapon. He raised an eyebrow and she laughed. "Sorry! I didn’t hear you come down the stairs. You look-you look a lot better."

He gave her a quick twirl to show off the suit. His hands were sweating in his pockets, his ribs felt tight. She was checking him out. And she liked what she saw.

"Do you still like eggs? Eggs and cheese? We’ve also got fresh rolls and orange juice." He nodded and she began piling too much food onto a waiting plate. "Peter’s outside digging the car out of the drive. It snowed last night."

Good. It would cover the tracks he’d left in the backyard. Cover the awkward questions they would have asked.

She carried the plate to the table and shook out a cloth napkin before handing it to him with a flourish. He smiled at her and she smiled back and for a moment it was-it was natural. Comfortable.

“Peter never stopped trying,” she whispered. He picked up his fork and tried not to hear her. “He tried everything he could think of. He called in all the favors he was owed, he talked to everyone-”

Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up. If it had been a matter of Peter’s will-if it had been something that could be easily fixed, a clerical error, a silly mistake-it would mean that everything he’d been through was...unnecessary. Avoidable. In another universe, maybe it wouldn’t have happened. A different life where he’d listened to Alex and learned to make smarter choices, or left with Moz the first chance he’d gotten, if Kate hadn’t come to see him before she’d run-

There was no use thinking about it. That was not his life. He forced his fingers to relax their grip on his fork, forced himself to nod like he was accepting Elizabeth’s apology (sorry not that Peter had put him away but that he couldn’t get Neal out quickly enough. They all had different definitions of justice).

His stomach was in knots but he forced himself to chew and swallow, to add salt and pepper like it mattered, to sip his orange juice and wipe his mouth on the napkin (a napkin, a cloth napkin, a world where that was not the exception but the rule).

"Can you write?" She pushed the notebook over to him. "Peter was thinking that it could help. At work. If you could still do research?"

He picked up the pen. Blue, Pilot, extra fine tip, ink half gone, teeth marks on the cap. He wrapped his fingers around it and held it above the page. He could make his signature again. Like he’d done on the forms Peter’d brought. Write his name.

Elizabeth gathered Peter’s dirty dishes. "Give it a shot," she said, before returning to the kitchen and loading the dishwasher.

He turned the pen in slow circles between his fingers. It’s a pen, he told himself. It’s not going to hurt you. He didn’t write ‘thank you,’ or ‘useless fucktoy’ or ‘breakfast was lovely.’ He signed Peter’s name, and then Elizabeth’s, and Kate’s and Moz’s, then Nick Halden’s and every other alias he could remember, wrote John Hancock just for kicks, then Jones’ and Diana’s until the page was full, until it looked like a petition, saying in dozens of different names and hands: I am still Neal Caffrey.

*

When he came inside, Neal was putting his coat on and El was beaming. She pointed at Neal’s bag (Byron’s-scratched, worn, beautiful) and Peter saw the yellow legal pad tucked away. She gave him a thumbs up and he grinned. Neal could write; he was capable of communicating. That would make things easier.

"The car’s warming up."

Neal nodded and finished tugging his hat into place. It was an old one of Peter’s and Neal’s longer hair curled out around the bottom.

"El, do you feel like cooking tonight? Or do you want me to pick something up?"

"Hey, I already made breakfast. My contribution for the day has been made."

"Is Italian okay?"

"Sounds perfect." She came to the door for a quick goodbye kiss. She reached towards Neal for a hug and he shied away behind Peter again. "Bye," she said, trying and failing to hide her hurt at Neal’s unexpected flinch.

He’d shoveled a path from the house to the car, and cleared most of the driveway up to the road. They’d put all-weather tires on the car so they should be fine. Probably. If not, the neighbor had a pick-up and a winch. They’d already had to call on her twice. Neither he nor El had quite mastered the intricacies of country driving.

He waited until Neal was on the other side of the car before bringing it up. It was a cowardly move, but he needed the added distance. "Neal-I have to ask you a question. And I need for you to answer it." Neal tensed, already hunched from the cold. "Your voice. Is it a physical problem? Was your throat damaged?" Neal shook his head. "Is it-is it a mental-thing?" Neal took a minute before nodding slowly, like he hadn’t taken the time to think about it before. Hadn’t felt the need.

"Do you think there’s any chance it could get better soon?" He watched Neal’s slow breaths hang in the air. Eventually, Neal shook his head. "Okay, then. Okay." Neal got in the car and Peter gave himself a few seconds to look as angry as he wanted and to blink back tears and curse under his breath and miss Neal. His Neal, the one he remembered, the one he’d lost. Then he wiped his eyes, composed himself, and got in the car.

Once they were safely on the highway he filled Neal in on the changes in the office. "Jones left a few years ago. He’s in charge of his own team already. He’s happy in Cincinnati-making a few waves, from what I hear. Probably due for another promotion soon. Hughes is still here, of course, although he’s been talking retirement for a few months. I, ah-I’m in line to replace him." He couldn’t help but smile. Neal made a small, pleased noise, and clapped. Peter’s smile grew.

"Thanks. It’s not a huge deal, and it probably won’t happen for another year or two, but. Yeah." He grinned and Neal grinned back. "Right. So-Diana’s still here, serving as my second in command. She and Christie are getting married in a few months. Maybe if you’re nice you can sweet-talk yourself into an invitation. Or, not sweettalk, but-you know what I meant.” He cleared his throat and stared at the road. “And we just got a new probie a month ago. Brad...Knot. I think. Brad Something." Neal raised an eyebrow. "I’ve been too busy to learn names." Neal didn’t look convinced, so Peter chose to ignore him. "Anyway, he seems like a nice enough kid. A bit...weird, though. I think you’ll like him."

He fiddled with the radio and adjusted the heating vents. His hair was wet. The snow that had fallen on him while he was shoveling was melting, a line of water dripped down his face. "I had Cruz transferred. I just...thought she’d fit in better over at organized crime."

After the trial ended, he’d given Hughes a choice. Her or me. Hughes cited a hostile work environment and gotten her out before Peter lost his temper and punched her right in her disloyal, double-crossing face. Neal, who had so much more reason to hate her and the testimony which had damned him (loose cannon, unreliable, breaks rules for his own gain, untrustworthy, thief), clutched his notebook and stared out the window for the remainder of the drive.

*

"We’ve heard a lot about you," Brad Knot told him. Brad Knot who was, indeed, a little weird. He was a big guy, tall and broad. Probably a few inches taller than Peter. Former football player, from the stance. Knee injury in his left leg, judging by the slight limp. He had bushy mustache and big eyebrows and a huge, goofy smile, like he thought he was funny-looking, too.

"You’ve got quite the reputation." And Brad was trying to be kind, trying to start a conversation. Just a little joke so they could laugh together, break the ice-you’ve got quite the reputation, whore, slut, boy, pussy. He wondered if he’d ever be able to have a normal conversation again. Well. If he ever started talking back, that is.

He looked up at Hughes’ office, through the glass walls. Looked at Peter, who was trying to convince Hughes that Neal was worth it. Lying, maybe, and saying he’d get better. "So you really don’t talk, huh?" Neal nodded. "That’s cool. Well, not cool, but. There was a girl in my elementary school who didn’t talk. She was autistic, though. Hey, Peter told us about that time you jumped four stories out of a window and bought the bakery next door. That was awesome. I jumped out a first-story window during a training drill at the academy and sprained my ankle." He laughed; a huge laugh, Neal startled at the noise (oh, Francois. I almost forgot you). "You must be like a cat. Or a buttered piece of bread. Landing on the right side like you do."

Diana walked over, carrying two steaming cups of coffee. She was better at the yes/no conversations than Brad. "You want coffee?" Neal shook his head. "More for me," she’d said, before sitting down at her desk-the desk that had been Neal’s. There wasn’t space for him anymore. He was on the wrong side of his old desk now, while he waited. A visitor. A guest.

"I gotta admit, though, I’m glad you’re finally here," Brad said, somehow contorting himself to put his feet up on the edge of his desk without tipping over. "It’s hard to compete with a guy you’ve never met. You left some big damn shoes to fill."

Brad was jealous, and Neal itched for Peter. He readied himself for a fight-he knew it was absurd, knew Brad wouldn’t hurt him, not now, not where people could see him, but he’d learned the hard way how to go on the defensive at the slightest sign of danger.

A few minutes later, Peter left Hughes’ office. And he was smiling. Neal let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding and sagged back into his chair. "You’re crazy if you thought Peter would let Hughes say no," Diana murmured.

"Ends of the earth, and all that," Brad chimed in.

Before he could decipher what they meant, Peter was there. "Congratulations, Neal. You’ve got yourself a desk job," Peter said with a grin, coming to stand by Neal’s side. He put his hand on Neal’s shoulder. He probably didn’t even realize he was doing it or know what it meant. Neal felt it like a shock through his body. He wanted to respond-to thank him, kiss him, kneel for him. Peter looked at the sitting arrangements and frowned. "A desk job, but no desk. Guess you’ll have to work in my office for the time being." Brad snorted and Diana hid her smile behind her coffee mug and Neal leaned against Peter’s side.

By the time they were ready to leave, Neal was exhausted. His cheeks hurt from smiling and his shoulders and back ached with tension. Seven people had touched him. Seven people had touched him while Peter was watching.

They walked to the car together. Neal kept one hand on his bag (his notebook and his pens, his new voice) and the other hand hovering just a bit too far away from his body. In case Peter slowed down or leaned towards him or reached out. Neal would be ready to respond to his touch. Lean into him or wrap their hands together or get on his knees. But Peter just walked outside (cold, this sensation he knew) and unlocked the car.

It felt safe in the Taurus. With the doors closed and locked, the heater blasting, classical music playing, with Peter right there. Neal’s hands barely shook at all. He didn’t know why they wouldn’t settle-he didn’t think he was nervous. Just tired. Tired and tense and, oh, terrified, he realized, when Peter shut his door and tossed the ice scraper into the backseat, a casual motion, his arm across his body, his fist next to Neal’s face. Seven people. Seven people and an enclosed space and a day of pretending to be someone else and any balance that he’d achieved that morning when he’d buttoned his vest and combed his hair and slipped on his old familiar mask was gone. He stared at his hands, folded over his bag, and watched them shake.

"It’s okay," Peter said. "You’re going to be fine."

And once they were out of city traffic Peter took one of his hands off of the steering wheel, reached across the seat, and put his hand over Neal’s. Peter’s fingers were still cold. He wasn’t wearing gloves. And Neal started to tremble even worse but he grabbed at Peter’s wrist when Peter tried to pull it back. "It’s okay," Peter murmured, and Neal wondered how bad he must look to inspire that particular tone of voice. "You’re okay."

Not yet, Neal thought, and held on to Peter’s wrist until he fell asleep.

*

When he woke up they were back at the house. There was an unfamiliar car parked on the road in front of it. When Neal stepped out of Peter’s car, Mozzie stepped out of his. He looked-he looked exactly the same. The same hunched posture and horrible glasses and scarves round his neck.

The wind was blowing so he saw but didn’t hear Moz say his name.

And he felt but barely believed it when Moz walked up to him, ignoring Peter entirely, and hugged him.

The shoulders of Moz’s stiff coat stuck out awkwardly and Neal’s was so thick Moz’s arms barely reached all the way around him, and also, Moz was hugging him. "I should have done this years ago," Moz said, his face muffled against Neal’s chest. "I never should have let them take you."

Peter watched and Moz held on until Neal closed his eyes. They were watering because the wind was blowing. The wind and whatever else, some unfamiliar emotion he shoved aside, snowflakes and farewells he’d stopped thinking about years ago. At some point between Hector and Tom, when the silence had stopped scaring him and started to feel like a treasure. He’d never have to say goodbye again. He ducked his head down and hid his face in the scratchy fabric of Moz’s coat.

It didn’t feel right, exactly. It didn’t feel familiar. Didn’t feel safe. But it was Moz. Moz who was-Moz who was crying. Messily, unabashedly, because of Neal. "You dumb, idealistic bastard," he was saying. "You son of a bitch." And Neal smiled because no one could see him do it. "I missed you," Moz said, pulling back. "I missed you every day.

“Say something,” Moz insisted, stepping back and grabbing Neal’s shoulders. "Or-are you that mad at me?"

Neal looked to Peter for help. "He doesn’t talk," Peter said gruffly, very obviously torn about whether he should leave them alone and go inside or continue waiting for Neal. "Apparently, he’s been like that for a while. Don’t know why."

Moz took a step back and Neal went with him, Moz’s arm was around his waist (breathe. Breathe, it’s just Moz, just Moz and Peter, El will be waiting inside to cushion Peter’s jealousy). "I’ve got a plane," Moz said quietly, and Peter stiffened but did his best to pretend that he wasn’t listening. That he didn’t care. "We can go anywhere."

And Neal stepped back and looked up at an unfamiliar sky and had to shake his head. He didn’t even fit in his own body. He’d never fit on a plane, not in a foreign country, he barely kept track of the English language, he couldn’t-he couldn’t leave Elizabeth and Peter. He looked at the sky, a dark, heavy grey, and blinked away the snowflakes that drifted onto his lashes. He wasn’t ready to run. Not yet.

Moz grabbed his hand and shoved a cell phone into it. "Anything goes wrong, anything at all, you call me. I’ll be here in minutes. I’m speed dial number one, June’s two, Alex is three. If you can’t talk, just-just press some buttons or something so I know it’s you. I’ll brush up on my Morse code." He shifted his weight and stepped closer, whispering so that Peter wouldn’t hear them. "The Suits are speed deal four." The Suits. Right.

Moz stood awkwardly and waited and Neal tried to remember how to say thank you when neither blowjobs nor words were an option. It was an awkward minute before he could think of anything. Then Moz grabbed the front of his coat and pulled him in again. "Goddamn," Mozzie said. "Goddamn." And he sounded angry and grateful and Neal stood still until he could let go. "Remember-anytime, any reason-speed dial number 1." Neal nodded. "I’ve got to go. I’m-” he looked at Neal for a long moment and Neal just shrugged helplessly because he had no idea what Moz was looking for. “I’m really glad that you’re back.”

*

Every day of his first week out of prison Neal woke up at 6:30, bathed, went through the ordeal of opening his closet and getting dressed, braced himself, and went downstairs. He ate whatever El gave him for breakfast (all of it, even when he wasn’t hungry, even when Satch begged for scraps by his knee, he ate it all) and then trailed Peter out the door.

On the drive they would listen to whatever radio station Peter picked out (no matter how much they’d fought about it before, no matter how many times Peter tried to get Neal’s hand to move to the controls by playing country and pop and hard rock).

Then he’d sit in Peter’s office and sit hunched over old case files. He’d work until Peter led him outside and bought him lunch, and then through the afternoon until the drive home.

It felt like a routine. It worked. They worked. Neal did whatever Peter told him to do without question or complaint. Without saying-well. Anything.

*

Neal solved his first case on Thursday. Brad won $400 from the betting pool for that one.

And the entire first week Peter felt the rumble of an avalanche deep in his body, the screech of metal about to snap shivering through his bones, the pressure of a storm about to break weighing him down.

Peter hated Neal’s routine. Hated the way Neal was so compliant and submissive and-lost. Terribly, undeniably lost.

He wanted to help. He tried to help. But every time he reached out, Neal would freeze or flinch or lean into him just a bit too quickly, just a bit too…intimately. So he kept his distance, watched Neal walk around like a trapped, wounded animal, and waited for the storm to break.

*

They’d scheduled a hospital visit for Neal when they’d learned his release date. Saturday was the soonest they could squeeze him in, so they stumbled through the work week with the appointment looming on the horizon. In the meantime, he watched Neal for signs of pain. Asked him a couple of times if he felt okay, if he hurt, but Neal always just shook his head and looked away.

Peter had worried about what the doctor would find. Worried about what the physical exam would reveal, what the blood test might say, how long the recovery would take. He’d been dreading the end of the visit and what would come after that. He needn’t have worried. They didn’t get that far.

Neal, for all he didn’t talk, was hardly uncommunicative. He made his opinions known through mime and sketches, he even wrote notes, sometimes, if he got to the point where he had to write something out to be understood. But when Peter parked the car in the hospital lot, Neal just went still.

Since Neal didn’t move, Peter opened his door for him, like he had the first day, and put a hand on Neal’s elbow. Neal didn’t move.

He had to physically pull Neal out of the car.

Neal didn’t fight him, exactly-he just-he wouldn’t move on his own. He put one foot in front of the other only when he was in danger of overbalancing, as if-as if he didn’t want to go but had forgotten how to fight.

And when Peter began dragging him through the parking lot and towards the entrance, Neal started to make sounds. Like a child caught in a nightmare. Terrified and disoriented.

Peter felt like a monster. He was just trying to help Neal, who, despite his obvious terror, didn’t dig his heels in, didn’t try to get back to the car-he just stared at Peter and tried to speak. Tried to say no, please, I don’t want this. And couldn’t.

Peter stood still in the middle of the parking lot, people passing curiously by them, Neal oblivious to everything but Peter’s arm on his shoulder and the building looming in front of them like a death sentence.

He took Neal back to the car and cancelled the appointment.

*

The next morning he pulled a few strings, and El made a few phone calls, and they got an appointment for Neal on Monday afternoon with El’s doctor; an older woman with an office in a converted townhouse.

“We have to,” he told Neal. “The FBI can’t hire you without a physical on the record. And we need-you should get tested,” he finished, and he hadn’t whispered that last bit because he didn’t want Neal to be ashamed, whatever the results, but it came out crass and loud in the car. He saw Neal flinch.

Monday afternoon they took off work early. Neal sat in the car as stiff as a board, lips pressed together so tightly they went white around the edges. Peter had tried to prepare himself for the possibility that he’d have to force Neal inside the office again, but Neal walked inside on his own when Peter opened his door and put a careful hand on his arm.

They walked in side by side, Peter signed them in, and they filled out Neal’s forms together. He knew most of Neal’s medical info, but Neal pointed to boxes he forgot to check and then borrowed the pen to write in the information that Peter didn’t have. Their handwriting couldn’t have been more different-Peter’s broad messy strokes, Neal’s shaky uncertain letters. Peter dropped the form off at the front desk and sat back down. They stared at the giant fish tank that took up most of one of the walls. Tropical and vibrant and lazy. Mesmerizing. They stared at the fish so they wouldn’t have to look at each other.

“Neal Caffrey?” they both looked up. Neal didn’t move.

“That’s you,” Peter said. Neal didn’t move. “Right. You knew that.” They both waited. “You have to do this,” Peter told him quietly.

The nurse with the clipboard was waiting patiently for them, as if this sort of thing happened all the time. Hell, maybe it did. “Do you-do you want me to go with you?”

Neal nodded. Peter put a hand on Neal’s elbow to help him up and Neal let out a-a whimper. Peter closed his eyes and pulled Neal the rest of the way out of the chair and then down the hallway. Neal stayed half a step behind Peter, on his right side.

He didn’t know what the nurse was thinking. He hoped he didn’t look like an abusive boyfriend. Hoped Neal didn’t look as traumatized to her as he seemed to Peter.

When the examination started, he tried to pretend he wasn’t there; for his own sake and for Neal’s. He hummed a little bit so he wouldn’t hear the doctor talking about Neal’s weight or blood pressure, he tried to be unobtrusive. But then the nurse handed Neal a gown, asked him to take his clothes off, and told him that the doctor would be there when he was done.

Neal undressed himself so slowly. One careful piece at a time, like they’d asked him to strip off his armor before heading into battle.

And when he was naked, Neal just stood there. Shivering in the warm office. The only thing he was wearing was the tracker.

Peter helped Neal into the gown. Eased the pastel paper gown over the bruises on Neal’s body. Tied the back closed with careful bows, took Neal’s clothes from his shaking hands, and carefully folded them before calling the doctor back into the room.

Dr. Patel introduced herself with a smile. El had explained the situation to her over the phone and she handled Neal with a quiet confidence. She did all of the tests herself, talked to Neal calmly and clearly, and explained everything that she was doing. She was as patient as a saint. And Neal definitely tested her patience.

It took him seven tries to take a breath deep enough for her to listen to his lungs. He was so tense that his breath came out in shaky gasps, loud and uneven. Neal’s face was tense with misery, his blush a deep crimson.

Halfway through the exam, Peter realized that Neal wasn’t just avoiding eye contact with them, he was staring at something. When Patel wasn’t specifically asking him to focus on one thing, Neal’s eyes kept flicking to the same spot. He was fixated on something.

The stirrups on the edge of the exam table. After the eye exam, when he’d been facing the opposite wall, the first thing Neal did was look at the metal stirrups. Like they were going to attack him if he looked away for too long, like they were dangerous.

Peter-Peter really didn’t want to think about it. About the way Neal had been in the parking lot of the hospital, about the fact that he’d barely eaten since then, about the shapes of the bruises on his bodies. Didn’t want to think about the noise Neal made when the doctor tried to do a rectal exam. A moan like a wounded animal, involuntary and miserable. Patel backed off and Peter twined his fingers briefly with Neal’s instead of just holding onto his wrist.

He didn’t want to think about what had happened to Neal when he’d been hurt in prison. About what happened after the evidence photos were snapped and he was placed in the medical ward. Didn’t want to think about Neal, bound and splayed and helpless, didn’t want to think about the protests Neal may have made when there was no one to listen to them.

His fingers went numb before the exam was over because Neal held onto him so tightly.

When the exam was finished Peter helped Neal dress, made sure they had the information they needed about Neal’s nutritional needs, and walked outside. They only made it a few steps before Neal twisted like he’d tripped on something. He would have gone down if Peter hadn’t grabbed him. Within seconds they were both crouched on the ground of this tiny parking lot in a small suburban neighborhood, Peter covering Neal’s body like he’d been trained to by the FBI, protecting Neal from the world because he couldn’t help Neal fight himself.

Neal just-sobbed. Gasping for breath like he’d just finished a marathon, like he’d finally given up after miles on an uphill road. The sobs wracked his body and Peter felt-grateful. Neal’s thin body was shaking in his arms, Neal was too helpless to stand on his own, and Peter was fighting off a smile. Fighting off tears, too, he wasn’t heartless, he just-he’d been afraid that nothing would change. That Neal would wander through the rest of their lives like a ghost. Afraid that Neal was just different now, different and silent and slowly fading, and that was the only way it could be. For the first time since Neal had laid two careful fingers on the crook of Peter’s arm, he felt real.

He held Neal until he stopped crying, looked away while he wiped his eyes, let go of his hand when he pulled away, and drove them home. The next morning Neal ate everything on his plate and then held if out for a second helping.

*

That night, in bed, El held Peter while he cried. Because the ordeal had been necessary but that didn’t make it any less painful, because he hadn’t been able to do anything but be there-because they’d taken one small step forward but he was beginning to realize how much further they had to go.

part two