fic: my lips have the sin [3/4]
part one / part two
*
Neal wanted his words back. Wanted no and come closer, wanted thank you and I am.
He wanted his voice, even though he could barely recall what it sounded like. The memory of it echoed down the silent years to him like a bad outgoing message, tinny and distorted, a stranger’s voice saying hello you’ve reached Neal Caffrey.
He was starting to taste them again. The words. Starting to feel them surface inside of him. Elizabeth said good morning and he held his coffee and his reply on his tongue, lukewarm Italian roast and good morning to you, too, savoring them both, relearning the taste of them.
He wanted his words and his voice and his-not his old life back, not the life he’d had before, but-well. His life or something like it.
And when he needed the words the most, needed no and Neal Caffrey and Peter, Peter where are you?, they did not magically surface like a phoenix from the ashes, desperation did not draw them closer; he and his silence were left alone.
*
It was a Matisse, shockingly-a real one, despite all of the evidence to the contrary: the break-in, the disabled security system, the scuffs on the floor underneath the painting. There was even a fresh scrape on the wall, almost hidden by the frame. Someone had worked very hard to make it look like this painting had been stolen and replaced by a forgery.
Hell, maybe it was a fake... Neal leaned in closer to triple-check the scent of the canvas, the ridges of paint, the age discoloration. It was real; real and beautiful. The room was quiet, the building secure. The rest of the White Collar squad was searching the house for clues. He let himself relax and enjoy the painting.
“Who the fuck are you?”
A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Strong fingers dug into his flesh as the man behind him spun him around. He saw dark blue: a uniform, gun on the belt, scrapes on the nightstick (he’s used it before). Neal’s mind stalled and his body went on autopilot. He dropped his gaze to the floor and kept his mouth shut. Self-preservation and shame. He stumbled when the cop shook his shoulder.
“You got any ID? How the fuck did you get in here? This is a closed crime scene, you-” The cop pulled him farther away from the painting, into the center of the room. “Why were you looking at that picture?”
He did-he might-he should have ID, ID in his wallet in his pocket or maybe his jacket or had he brought a satchel today, maybe he’d taken the FBI credentials out and put them in his shirtfront pocket-
He couldn’t get his body to work. Couldn’t lift his hand from his sides or his eyes from the cop’s scuffed shoes, couldn’t provide a defense or turn and run.
People aren’t supposed to touch me, he wanted to say, as the cop finally let go of his shoulder. People weren’t supposed to touch him or yell at him or walk up behind him, Brad and Peter and Diana and Elizabeth took care of that, took care of him, there were new rules, there had to be-
Then handcuffs.
He heard them before he saw them. The cop retrieving them from his belt and unsnapping them too quickly, the metal grated against itself. He heard the cuffs jangling and then there was a hand around his wrist, pulling his arm forward, moving him like a mannequin, fastening-cold metal. Cold grey metal clicking into place. One wrist secured. The cop reached for Neal’s other hand.
He couldn’t do this again. He just-he couldn’t. Sickness spread through every fiber in his body, nausea like a plea you will not survive this again.
So Neal fought.
He was losing almost before he started, one arm twisted in the cop’s grasp, the other pinwheeling desperately in an attempt to push himself away. He fought with more terror than skill, bile building in his throat, fighting memories more than he was fighting this man (this man who was just doing his job, not the man who haunted one-too-many of Neal’s nightmares).
The cop was yelling and Neal was trying to. Trying to scream or cry or laugh, laugh because he could taste blood but not help me. All that came out were hoarse moans, as if all of the air had already escaped him, as if his body had learned more intimately than his brain that no help would be coming.
A fist made contact with his cheek. He spit blood and bit his cheek again when the cop kicked his legs out from underneath him. He was on the ground, sprawled on his front, and then he-the cop-he was-
He pinned Neal’s body down and Neal lost it. He bucked and twisted and bit, kicked the floor and the cop and the backs of his own thighs, writhed and panicked and finally, finally something inside of him shook apart.
He screamed.
He was fighting for his life, blood and strangled words; for the first time in years he was fighting back.
He didn’t see Brad coming, but he felt him. Felt Brad slam into the cop like a cannonball, tackling him off of Neal, leaving Neal sprawled on the floor gasping for breath and digging his fingernails into the hardwood, trying to claw his way out of the room. Peter was there seconds later. He touched Neal’s shoulder and tried to pull him up.
He flinched. Recoiled. Moved away from Peter and his big hands and his black leather gun holster, his shined black leather shoes, the scent of his deodorant. He crouched on the floor and breathed through his nose and tried not to vomit.
“Calm down,” Peter whispered. “We’ve got you. Be quiet,” he said, because Neal was crying more than he was breathing. He choked on the irony and the taste of blood. “I’ve got you,” Peter said, holstering his gun and kneeling on the ground at Neal’s side, holding his open palms in front of him. “I’ve got you.”
Neal could hear Brad yelling. And there were hard thumps, familiar sounds: a body being slammed against a wall.
“You’re going down, you motherfucking incompetent piece of shit. What the fuck were you thinking, assaulting an FBI agent? No, don’t try to get up, fuckwit, you just stay right fucking there.”
Neal blocked it out and pushed himself onto his knees. The skin underneath his fingernails was bleeding. He had cuts inside his mouth, his lower lip was already swelling, and the tenderness near his eye would develop into a spectacular black eye. He was also shaking. “Diana-” Peter was moving away from him and Diana was replacing him. She had Neal’s notebook and her gun was holstered, Neal let her kneel at his side, her knee bumping against his calf.
He could hear Peter on his phone. He was talking in a low, furious voice to someone-Hughes?-on the other end of the line. He and Brad were crowding the cop against the wall. Every time the cop tried to explain himself, Brad slammed him back against the wall. Neal could appreciate Brad’s urge to defend his territory but watching the cop’s body shudder every time he hit the drywall was making Neal’s stomach roil. When he tried to sit up Diana was there, murmuring comforting words to him (words he’d heard her use with so many victims before him). Diana handed him her notepad and a pen.
“Are you okay?”
I didn’t have my ID, he wrote, his letters stuttering across the page. It’s not his fault.
“Peter’d arrest somebody for giving you so much as a dirty look, Neal, you think he’s going to let this guy go with a slap on the wrist?”
He was just doing his job, Neal replied, breathing deeply, reclaiming each shaking limb in turn.
Diana’s eyes softened. “Hughes will know that. And whoever this guy’s superior is will know that. Don’t worry.” She shifted her body so that he wouldn’t have to see Brad leading the cop out of the room in his own handcuffs. He could still feel them around his wrists; cold and empty phantom pains. “You did good,” she said, offering him a hand up. “You can take care of yourself, Caffrey. But it’s okay to let us help you every once in a while.”
He stumbled under the weight of her words. Leaned against the wall, looking at the Matisse-real, it was, it was real-while her words sank into him.
He had. He had taken care of himself. Had fought, had screamed, had bought himself time.
He’d given up fighting back before he’d lost his voice. Maybe he was getting it all back, just-in reverse order. Freedom, voice, strength. What would he get back next, he wondered, as he followed Diana to Peter’s side. What more could he possibly want?
*
Peter gave him the next day off from work and Neal spent it at home on Elizabeth’s computer. Dressed in a pair of Peter’s sweatpants and one of Elizabeth’s baggy Stanford hoodies, Satch sitting on his feet, curled up on the couch in the living room. He was perfectly aware of how pitiful he looked. Elizabeth had made him hot chocolate with breakfast instead of coffee, and Peter had actually tucked a blanket in around his feet before leaving for work.
Peter had asked him, in the beginning, what was wrong with him. If it was physical or mental or likely to go away. Francois had asked, too, Francois and Hector and Nelson, the warden and the nurses, why won’t you say anything, what’s wrong, scream real pretty for me, bitch. Neal hadn’t had any answers for them. He was looking for them now.
WebMD was less than helpful. He hadn’t lost his voice because of strep, he wasn’t autistic, he wasn’t a child. He found something that almost seemed right, selective mutism, but it didn’t quite fit because none of the articles or discussion boards addressed the way his silence had begun as a shield and then morphed into a tower from which he could not escape, none of the lists of symptoms described the way that he’d lost so many things before his words. They were simply the last item in a litany of things he’d lost, the first and only item on the list of things he’d taken.
And now his words were coming back to him in waves of want, pressing against the roof of his mouth and the back of his teeth, urges that started in his stomach but somehow missed his vocal cords on their way to his lips.
He could not fight this on his own. So he made himself lunch, went on a run with Satchmo, and looked into his governmental insurance plan for treatment options.
*
They made him go to the hospital for testing. Peter made sure they scheduled everything in one day: the physical examination, the x-rays, the MRIs. Get it over with as quickly and painlessly as possible.
Neal found out about the tests two weeks before they were able to get them scheduled. The time between passed in a blur. He knew intellectually that somehow he managed to go to bed and change his clothes and go to work and read files, knew that somehow he’d continued moving forward. When Wednesday morning arrived and Peter parked the Taurus in the hospital parking lot, it didn’t seem like any time had passed; didn’t seem possible that he’d been able to keep himself from running away.
He walked inside under his own power. But when they got inside, the smell hit him; stale air and antiseptic, medicine and the hum of fluorescent lights. He stopped walking and hid his face in Peter’s chest. Concentrated on the beating of Peter’s heart.
“You can do this,” Peter said, tugging him to the side of the waiting room. He needed to tell Peter don’t leave but he could barely get air through his lungs, couldn’t convince his fingers to unfurl from where they were wrapped in the cheap cotton of Peter’s shirt to reach for his notebook and pen. Needed to tell Peter don’t leave me because Peter had to be there. Peter wouldn’t let them tie Neal down, put restraints on his wrists, legs spread wide, small hospital gown rucked up around his stomach. Peter wouldn’t let them use cold metal tools to spread his hole open, wouldn’t let them take turns fucking his ass and his pried open mouth, would make sure they didn’t use icy-hot on their hands when they fisted him.
Neal wanted to run.
He held on to Peter. Held Peter’s hand while Peter filled out his forms for him, held on to Peter’s hand as they were ushered from one room to another, listened to Peter’s calm, quiet voice repeating the questions that the doctors were asking him. He felt like he was in a maze; a dream. Felt like he was floating away and only the anchor of Peter’s hand kept him connected.
Peter had to leave him for the MRI. They stripped Neal of his clothes, his notebook, his pen, and put him into a white machine that shifted every couple of seconds around him, echoing so loudly that he would jump, ruining exposure after exposure. He had to stay still.
He thought of Brad. Thought about maybe baking donuts on his next day off, or maybe muffins, he’d never really baked anything before. He thought of Brad and then about the scars Brad had yet to see.
Mostly he thought about running away.
Peter would let him. Peter would let him run and maybe help cover his tracks. Peter would probably lose his job for it, would lose any chance of getting that promotion to Reese’s position.
He could go to Europe, he thought hours later, as the x-ray technician touched his body to reposition his limbs. He could go to France and stay in a small rustic bed and breakfast and eat baguettes and wait for Francois.
When it finally ended (the nurse ushering them into a small room and handing Peter Neal’s clothing) he grabbed for the trash can and vomited. He hadn’t eaten anything in days so it was just bile, bile and then nothing, just his body convulsing around itself, over and over again.
He didn’t remember how Peter got him home.
*
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Peter said the following morning, sitting on the edge of Neal’s bed, trying to bribe him into drinking a cup of coffee. It was probably full of cream and sugar. Neal could barely stand the smell of it yet. “Nothing physical, that they could find. Except that you’re still underweight. All of your-other-the infections, they’re behaving as they’re supposed to. Just keep taking your medications.”
Neal curled up tighter underneath his blanket. “The next step is to try therapy,” Peter said softly, setting the cup of coffee down on the low dresser by Neal’s bed. Steam was rising from it. “I’ve got some names, and I can figure out who’s covered by our insurance. I just need to know if you have a preference for a man or a woman.”
Neal snaked one hand out from under the covers to grab his notebook. Woman, he wrote, but he pulled the notebook out of Peter’s hands to add another sentence. Anyone who doesn’t work at the hospital.
“Got it,” Peter said, giving him back his notebook and leaving the coffee behind. “You’ve got the day off. Brad sent muffins, they’re in the kitchen. Feel better,” he said awkwardly, before closing Neal’s door.
There’s nothing wrong. Nothing wrong with his body, his weak slutty body, nothing wrong with the signals it sent out saying take me. It was all in his head. In his mind; of his own creation. He didn’t drink the coffee or get out of bed for the rest of the morning.
*
His therapist, Marina, was tall and thin and sallow. She swayed from side to side as she led Neal into her office, walking through hallways that overflowed with boxes. She’d just moved into a small building on the outskirts of town. It smelled like mothballs and cardboard. The walls were all bare but the shelves in her office were already cluttered with books and small figurines.
“Your partner filled me in on a lot of the relevant details,” she said, gesturing with the paperwork that Peter had once again filled in for him. Peter was waiting in the front room, watching everyone like a hawk while pretending to do the NYT crossword puzzle. “And I’ve got your results from the hospital.”
She paused. He waited for her to ask a question.
“The diagnosis they provided at the hospital was selective mutism. I’m hesitant to confirm that, because it’s so rare in adults, but at the moment we don’t have any better labels. I see you have a notebook with you?” He nodded. “All right, then-let’s get started.” Which was easier said than done. The expectation of conversation was unexpectedly intimidating. He had to spend an hour with a woman who he was paying to listen, and he had nothing to say.
This is awkward, he wrote, after struggling for half a page to answer “What do words feel like?”
She laughed and leaned back in her chair. “This is a first for me, too,” she said. “We’ll have to figure it out together.”
*
"This is the worst idea you’ve ever had," he told his reflection firmly. "Generations of Knots will look back on this moment and wonder: ‘whatever happened to that nice Brad fellow? Such a shame that he died so young. So handsome and young...’"
Neal’s knock on the car window put a stop to his pep talk.
"I’m-I was just-" He smiled ruefully at Neal and opened his door. "I was freaking out a bit." Neal opened his arms and Brad stepped into a hug.
Hugging Neal was better than hugging anyone else he’d ever hugged, because he couldn’t take it for granted. Not a single second of it, not a single square inch of contact. It made him hyper-aware, made him grateful, made him...well. Really, really horny.
The sound of the front door opening put a stop to both that train of thought and the beginning of his erection. "I brought wine," he said quickly. "Three different kinds-what did you make for dinner? Or, wait, never mind, I wouldn’t know what would go well with it anyway-" he pulled the bottles off the passenger seat and showed them to Neal. "Which one should I bring in?"
Neal kissed him and slipped the Shiraz from the crook of his elbow.
It was just dinner at the Burkes. He felt weird, being so nervous. He’d seen Peter not four hours earlier, and after surviving Quantico and semi-professional football and an aborted stint in the army, he shouldn’t be afraid of Peter’s wife. Peter’s wife Elizabeth who had threatened his life and also maybe his unborn children, her nails were really sharp, this was a horrible idea-
"Are you two going to stop necking and come inside, or should I get my shotgun?"
Brad looked from Neal to Peter. "He doesn’t really have a shotgun, does he? Does he? He wouldn’t shoot me with his FBI issue gun, right? Neal-" He trailed his grinning boyfriend into the house like a nervous dog.
Peter shook his hand (a little too firmly, Brad’s knuckles felt creaky afterwards) and Satchmo slobbered on his knee.
"Elizabeth’s in the kitchen,” Peter said with a glare. “I’ll take the wine and go help her finish up."
Peter left them alone in the living room. Brad wanted to kiss Neal, but he was kind of worried that Peter had a spy cam on them. "This was a bad, bad idea.” Neal laughed, his usual breathless laugh that was such a surprise every time he made it.
The dinner had ostensibly been Peter’s idea, and Brad was half-convinced it was an attempt to break them up. But seeing Neal-seeing Neal barefoot and in jeans and a t-shirt, relaxed-he was starting to think maybe it was a gift. The Burkes giving their permission, signaling their approval. Or maybe there was going to be arsenic in his appetizer. It could go either way.
Neal led him to the couch and sat down next to him, running his hands over Brad’s shoulders, digging his thumbs into the tense muscles. Neal helped him out of his suit jacket (he was overdressed, he should have worn a nice sweater, his button-down and tie would look funny without the jacket...) and hesitantly kissed the side of his neck.
"You’re in a good mood," Brad murmured, tilting his head to the side and wrapping an arm around Neal’s waist. Neal hummed and leaned closer, kissing the collar of Brad’s shirt and the sensitive skin below his ear, half-kisses, kisses that made Brad want to strip his shirt off and get Neal’s mouth on more of him.
"They’re going to walk in on us," he cautioned, staring nervously at the doorway. He could hear Peter and Elizabeth faintly, the clink of glasses and plates, the low hum of music playing from a radio. "Oh, fuck it." He twisted sideways on the couch and took Neal’s surprised face between his hands. "It’s good to see you, baby."
Neal didn’t particularly care for the endearments but he’d picked baby out of a line-up of baby, snookums, honey bear, and sweet cheeks. Brad liked to make sure Neal had choices. He’d saved the piece of paper he’d written the list on-saved the one-sided transcript of their conversation and the bill from dinner and a matchbook with the name of the restaurant on it. He wasn’t usually such a packrat, but time with Neal was like touching Neal; precious and a privilege, something to be treasured.
He made out with Neal on the Burkes’ couch like a teenager, losing himself in the slight rub of stubble from Neal’s beard and the touch of his lips. When Neal pulled away Brad leaned forward, Neal’s lips his only goal, but he stopped when Neal nodded towards the dining room. Brad pulled himself together with only a second to spare before Elizabeth and Peter carried in the food from the kitchen.
"So good to see you, Mrs. Burke," he said with a big smile, hoping that he didn’t have a visible erection. His pants were loose, he’d tucked himself in carefully-he sighed with relief when they all took their seats.
Dinner was unexpectedly comfortable. Brad and Neal sat on one side of the table, Peter and Elizabeth on the other. Brad became Neal’s default spokesperson, reading aloud whatever comments Neal scrawled down on a mostly-full legal pad. Brad was half in love with Elizabeth by the end of the meal, and even more convinced that Peter Burke was a…a great man. Brad had seen many sides to him before, but this one-family man-was his new favorite. Also, Peter made a killer casserole.
After dinner (and a fantastic blueberry and peach pie), Peter and Elizabeth went to sit on the porch. "That sounds lovely," Brad said, starting to stand up to join them. Neal grabbed his wrist under the table and shook his head. "I’ll just, uh. We’ll clear the table?" Neal smiled and started gathering dishes.
"We don’t want to be on the porch?" he asked after Peter and Elizabeth left, his hands full of the casserole and the water pitcher. He nearly dropped them both when he entered the kitchen and saw Neal leaning against the counter like an ad for sex. Sex or maybe specifically blowjobs, since his hips were thrust forward just the slightest bit, just enough for the line of his cock to press tight against the front of his faded jeans. "No porch," Brad said, his mouth gone dry. "You want to...here?"
It made sense that Neal would make a move now, he realized, when he thought about it for a second. The second he got before Neal took the dishes from his hands and then pressed him up against the counter. They were on Neal’s turf. His territory. Hopefully, he would feel safe here.
"You have a room, right?" Neal nodded and rubbed his erection against Brad’s, a slow dirty slide. "That’s-should we-want to show me? Or we could do it right here, I am always down for kitchen sex, really, just ask anyone-"
Neal kissed him before he could babble his way into an even deeper blush. Kissed him and then sucked on Brad’s curious tongue, sucked on it with a moan that Brad felt all the way down to his dick. Felt the swirl of Neal’s tongue against his and knew how good that would feel against his cock, oh, god, he wanted it there.
Neal wasn’t as down for kitchen sex as Brad was, and they abandoned the dirty dishes and ran up the stairs together. When the door to Neal’s bedroom closed behind them he had an awkward moment of clarity. “Wait, Neal, are you drunk? Is this a bad decision? I can’t tell if I should say yes or no to you-”
Neal grabbed Brad’s head and pulled him forward. Brad let out a startled oh and then slouched into Neal’s grip. He could feel Neal’s breath on his forehead.
And then Neal was kissing him. His eyebrows and his crooked nose, his moustache and the stubble on his cheeks. Brad’s breath caught in his throat and Neal’s lips came to rest on the creased skin between his eyes. Neal let go of his face and reached for his hands.
“God, Neal-”
They had kissed before. Kissed and rolled around a bit on couches and in the car; once during a movie Brad had moved his hand from Neal’s knee to mid-thigh. He’d never had a romantic relationship that had progressed this slowly, but he was almost afraid to touch Neal. Afraid to do it wrong and not be able to do it again.
Now Neal was showing him what to do and it seemed like Brad’s fear was only growing. Neal’s hands shook as he brought Brad’s hands to his shoulders, then slowly pulled them down to rest with his palms spread across Neal’s pecs. Neal gave each of Brad’s eyebrows one last kiss and then pulled back.
Brad stayed hunched forward. He didn’t know what to do. He felt honored, blessed, felt-beloved. He didn’t think he would ever forget the touch of Neal’s lips on the broken cartilage of his nose, Neal’s breath across his closed eyes.
“I want to-I want to touch you, can I-” Neal pressed Brad’s hand harder against his chest. He could feel Neal’s heartbeat. “Okay. Just keep…keep showing me what to do.” Neal’s heart pounded against his hand when Brad kissed him on the lips.
*
He guided Brad to his bed, and pushed his shoulder gently until he sat down. “Ddo you want me to lie down? Or-”
Neal shook his head and stepped back. Reached up and began to unbutton his shirt.
“You don’t have to do this,” Brad said, starting to stand. “You should let me help, at least-”
He pushed Brad’s shoulder again, wishing that he could explain himself, even though he wasn’t quite sure how.
He was laying his cards out on the table. This is what I have to offer. This is what Brad would have to put up with and work through and look at.
He finished unbuttoning his shirt and slowly slid it over his shoulders. Inch by inch. He watched Brad watching him. Brad had his hands folded in his lap…maybe hiding an erection? Neal had hardly revealed anything yet-and this was hardly a strip show. When he uncovered his chest, fingers brushing over his nipples, Brad bit his lip.
It was hard to breathe. With the weight of Brad’s regard settling on every exposed inch of him. It was different than when he’d presented himself to Peter. Different than the first time Francois had peeled his jumpsuit back and licked every stretch of his body. Different than the times they’d stripped him in the infirmary and posed him, taking careful pictures of new wounds.
He brought his thumb back up to his nipple and teased it until it was hard. He could see Brad’s Adam’s apple move when he swallowed.
Brad wanted him. Brad was attracted to him.
There was a curve between Neal’s ribs and his hips that wasn't supposed to be there. Hopefully it would seem feminine to Brad, would seem natural and sexy and wouldn't call to mind all of the meals that Neal left uneaten on the plate. After Peter’s rejection, he’d wondered if maybe it was because of how much damage prison had inflicted on his body. He’d gained some weight back since then, but not much; his ribs were less prominent but they were still visible.
“Can I-should I touch you?” Brad asked, breathless, his body nervously shifting on the bed. “Or is this enough? Is this good for you?”
Neal ignored him and dropped his shirt on the floor. Brad reached forward with one hand, but let it fall when Neal didn’t step towards him.
Will you still want me, Neal thought, almost clinical in his observation of Brad’s reactions, when you see the rest?
Because there were so many scars. Brown and white and some still scattered in pink. The ones on his hip were the worst. They’d healed badly. It had been a full week of fighting the infection before Nelson had let him go to the infirmary.
He unbuttoned his slacks, undid the zipper, and stepped out of his pants carefully after they pooled on the floor around his feet. He was wearing silk boxers. He’d dressed for tonight with this in mind. Every time he’d shifted during dinner, his boxers sliding against his skin, he’d thought about Brad’s hands.
“Neal, you’re so beautiful. So sexy. I really want to touch you, babe, can I-”
He eased the waistband of his boxers over the words on his hip. Then pulled them the rest of the way off. He took his socks off as he slid the boxers over his feet, and then stood. Staring at Brad staring at him. Curious. Naked.
Brad slid off the bed and onto his knees. Awkwardly, his bad knee making it an ordeal. Neal wanted to step forward to make Brad’s journey shorter but he couldn’t move.
“I want to make you feel good,” Brad said, looking up at Neal. “Show me what you want?”
His mouth went dry. He was swallowing nothing and nerves. But he unclenched his clammy hands and took Brad’s face between his palms. Guided Brad forward, and there was no way that anyone watching-anyone or Neal or Brad or Peter or Nelson-would think that this was anything other than Neal asking for it.
“Do you want-can I suck you?” Neal nodded, nodded and tensed, the muscles from his thighs through his groin and up past his chest clenching.
And then Brad saw his scars and paused, his lips inches away from Neal’s hard cock and the crude words carved into his flesh. Brad kissed them both. Traced the tip of his tongue over the letters and then down the column of his cock, his mustache brushing against the raised patches of skin and the bundle of nerves at his head.
Do you know what those words mean, Neal wanted to know, can you still read them, do you think they’re a lie, does it matter? He couldn’t ask and he didn’t want to know. Didn’t care within a few minutes because Brad’s hands were big and warm and maybe the only thing holding Neal up.
“I’m going to suck your dick now,” Brad mumbled, dragging his mouth over the crease of Neal’s groin, through his trimmed pubic hair, to the base of his cock. “It’s been a while,” he warned, his words barely audible through the blood pounding in Neal’s ears. “So be patient with me.”
His cock. Brad was sucking his cock. Brad was on his knees (cocksucker) sucking Neal’s dick. Because he wanted to, probably, maybe because he thought he had to, what if-what if-
It felt so good. So good that Neal’s knees felt weak. It felt completely unlike the grip of Neal’s own hand in the morning, slick with lotion and moving just a bit too fast, concentrating on the goal instead of the pleasure.
His breath caught in his throat. He put one hand over his mouth and the other on Brad’s shoulder for balance. When Brad took half of Neal’s dick into his mouth he muffled a moan, eyes flickering toward the door even though Elizabeth had promised to keep Peter outside for at least an hour.
Brad pulled off with an obscene pop, suction so strong that Neal’s hips swayed forward with the pressure. Brad licked his lips and Neal’s dick twitched; he was so close to Brad’s tongue.
“I’m hesitant to tell you what to do,” Brad said, his voice hoarse. “But if it’s okay with you, I would really like to hear the noises you make. As long as that’s not crossing any lines for you-and if it is, I’ll just shut up, so-so I’ll just get back to sucking your dick, okay?” Neal pulled Brad’s hair to keep him from doing just that. Then he helped Brad stand up. Left him in the center of the room and went over to the radio. Turned it on, tuned it to NPR-late enough for jazz-and cranked up the volume. He couldn’t bring himself to make noise in silence; not yet.
Then he went over to the bed and sat up against the headboard. When Brad didn’t move Neal hesitantly spread his legs open a little bit-not sure how to say I just don’t want your knee to get sore, and also I was about to fall over without implying fuck me.
“Impossibly hot,” Brad said, like he was handing out a decision. He got on the bed so hastily it bumped up against the wall. “Oh, man-they’re going to hear us. Peter’s going to hear us-” his voice got hushed, “-having relations. Hey, don’t laugh, you’re not the one who got threatened with a shotgun! Peter’s going to kill me,” he said mournfully, before settling on the bed between Neal’s legs. “You’re really going to miss me after Elizabeth kills me and hides my body,” he said, before taking Neal’s cock back in his mouth.
Neal laughed, laughed and then fisted his hands in the sheets at his side because he wanted to cover his mouth, wanted to hide his enjoyment; his willing participation. Wanted to hide this whole sordid episode from Elizabeth and Peter and maybe from himself. But he didn’t think that this-this sharing, this claiming, this exchange-could take place anywhere else. He and Brad were on Neal’s bed. It smelled like him, smelled familiar, detergent and cologne.
When he had been-when he had needed to-in prison. In prison, he had concentrated on details. The taste of his own blood or the rough fabric of his uniform or the sounds of the other inmates banging on the cell bars and offering commentary. Here all of the details meant home.
He closed his eyes and tried to let go. Tried to let the sounds out, to moan and whimper, to respond. His throat hurt. His jaw hurt. Trying to relax was making him so tense.
Brad wasn’t as good at sucking cock as Neal was. He couldn’t take him in very far before his gag reflex kicked in. Occasionally his teeth slipped out from under his lips and he’d pull off to apologize. Brad tipped over on his side when he tried to open his own pants one-handed to jerk off, and Neal’s hands fluttered around Brad’s head and his own thighs and then up to his open mouth like startled butterflies. He laughed, laughed at Brad, laughed at himself. Laughed because the familiar exhalations turned into moans easily under the ministrations of Brad’s tongue, laughed because he was enjoying himself. A blowjob after dinner.
It was-it wasn’t perfect. Brad was sweating and fully clothed, Peter and Elizabeth wouldn’t be outside forever, Neal’s thighs were sore from spreading wide enough to make room for Brad’s broad shoulders.
He was close. He’d been close from the first moment of Brad’s hot mouth surrounding his dick. Brad didn’t have many tricks up his sleeve, but he was enthusiastic, and Neal was hungry for it, desperate for it.
Brad came first. Jerking himself off in his pants, pulling off Neal’s cock to moan his orgasm, his mouth pressed against Neal’s scars, voice and breath hot and loud god, Neal shivering over Neal’s marred skin.
Neal wrapped his hand around his cock and stroked it. His hips jerked when Brad’s unsteady hand joined his a moment later. “Come for me,” Brad said, his eyes half-lidded, resting his head on Neal’s hip. “I want to see you come, baby.”
No, Neal thought. This isn’t for you.
With Brad’s rough fingers twined with his, Brad’s breath teasing over his skin, Neal came. And he shouted.
Not a word or a name or a protest. Just a burst of sound wrung out from his body; his body that was too thin and small and tense to hold the pleasure that Brad was asking from him. He shook and shouted and closed his eyes tightly to try to hold back tears.
It was messy; all over his hand and Brad’s hand and his stomach, probably on the sheets, he’d have to-he’d have to wash them, that was important, he needed to-he needed to think about-
To think about coming, about orgasm, about the afterglow made sweeter and more dangerous by the addition of Brad’s murmured praise and rough, lazy kisses.
He couldn’t stop shaking. Not under the soothing strokes of Brad’s hand, the swipes of tissues cleaning him up, the weight of Brad pressing up against his side.
I need, he thought, his muscles twitching erratically, I need-
Brad’s hand covering the scars on his hip. His fingertips brushing the base of Neal’s softening cock. Brad, he realized, for now.
He turned on his side and let Brad hold him. Concentrated on the details of Brad’s over-the-top endearments and the scent of his sweat, the familiar colors of Neal’s blanket pulled up around them both, the constellations drifting past his window.
*
Therapy was awkward and then it was okay and then it was terrifying.
Marina waited until their fourth meeting to talk about prison. They’d already covered Elizabeth and Peter, talked about Brad, she’d had Neal draw what words looked like to him (birds, doves, searching for dry land).
“Tell me about it,” she said softly.
It wasn’t that bad, he wrote carefully. He crossed it out a moment later. It could have been worse, he answered instead, the letters steady on the page although their veracity was uncertain.
It happens to a lot of people, he wrote. And they don’t end up like this.
“Many people do experience abuse,” she said. He dug his fingernails into the leather arms of his chair. “And every experience is unique. Everyone deals with it in their own way. There are some commonalities, of course-you’re not abnormal, and you’re not alone-but you can’t compare your experience or recovery to other people. It’s not a competition for who had it worse. And there’s no deadline for when you’re supposed to get better.
“What happened to you should not have happened to you,” she said softly. In the absence of his response the words echoed and grew. “You were hurt very badly for a very long time.”
I know. He thought the words and tried to say them, tried to push them through, tried to open his mouth and let them fly. But when he failed he didn’t think he could blame it on his disability-his selected mutism-couldn’t claim that as the reason why his words stayed stuck in the nauseous turmoil of his body.
There was a power in her recognition of his trauma; her acknowledgment of its length and severity and impact, her confirmation of its reality.
This happened to you.
The abuse, the rapes, the degradation, the depression borne from the certainty that it would never end. It had happened to him. To Neal Caffrey, FBI consultant, technological virtuoso, person. It had happened to him, and it shouldn’t have.
For the rest of the session she did not encourage him to talk or ask what his words felt like (sharks, restless and starving), she did not ask him to draw or speak or write. She just moved to a chair closer to his and held his hand and whispered, “It’s going to be okay.”
*
Brad’s picking me up soon, he wrote, walking up behind Elizabeth and showing her the pad.
"Okay. Are you going somewhere close by, or should we plan on picking you up in the city, or...?"
He fiddled with his pen for a while. I’m taking an overnight bag.
"Oh." She looked from the sentence to Neal, wishing she could hear his inflection. "You’ve-hmm." She reminded herself that Neal was an adult, a part of the household, not a teenager with a curfew.
He was still so thin. His quietness was still more than just the absence of his voice; she was still so afraid for him. Sometimes, when he came home from work exhausted and pale, both he and Peter drained from a bad day, she would flash back to seeing Neal in prison, before he’d taken them all off the approved visitors list. Neal was a good liar, but he couldn’t con bruises off of his face, hadn’t been able to hide the fact that he just...wasn’t okay. He’d cut them off and she and Peter had spent the next years imagining worst case scenarios. Their imaginations apparently weren’t enough to dream up the nightmare of what had actually happened.
Even now, dressed in one of the suits that fit him almost perfectly, his hair neatly done, she couldn’t help but think fragile when she saw him. What if Brad couldn’t see that? Or maybe-maybe it would be better if he couldn’t.
He picked the pen back up. Will you tell Peter?
"Yes," she said reluctantly. Neal stood up and smoothed out his jacket, looking out the window, checking for Brad’s car. "I don’t-" she didn’t want him to leave, didn’t want to stop him, didn’t want to be the one who had to tell Peter. "Just be careful. And if you need us, you call. I’ll come get you any time, no questions asked. Okay?" Neal nodded. "Promise that you’ll call if you need us." He held out his pinky finger and she twined it with hers.
The next half-hour was an awkward dance. Neal avoiding Peter, Elizabeth avoiding Peter, Peter gradually growing suspicious. When Brad finally pulled up outside Neal was out like a shot. Peter saw him picking up a suitcase and she grabbed his arm to keep him from following Neal outside. "He’s staying over with Brad," she said.
Peter spluttered.
"It’s his decision, and we are going to respect it. Right, Peter?" He didn’t say anything. "Honey, he’s been getting so much better, you’ve said so yourself."
"I know that." He sounded hollow. He walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. They could see Brad’s taillights pulling away. "This is going to sound stupid," Peter warned, slowly letting the curtain drop. "But I was still kind of hoping..."
She smiled. Felt her cheeks get heavy with the threat of tears. "Hoping that when he was ready, he’d come to us?"
"It was a silly wish," Peter whispered, wrapping his arms around her, resting his chin on her head. She fit so perfectly against his body. She felt so safe there. She’d wanted Neal to have that; to be a part of it.
"I don’t want him to leave," she admitted. "Peter-what are we going to do when he leaves?"
Peter didn’t have an answer, and she couldn’t bear to ask it again.
*
Brad laughed when Neal came for the second time, groaning and squirming on the mattress, his eyelids squeezed tight, breath coming in long shudders. “Liked that one, huh?” Neal just groaned and pushed Brad away. “I’ll take that as a resounding yes.” He rolled onto his back and waited for Neal to clean himself up, giving him the few minutes of space he liked to have after coming. “Hey,” he whispered, when Neal returned from the bathroom and rested his head on Brad’s chest, his soft hair brushing against Brad’s chin.
“Hey,” Neal breathed, exhausted, sated, safe. Hey, Neal breathed, like it was a word instead of a revelation. Brad froze, going completely stiff, not wanting to wake up in case this was a dream, not wanting to move and break the spell of Neal’s voice hanging in the air. Neal’s voice, deep and hoarse, which Brad had just heard for the first time.
“Feeling chatty today, are we?” he asked, fighting to keep himself from pulling Neal off the bed and swinging him in circles. Maybe he should call Peter and Elizabeth, maybe Neal should call his therapist, maybe-
Neal looked up at him, and Brad waited for it to hit him. Slowly, Neal’s fingers crept up to his mouth. Hey. His lips formed the word but no sound came out, not this time; one miracle a night was enough.
“Hay is for horses,” Brad replied, because in time of high emotion he turned into his grandmother.
Neal shook his head.
And the fingers which had been ghosting over his lips like a blind man learning a stranger’s body became white-knuckled, stretching Neal’s mouth into a grotesque mask. “Neal, what are you-”
In a second Neal was out of the bed, both hands over his face, covering his mouth and muffling the sickening moans crawling up out of his throat. Brad didn’t know what was happening, didn’t know why Neal was terrified instead of elated. “You said something,” he shared, reinforcing the wonder of it, glancing at his phone because instead of calling Peter to celebrate he felt like he might need back-up. “It’s okay. It’s great! You’re great, please, just...” Neal pushed himself into the corner of Brad’s room and turned his back to Brad. His shoulders were shaking.
So he waited. He spouted platitudes and promises, put some clothes on and grabbed Neal’s notepad from off the bedside table and slid it across the carpet.
There was fear in every line of Neal’s body. Terror. He’d spoken, and now seemed to be readying himself for a beating.
No one had ever feared Brad like this before. It made him sick to his stomach. He’d thought that Neal had stopped viewing him as a threat, but now that he’d become witness to Neal’s words Neal’s arms were raised to fend him off.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispered, sliding off the bed and resting on the floor with his back against the bedside table.
I couldn’t, Neal scrawled with an uneven hand. Before this, he added in the margin. I swear.
“No, I know, I know you weren’t pretending. This is a breakthrough, this is awesome, it’s-” he looked at Neal, who was tracing his fingers over the words he’d written. He’d pressed the pen into the notepad hard enough to leave indentations. “Neal, you don’t-you don’t have to be afraid of this.”
Neal raised an eloquent shoulder and let it fall. He was still naked; the bruises Brad had sucked on his collarbones were dark and precious. “How many years has it been since you last spoke?” Neal held up three fingers. Brad took Neal’s hand in his own, pressed their palms together, curled his fingers over Neal’s. “Come back to bed with me.” His voice was hushed. They were huddled in a dark corner of his room, two children in a make-believe fort, hiding from Neal’s monsters.
*
It’s not a choice was the first thing he wrote in his next therapy session. Marina looked at it with a frown.
“What isn’t a choice?”
Talking, he wrote. I spoke yesterday.
“Congratulations, Neal! That’s amazing progress. And of course, you’re right; it isn’t a choice. And even if it were, no one would blame you. No one’s going to blame you for being silent up until now and no one’s going to be mad at you for talking.”
He took his notepad back from her and wrote what she’d just said on a piece of paper near the back, tore that page out of the pad, and stuck it in his pocket. He didn’t know where his words were going anymore and he didn’t want to lose these.
She smiled at him when he returned the notebook to its place between them. “So-what did you say?”
‘Hey.’
“Bold choice. I like it. And how did you feel, before you said it?”
...afterglow.
She laughed. “So...relaxed, I’m guessing?” He nodded. “Safe, relaxed, and not thinking about having to speak, or trying to force yourself to talk?” He shook his head. “That’s what I figured. So, your homework for next time-yes, I get to give you homework, it’s part of the job description-is to pay attention to those moments. And to try to say something. Whatever you want to say. ‘Hey’ is fine.”
Are you telling me to have sex? He’d expected her to backtrack, but she did not react as planned.
“Absolutely! It’s good for you. Gets your endorphins flowing. It’s good exercise and good fun. Provided you’re doing it right, and being safe,” she said, tilting her head to look up at Neal through her glasses. “How are things between you and Brad these days?”
He smiled.
*
When he’d spoken to Brad-after they’d gotten past his minor breakdown-they’d celebrated. Brad had opened a bottle of Riesling, bringing the bottle but not any wineglasses into the bedroom. He’d sipped the sweet wine from Neal’s stomach, laughing and licking and eventually taking things further south. Brad had taken him to the bakery on his way to work the next morning, where the woman behind the counter had not-very-surreptitiously given Neal a once-over and Brad a thumbs up.
When he spoke to Peter for the first time-hey, again, in the middle of watching a game on TV while reading through case files-Peter buried his face in his hands and cried. Neal sat next to him on the couch and did nothing. He thought about touching Peter on the shoulder or turning off the TV or texting Elizabeth.
He’d never seen Peter cry before. He was quiet about it. Didn’t make much noise, didn’t move, didn’t reach for tissues or hide his tears.
Please, Neal thought, wishing that his throat and tongue and lips would work again, please, stop crying.
Peter looked up at him, his eyes red, his cheeks wet. “I am so happy for you,” he said, each word separate and distinct, the phrase as a whole heavier than it should have been. Neal tried to smile, but his lips felt numb.
He reached forward and brushed the last of Peter’s tears away with his fingertips. Peter’s cheek was warm, it moved under his touch, sliding into a wide smile.
Brad celebrated and Peter cried and Neal-Neal held on to each word, each sound that passed his lips. Each syllable a sign, proof that he was getting better. One more road sign pointing the way to his freedom.
part four
*
Neal wanted his words back. Wanted no and come closer, wanted thank you and I am.
He wanted his voice, even though he could barely recall what it sounded like. The memory of it echoed down the silent years to him like a bad outgoing message, tinny and distorted, a stranger’s voice saying hello you’ve reached Neal Caffrey.
He was starting to taste them again. The words. Starting to feel them surface inside of him. Elizabeth said good morning and he held his coffee and his reply on his tongue, lukewarm Italian roast and good morning to you, too, savoring them both, relearning the taste of them.
He wanted his words and his voice and his-not his old life back, not the life he’d had before, but-well. His life or something like it.
And when he needed the words the most, needed no and Neal Caffrey and Peter, Peter where are you?, they did not magically surface like a phoenix from the ashes, desperation did not draw them closer; he and his silence were left alone.
*
It was a Matisse, shockingly-a real one, despite all of the evidence to the contrary: the break-in, the disabled security system, the scuffs on the floor underneath the painting. There was even a fresh scrape on the wall, almost hidden by the frame. Someone had worked very hard to make it look like this painting had been stolen and replaced by a forgery.
Hell, maybe it was a fake... Neal leaned in closer to triple-check the scent of the canvas, the ridges of paint, the age discoloration. It was real; real and beautiful. The room was quiet, the building secure. The rest of the White Collar squad was searching the house for clues. He let himself relax and enjoy the painting.
“Who the fuck are you?”
A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Strong fingers dug into his flesh as the man behind him spun him around. He saw dark blue: a uniform, gun on the belt, scrapes on the nightstick (he’s used it before). Neal’s mind stalled and his body went on autopilot. He dropped his gaze to the floor and kept his mouth shut. Self-preservation and shame. He stumbled when the cop shook his shoulder.
“You got any ID? How the fuck did you get in here? This is a closed crime scene, you-” The cop pulled him farther away from the painting, into the center of the room. “Why were you looking at that picture?”
He did-he might-he should have ID, ID in his wallet in his pocket or maybe his jacket or had he brought a satchel today, maybe he’d taken the FBI credentials out and put them in his shirtfront pocket-
He couldn’t get his body to work. Couldn’t lift his hand from his sides or his eyes from the cop’s scuffed shoes, couldn’t provide a defense or turn and run.
People aren’t supposed to touch me, he wanted to say, as the cop finally let go of his shoulder. People weren’t supposed to touch him or yell at him or walk up behind him, Brad and Peter and Diana and Elizabeth took care of that, took care of him, there were new rules, there had to be-
Then handcuffs.
He heard them before he saw them. The cop retrieving them from his belt and unsnapping them too quickly, the metal grated against itself. He heard the cuffs jangling and then there was a hand around his wrist, pulling his arm forward, moving him like a mannequin, fastening-cold metal. Cold grey metal clicking into place. One wrist secured. The cop reached for Neal’s other hand.
He couldn’t do this again. He just-he couldn’t. Sickness spread through every fiber in his body, nausea like a plea you will not survive this again.
So Neal fought.
He was losing almost before he started, one arm twisted in the cop’s grasp, the other pinwheeling desperately in an attempt to push himself away. He fought with more terror than skill, bile building in his throat, fighting memories more than he was fighting this man (this man who was just doing his job, not the man who haunted one-too-many of Neal’s nightmares).
The cop was yelling and Neal was trying to. Trying to scream or cry or laugh, laugh because he could taste blood but not help me. All that came out were hoarse moans, as if all of the air had already escaped him, as if his body had learned more intimately than his brain that no help would be coming.
A fist made contact with his cheek. He spit blood and bit his cheek again when the cop kicked his legs out from underneath him. He was on the ground, sprawled on his front, and then he-the cop-he was-
He pinned Neal’s body down and Neal lost it. He bucked and twisted and bit, kicked the floor and the cop and the backs of his own thighs, writhed and panicked and finally, finally something inside of him shook apart.
He screamed.
He was fighting for his life, blood and strangled words; for the first time in years he was fighting back.
He didn’t see Brad coming, but he felt him. Felt Brad slam into the cop like a cannonball, tackling him off of Neal, leaving Neal sprawled on the floor gasping for breath and digging his fingernails into the hardwood, trying to claw his way out of the room. Peter was there seconds later. He touched Neal’s shoulder and tried to pull him up.
He flinched. Recoiled. Moved away from Peter and his big hands and his black leather gun holster, his shined black leather shoes, the scent of his deodorant. He crouched on the floor and breathed through his nose and tried not to vomit.
“Calm down,” Peter whispered. “We’ve got you. Be quiet,” he said, because Neal was crying more than he was breathing. He choked on the irony and the taste of blood. “I’ve got you,” Peter said, holstering his gun and kneeling on the ground at Neal’s side, holding his open palms in front of him. “I’ve got you.”
Neal could hear Brad yelling. And there were hard thumps, familiar sounds: a body being slammed against a wall.
“You’re going down, you motherfucking incompetent piece of shit. What the fuck were you thinking, assaulting an FBI agent? No, don’t try to get up, fuckwit, you just stay right fucking there.”
Neal blocked it out and pushed himself onto his knees. The skin underneath his fingernails was bleeding. He had cuts inside his mouth, his lower lip was already swelling, and the tenderness near his eye would develop into a spectacular black eye. He was also shaking. “Diana-” Peter was moving away from him and Diana was replacing him. She had Neal’s notebook and her gun was holstered, Neal let her kneel at his side, her knee bumping against his calf.
He could hear Peter on his phone. He was talking in a low, furious voice to someone-Hughes?-on the other end of the line. He and Brad were crowding the cop against the wall. Every time the cop tried to explain himself, Brad slammed him back against the wall. Neal could appreciate Brad’s urge to defend his territory but watching the cop’s body shudder every time he hit the drywall was making Neal’s stomach roil. When he tried to sit up Diana was there, murmuring comforting words to him (words he’d heard her use with so many victims before him). Diana handed him her notepad and a pen.
“Are you okay?”
I didn’t have my ID, he wrote, his letters stuttering across the page. It’s not his fault.
“Peter’d arrest somebody for giving you so much as a dirty look, Neal, you think he’s going to let this guy go with a slap on the wrist?”
He was just doing his job, Neal replied, breathing deeply, reclaiming each shaking limb in turn.
Diana’s eyes softened. “Hughes will know that. And whoever this guy’s superior is will know that. Don’t worry.” She shifted her body so that he wouldn’t have to see Brad leading the cop out of the room in his own handcuffs. He could still feel them around his wrists; cold and empty phantom pains. “You did good,” she said, offering him a hand up. “You can take care of yourself, Caffrey. But it’s okay to let us help you every once in a while.”
He stumbled under the weight of her words. Leaned against the wall, looking at the Matisse-real, it was, it was real-while her words sank into him.
He had. He had taken care of himself. Had fought, had screamed, had bought himself time.
He’d given up fighting back before he’d lost his voice. Maybe he was getting it all back, just-in reverse order. Freedom, voice, strength. What would he get back next, he wondered, as he followed Diana to Peter’s side. What more could he possibly want?
*
Peter gave him the next day off from work and Neal spent it at home on Elizabeth’s computer. Dressed in a pair of Peter’s sweatpants and one of Elizabeth’s baggy Stanford hoodies, Satch sitting on his feet, curled up on the couch in the living room. He was perfectly aware of how pitiful he looked. Elizabeth had made him hot chocolate with breakfast instead of coffee, and Peter had actually tucked a blanket in around his feet before leaving for work.
Peter had asked him, in the beginning, what was wrong with him. If it was physical or mental or likely to go away. Francois had asked, too, Francois and Hector and Nelson, the warden and the nurses, why won’t you say anything, what’s wrong, scream real pretty for me, bitch. Neal hadn’t had any answers for them. He was looking for them now.
WebMD was less than helpful. He hadn’t lost his voice because of strep, he wasn’t autistic, he wasn’t a child. He found something that almost seemed right, selective mutism, but it didn’t quite fit because none of the articles or discussion boards addressed the way his silence had begun as a shield and then morphed into a tower from which he could not escape, none of the lists of symptoms described the way that he’d lost so many things before his words. They were simply the last item in a litany of things he’d lost, the first and only item on the list of things he’d taken.
And now his words were coming back to him in waves of want, pressing against the roof of his mouth and the back of his teeth, urges that started in his stomach but somehow missed his vocal cords on their way to his lips.
He could not fight this on his own. So he made himself lunch, went on a run with Satchmo, and looked into his governmental insurance plan for treatment options.
*
They made him go to the hospital for testing. Peter made sure they scheduled everything in one day: the physical examination, the x-rays, the MRIs. Get it over with as quickly and painlessly as possible.
Neal found out about the tests two weeks before they were able to get them scheduled. The time between passed in a blur. He knew intellectually that somehow he managed to go to bed and change his clothes and go to work and read files, knew that somehow he’d continued moving forward. When Wednesday morning arrived and Peter parked the Taurus in the hospital parking lot, it didn’t seem like any time had passed; didn’t seem possible that he’d been able to keep himself from running away.
He walked inside under his own power. But when they got inside, the smell hit him; stale air and antiseptic, medicine and the hum of fluorescent lights. He stopped walking and hid his face in Peter’s chest. Concentrated on the beating of Peter’s heart.
“You can do this,” Peter said, tugging him to the side of the waiting room. He needed to tell Peter don’t leave but he could barely get air through his lungs, couldn’t convince his fingers to unfurl from where they were wrapped in the cheap cotton of Peter’s shirt to reach for his notebook and pen. Needed to tell Peter don’t leave me because Peter had to be there. Peter wouldn’t let them tie Neal down, put restraints on his wrists, legs spread wide, small hospital gown rucked up around his stomach. Peter wouldn’t let them use cold metal tools to spread his hole open, wouldn’t let them take turns fucking his ass and his pried open mouth, would make sure they didn’t use icy-hot on their hands when they fisted him.
Neal wanted to run.
He held on to Peter. Held Peter’s hand while Peter filled out his forms for him, held on to Peter’s hand as they were ushered from one room to another, listened to Peter’s calm, quiet voice repeating the questions that the doctors were asking him. He felt like he was in a maze; a dream. Felt like he was floating away and only the anchor of Peter’s hand kept him connected.
Peter had to leave him for the MRI. They stripped Neal of his clothes, his notebook, his pen, and put him into a white machine that shifted every couple of seconds around him, echoing so loudly that he would jump, ruining exposure after exposure. He had to stay still.
He thought of Brad. Thought about maybe baking donuts on his next day off, or maybe muffins, he’d never really baked anything before. He thought of Brad and then about the scars Brad had yet to see.
Mostly he thought about running away.
Peter would let him. Peter would let him run and maybe help cover his tracks. Peter would probably lose his job for it, would lose any chance of getting that promotion to Reese’s position.
He could go to Europe, he thought hours later, as the x-ray technician touched his body to reposition his limbs. He could go to France and stay in a small rustic bed and breakfast and eat baguettes and wait for Francois.
When it finally ended (the nurse ushering them into a small room and handing Peter Neal’s clothing) he grabbed for the trash can and vomited. He hadn’t eaten anything in days so it was just bile, bile and then nothing, just his body convulsing around itself, over and over again.
He didn’t remember how Peter got him home.
*
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Peter said the following morning, sitting on the edge of Neal’s bed, trying to bribe him into drinking a cup of coffee. It was probably full of cream and sugar. Neal could barely stand the smell of it yet. “Nothing physical, that they could find. Except that you’re still underweight. All of your-other-the infections, they’re behaving as they’re supposed to. Just keep taking your medications.”
Neal curled up tighter underneath his blanket. “The next step is to try therapy,” Peter said softly, setting the cup of coffee down on the low dresser by Neal’s bed. Steam was rising from it. “I’ve got some names, and I can figure out who’s covered by our insurance. I just need to know if you have a preference for a man or a woman.”
Neal snaked one hand out from under the covers to grab his notebook. Woman, he wrote, but he pulled the notebook out of Peter’s hands to add another sentence. Anyone who doesn’t work at the hospital.
“Got it,” Peter said, giving him back his notebook and leaving the coffee behind. “You’ve got the day off. Brad sent muffins, they’re in the kitchen. Feel better,” he said awkwardly, before closing Neal’s door.
There’s nothing wrong. Nothing wrong with his body, his weak slutty body, nothing wrong with the signals it sent out saying take me. It was all in his head. In his mind; of his own creation. He didn’t drink the coffee or get out of bed for the rest of the morning.
*
His therapist, Marina, was tall and thin and sallow. She swayed from side to side as she led Neal into her office, walking through hallways that overflowed with boxes. She’d just moved into a small building on the outskirts of town. It smelled like mothballs and cardboard. The walls were all bare but the shelves in her office were already cluttered with books and small figurines.
“Your partner filled me in on a lot of the relevant details,” she said, gesturing with the paperwork that Peter had once again filled in for him. Peter was waiting in the front room, watching everyone like a hawk while pretending to do the NYT crossword puzzle. “And I’ve got your results from the hospital.”
She paused. He waited for her to ask a question.
“The diagnosis they provided at the hospital was selective mutism. I’m hesitant to confirm that, because it’s so rare in adults, but at the moment we don’t have any better labels. I see you have a notebook with you?” He nodded. “All right, then-let’s get started.” Which was easier said than done. The expectation of conversation was unexpectedly intimidating. He had to spend an hour with a woman who he was paying to listen, and he had nothing to say.
This is awkward, he wrote, after struggling for half a page to answer “What do words feel like?”
She laughed and leaned back in her chair. “This is a first for me, too,” she said. “We’ll have to figure it out together.”
*
"This is the worst idea you’ve ever had," he told his reflection firmly. "Generations of Knots will look back on this moment and wonder: ‘whatever happened to that nice Brad fellow? Such a shame that he died so young. So handsome and young...’"
Neal’s knock on the car window put a stop to his pep talk.
"I’m-I was just-" He smiled ruefully at Neal and opened his door. "I was freaking out a bit." Neal opened his arms and Brad stepped into a hug.
Hugging Neal was better than hugging anyone else he’d ever hugged, because he couldn’t take it for granted. Not a single second of it, not a single square inch of contact. It made him hyper-aware, made him grateful, made him...well. Really, really horny.
The sound of the front door opening put a stop to both that train of thought and the beginning of his erection. "I brought wine," he said quickly. "Three different kinds-what did you make for dinner? Or, wait, never mind, I wouldn’t know what would go well with it anyway-" he pulled the bottles off the passenger seat and showed them to Neal. "Which one should I bring in?"
Neal kissed him and slipped the Shiraz from the crook of his elbow.
It was just dinner at the Burkes. He felt weird, being so nervous. He’d seen Peter not four hours earlier, and after surviving Quantico and semi-professional football and an aborted stint in the army, he shouldn’t be afraid of Peter’s wife. Peter’s wife Elizabeth who had threatened his life and also maybe his unborn children, her nails were really sharp, this was a horrible idea-
"Are you two going to stop necking and come inside, or should I get my shotgun?"
Brad looked from Neal to Peter. "He doesn’t really have a shotgun, does he? Does he? He wouldn’t shoot me with his FBI issue gun, right? Neal-" He trailed his grinning boyfriend into the house like a nervous dog.
Peter shook his hand (a little too firmly, Brad’s knuckles felt creaky afterwards) and Satchmo slobbered on his knee.
"Elizabeth’s in the kitchen,” Peter said with a glare. “I’ll take the wine and go help her finish up."
Peter left them alone in the living room. Brad wanted to kiss Neal, but he was kind of worried that Peter had a spy cam on them. "This was a bad, bad idea.” Neal laughed, his usual breathless laugh that was such a surprise every time he made it.
The dinner had ostensibly been Peter’s idea, and Brad was half-convinced it was an attempt to break them up. But seeing Neal-seeing Neal barefoot and in jeans and a t-shirt, relaxed-he was starting to think maybe it was a gift. The Burkes giving their permission, signaling their approval. Or maybe there was going to be arsenic in his appetizer. It could go either way.
Neal led him to the couch and sat down next to him, running his hands over Brad’s shoulders, digging his thumbs into the tense muscles. Neal helped him out of his suit jacket (he was overdressed, he should have worn a nice sweater, his button-down and tie would look funny without the jacket...) and hesitantly kissed the side of his neck.
"You’re in a good mood," Brad murmured, tilting his head to the side and wrapping an arm around Neal’s waist. Neal hummed and leaned closer, kissing the collar of Brad’s shirt and the sensitive skin below his ear, half-kisses, kisses that made Brad want to strip his shirt off and get Neal’s mouth on more of him.
"They’re going to walk in on us," he cautioned, staring nervously at the doorway. He could hear Peter and Elizabeth faintly, the clink of glasses and plates, the low hum of music playing from a radio. "Oh, fuck it." He twisted sideways on the couch and took Neal’s surprised face between his hands. "It’s good to see you, baby."
Neal didn’t particularly care for the endearments but he’d picked baby out of a line-up of baby, snookums, honey bear, and sweet cheeks. Brad liked to make sure Neal had choices. He’d saved the piece of paper he’d written the list on-saved the one-sided transcript of their conversation and the bill from dinner and a matchbook with the name of the restaurant on it. He wasn’t usually such a packrat, but time with Neal was like touching Neal; precious and a privilege, something to be treasured.
He made out with Neal on the Burkes’ couch like a teenager, losing himself in the slight rub of stubble from Neal’s beard and the touch of his lips. When Neal pulled away Brad leaned forward, Neal’s lips his only goal, but he stopped when Neal nodded towards the dining room. Brad pulled himself together with only a second to spare before Elizabeth and Peter carried in the food from the kitchen.
"So good to see you, Mrs. Burke," he said with a big smile, hoping that he didn’t have a visible erection. His pants were loose, he’d tucked himself in carefully-he sighed with relief when they all took their seats.
Dinner was unexpectedly comfortable. Brad and Neal sat on one side of the table, Peter and Elizabeth on the other. Brad became Neal’s default spokesperson, reading aloud whatever comments Neal scrawled down on a mostly-full legal pad. Brad was half in love with Elizabeth by the end of the meal, and even more convinced that Peter Burke was a…a great man. Brad had seen many sides to him before, but this one-family man-was his new favorite. Also, Peter made a killer casserole.
After dinner (and a fantastic blueberry and peach pie), Peter and Elizabeth went to sit on the porch. "That sounds lovely," Brad said, starting to stand up to join them. Neal grabbed his wrist under the table and shook his head. "I’ll just, uh. We’ll clear the table?" Neal smiled and started gathering dishes.
"We don’t want to be on the porch?" he asked after Peter and Elizabeth left, his hands full of the casserole and the water pitcher. He nearly dropped them both when he entered the kitchen and saw Neal leaning against the counter like an ad for sex. Sex or maybe specifically blowjobs, since his hips were thrust forward just the slightest bit, just enough for the line of his cock to press tight against the front of his faded jeans. "No porch," Brad said, his mouth gone dry. "You want to...here?"
It made sense that Neal would make a move now, he realized, when he thought about it for a second. The second he got before Neal took the dishes from his hands and then pressed him up against the counter. They were on Neal’s turf. His territory. Hopefully, he would feel safe here.
"You have a room, right?" Neal nodded and rubbed his erection against Brad’s, a slow dirty slide. "That’s-should we-want to show me? Or we could do it right here, I am always down for kitchen sex, really, just ask anyone-"
Neal kissed him before he could babble his way into an even deeper blush. Kissed him and then sucked on Brad’s curious tongue, sucked on it with a moan that Brad felt all the way down to his dick. Felt the swirl of Neal’s tongue against his and knew how good that would feel against his cock, oh, god, he wanted it there.
Neal wasn’t as down for kitchen sex as Brad was, and they abandoned the dirty dishes and ran up the stairs together. When the door to Neal’s bedroom closed behind them he had an awkward moment of clarity. “Wait, Neal, are you drunk? Is this a bad decision? I can’t tell if I should say yes or no to you-”
Neal grabbed Brad’s head and pulled him forward. Brad let out a startled oh and then slouched into Neal’s grip. He could feel Neal’s breath on his forehead.
And then Neal was kissing him. His eyebrows and his crooked nose, his moustache and the stubble on his cheeks. Brad’s breath caught in his throat and Neal’s lips came to rest on the creased skin between his eyes. Neal let go of his face and reached for his hands.
“God, Neal-”
They had kissed before. Kissed and rolled around a bit on couches and in the car; once during a movie Brad had moved his hand from Neal’s knee to mid-thigh. He’d never had a romantic relationship that had progressed this slowly, but he was almost afraid to touch Neal. Afraid to do it wrong and not be able to do it again.
Now Neal was showing him what to do and it seemed like Brad’s fear was only growing. Neal’s hands shook as he brought Brad’s hands to his shoulders, then slowly pulled them down to rest with his palms spread across Neal’s pecs. Neal gave each of Brad’s eyebrows one last kiss and then pulled back.
Brad stayed hunched forward. He didn’t know what to do. He felt honored, blessed, felt-beloved. He didn’t think he would ever forget the touch of Neal’s lips on the broken cartilage of his nose, Neal’s breath across his closed eyes.
“I want to-I want to touch you, can I-” Neal pressed Brad’s hand harder against his chest. He could feel Neal’s heartbeat. “Okay. Just keep…keep showing me what to do.” Neal’s heart pounded against his hand when Brad kissed him on the lips.
*
He guided Brad to his bed, and pushed his shoulder gently until he sat down. “Ddo you want me to lie down? Or-”
Neal shook his head and stepped back. Reached up and began to unbutton his shirt.
“You don’t have to do this,” Brad said, starting to stand. “You should let me help, at least-”
He pushed Brad’s shoulder again, wishing that he could explain himself, even though he wasn’t quite sure how.
He was laying his cards out on the table. This is what I have to offer. This is what Brad would have to put up with and work through and look at.
He finished unbuttoning his shirt and slowly slid it over his shoulders. Inch by inch. He watched Brad watching him. Brad had his hands folded in his lap…maybe hiding an erection? Neal had hardly revealed anything yet-and this was hardly a strip show. When he uncovered his chest, fingers brushing over his nipples, Brad bit his lip.
It was hard to breathe. With the weight of Brad’s regard settling on every exposed inch of him. It was different than when he’d presented himself to Peter. Different than the first time Francois had peeled his jumpsuit back and licked every stretch of his body. Different than the times they’d stripped him in the infirmary and posed him, taking careful pictures of new wounds.
He brought his thumb back up to his nipple and teased it until it was hard. He could see Brad’s Adam’s apple move when he swallowed.
Brad wanted him. Brad was attracted to him.
There was a curve between Neal’s ribs and his hips that wasn't supposed to be there. Hopefully it would seem feminine to Brad, would seem natural and sexy and wouldn't call to mind all of the meals that Neal left uneaten on the plate. After Peter’s rejection, he’d wondered if maybe it was because of how much damage prison had inflicted on his body. He’d gained some weight back since then, but not much; his ribs were less prominent but they were still visible.
“Can I-should I touch you?” Brad asked, breathless, his body nervously shifting on the bed. “Or is this enough? Is this good for you?”
Neal ignored him and dropped his shirt on the floor. Brad reached forward with one hand, but let it fall when Neal didn’t step towards him.
Will you still want me, Neal thought, almost clinical in his observation of Brad’s reactions, when you see the rest?
Because there were so many scars. Brown and white and some still scattered in pink. The ones on his hip were the worst. They’d healed badly. It had been a full week of fighting the infection before Nelson had let him go to the infirmary.
He unbuttoned his slacks, undid the zipper, and stepped out of his pants carefully after they pooled on the floor around his feet. He was wearing silk boxers. He’d dressed for tonight with this in mind. Every time he’d shifted during dinner, his boxers sliding against his skin, he’d thought about Brad’s hands.
“Neal, you’re so beautiful. So sexy. I really want to touch you, babe, can I-”
He eased the waistband of his boxers over the words on his hip. Then pulled them the rest of the way off. He took his socks off as he slid the boxers over his feet, and then stood. Staring at Brad staring at him. Curious. Naked.
Brad slid off the bed and onto his knees. Awkwardly, his bad knee making it an ordeal. Neal wanted to step forward to make Brad’s journey shorter but he couldn’t move.
“I want to make you feel good,” Brad said, looking up at Neal. “Show me what you want?”
His mouth went dry. He was swallowing nothing and nerves. But he unclenched his clammy hands and took Brad’s face between his palms. Guided Brad forward, and there was no way that anyone watching-anyone or Neal or Brad or Peter or Nelson-would think that this was anything other than Neal asking for it.
“Do you want-can I suck you?” Neal nodded, nodded and tensed, the muscles from his thighs through his groin and up past his chest clenching.
And then Brad saw his scars and paused, his lips inches away from Neal’s hard cock and the crude words carved into his flesh. Brad kissed them both. Traced the tip of his tongue over the letters and then down the column of his cock, his mustache brushing against the raised patches of skin and the bundle of nerves at his head.
Do you know what those words mean, Neal wanted to know, can you still read them, do you think they’re a lie, does it matter? He couldn’t ask and he didn’t want to know. Didn’t care within a few minutes because Brad’s hands were big and warm and maybe the only thing holding Neal up.
“I’m going to suck your dick now,” Brad mumbled, dragging his mouth over the crease of Neal’s groin, through his trimmed pubic hair, to the base of his cock. “It’s been a while,” he warned, his words barely audible through the blood pounding in Neal’s ears. “So be patient with me.”
His cock. Brad was sucking his cock. Brad was on his knees (cocksucker) sucking Neal’s dick. Because he wanted to, probably, maybe because he thought he had to, what if-what if-
It felt so good. So good that Neal’s knees felt weak. It felt completely unlike the grip of Neal’s own hand in the morning, slick with lotion and moving just a bit too fast, concentrating on the goal instead of the pleasure.
His breath caught in his throat. He put one hand over his mouth and the other on Brad’s shoulder for balance. When Brad took half of Neal’s dick into his mouth he muffled a moan, eyes flickering toward the door even though Elizabeth had promised to keep Peter outside for at least an hour.
Brad pulled off with an obscene pop, suction so strong that Neal’s hips swayed forward with the pressure. Brad licked his lips and Neal’s dick twitched; he was so close to Brad’s tongue.
“I’m hesitant to tell you what to do,” Brad said, his voice hoarse. “But if it’s okay with you, I would really like to hear the noises you make. As long as that’s not crossing any lines for you-and if it is, I’ll just shut up, so-so I’ll just get back to sucking your dick, okay?” Neal pulled Brad’s hair to keep him from doing just that. Then he helped Brad stand up. Left him in the center of the room and went over to the radio. Turned it on, tuned it to NPR-late enough for jazz-and cranked up the volume. He couldn’t bring himself to make noise in silence; not yet.
Then he went over to the bed and sat up against the headboard. When Brad didn’t move Neal hesitantly spread his legs open a little bit-not sure how to say I just don’t want your knee to get sore, and also I was about to fall over without implying fuck me.
“Impossibly hot,” Brad said, like he was handing out a decision. He got on the bed so hastily it bumped up against the wall. “Oh, man-they’re going to hear us. Peter’s going to hear us-” his voice got hushed, “-having relations. Hey, don’t laugh, you’re not the one who got threatened with a shotgun! Peter’s going to kill me,” he said mournfully, before settling on the bed between Neal’s legs. “You’re really going to miss me after Elizabeth kills me and hides my body,” he said, before taking Neal’s cock back in his mouth.
Neal laughed, laughed and then fisted his hands in the sheets at his side because he wanted to cover his mouth, wanted to hide his enjoyment; his willing participation. Wanted to hide this whole sordid episode from Elizabeth and Peter and maybe from himself. But he didn’t think that this-this sharing, this claiming, this exchange-could take place anywhere else. He and Brad were on Neal’s bed. It smelled like him, smelled familiar, detergent and cologne.
When he had been-when he had needed to-in prison. In prison, he had concentrated on details. The taste of his own blood or the rough fabric of his uniform or the sounds of the other inmates banging on the cell bars and offering commentary. Here all of the details meant home.
He closed his eyes and tried to let go. Tried to let the sounds out, to moan and whimper, to respond. His throat hurt. His jaw hurt. Trying to relax was making him so tense.
Brad wasn’t as good at sucking cock as Neal was. He couldn’t take him in very far before his gag reflex kicked in. Occasionally his teeth slipped out from under his lips and he’d pull off to apologize. Brad tipped over on his side when he tried to open his own pants one-handed to jerk off, and Neal’s hands fluttered around Brad’s head and his own thighs and then up to his open mouth like startled butterflies. He laughed, laughed at Brad, laughed at himself. Laughed because the familiar exhalations turned into moans easily under the ministrations of Brad’s tongue, laughed because he was enjoying himself. A blowjob after dinner.
It was-it wasn’t perfect. Brad was sweating and fully clothed, Peter and Elizabeth wouldn’t be outside forever, Neal’s thighs were sore from spreading wide enough to make room for Brad’s broad shoulders.
He was close. He’d been close from the first moment of Brad’s hot mouth surrounding his dick. Brad didn’t have many tricks up his sleeve, but he was enthusiastic, and Neal was hungry for it, desperate for it.
Brad came first. Jerking himself off in his pants, pulling off Neal’s cock to moan his orgasm, his mouth pressed against Neal’s scars, voice and breath hot and loud god, Neal shivering over Neal’s marred skin.
Neal wrapped his hand around his cock and stroked it. His hips jerked when Brad’s unsteady hand joined his a moment later. “Come for me,” Brad said, his eyes half-lidded, resting his head on Neal’s hip. “I want to see you come, baby.”
No, Neal thought. This isn’t for you.
With Brad’s rough fingers twined with his, Brad’s breath teasing over his skin, Neal came. And he shouted.
Not a word or a name or a protest. Just a burst of sound wrung out from his body; his body that was too thin and small and tense to hold the pleasure that Brad was asking from him. He shook and shouted and closed his eyes tightly to try to hold back tears.
It was messy; all over his hand and Brad’s hand and his stomach, probably on the sheets, he’d have to-he’d have to wash them, that was important, he needed to-he needed to think about-
To think about coming, about orgasm, about the afterglow made sweeter and more dangerous by the addition of Brad’s murmured praise and rough, lazy kisses.
He couldn’t stop shaking. Not under the soothing strokes of Brad’s hand, the swipes of tissues cleaning him up, the weight of Brad pressing up against his side.
I need, he thought, his muscles twitching erratically, I need-
Brad’s hand covering the scars on his hip. His fingertips brushing the base of Neal’s softening cock. Brad, he realized, for now.
He turned on his side and let Brad hold him. Concentrated on the details of Brad’s over-the-top endearments and the scent of his sweat, the familiar colors of Neal’s blanket pulled up around them both, the constellations drifting past his window.
*
Therapy was awkward and then it was okay and then it was terrifying.
Marina waited until their fourth meeting to talk about prison. They’d already covered Elizabeth and Peter, talked about Brad, she’d had Neal draw what words looked like to him (birds, doves, searching for dry land).
“Tell me about it,” she said softly.
It wasn’t that bad, he wrote carefully. He crossed it out a moment later. It could have been worse, he answered instead, the letters steady on the page although their veracity was uncertain.
It happens to a lot of people, he wrote. And they don’t end up like this.
“Many people do experience abuse,” she said. He dug his fingernails into the leather arms of his chair. “And every experience is unique. Everyone deals with it in their own way. There are some commonalities, of course-you’re not abnormal, and you’re not alone-but you can’t compare your experience or recovery to other people. It’s not a competition for who had it worse. And there’s no deadline for when you’re supposed to get better.
“What happened to you should not have happened to you,” she said softly. In the absence of his response the words echoed and grew. “You were hurt very badly for a very long time.”
I know. He thought the words and tried to say them, tried to push them through, tried to open his mouth and let them fly. But when he failed he didn’t think he could blame it on his disability-his selected mutism-couldn’t claim that as the reason why his words stayed stuck in the nauseous turmoil of his body.
There was a power in her recognition of his trauma; her acknowledgment of its length and severity and impact, her confirmation of its reality.
This happened to you.
The abuse, the rapes, the degradation, the depression borne from the certainty that it would never end. It had happened to him. To Neal Caffrey, FBI consultant, technological virtuoso, person. It had happened to him, and it shouldn’t have.
For the rest of the session she did not encourage him to talk or ask what his words felt like (sharks, restless and starving), she did not ask him to draw or speak or write. She just moved to a chair closer to his and held his hand and whispered, “It’s going to be okay.”
*
Brad’s picking me up soon, he wrote, walking up behind Elizabeth and showing her the pad.
"Okay. Are you going somewhere close by, or should we plan on picking you up in the city, or...?"
He fiddled with his pen for a while. I’m taking an overnight bag.
"Oh." She looked from the sentence to Neal, wishing she could hear his inflection. "You’ve-hmm." She reminded herself that Neal was an adult, a part of the household, not a teenager with a curfew.
He was still so thin. His quietness was still more than just the absence of his voice; she was still so afraid for him. Sometimes, when he came home from work exhausted and pale, both he and Peter drained from a bad day, she would flash back to seeing Neal in prison, before he’d taken them all off the approved visitors list. Neal was a good liar, but he couldn’t con bruises off of his face, hadn’t been able to hide the fact that he just...wasn’t okay. He’d cut them off and she and Peter had spent the next years imagining worst case scenarios. Their imaginations apparently weren’t enough to dream up the nightmare of what had actually happened.
Even now, dressed in one of the suits that fit him almost perfectly, his hair neatly done, she couldn’t help but think fragile when she saw him. What if Brad couldn’t see that? Or maybe-maybe it would be better if he couldn’t.
He picked the pen back up. Will you tell Peter?
"Yes," she said reluctantly. Neal stood up and smoothed out his jacket, looking out the window, checking for Brad’s car. "I don’t-" she didn’t want him to leave, didn’t want to stop him, didn’t want to be the one who had to tell Peter. "Just be careful. And if you need us, you call. I’ll come get you any time, no questions asked. Okay?" Neal nodded. "Promise that you’ll call if you need us." He held out his pinky finger and she twined it with hers.
The next half-hour was an awkward dance. Neal avoiding Peter, Elizabeth avoiding Peter, Peter gradually growing suspicious. When Brad finally pulled up outside Neal was out like a shot. Peter saw him picking up a suitcase and she grabbed his arm to keep him from following Neal outside. "He’s staying over with Brad," she said.
Peter spluttered.
"It’s his decision, and we are going to respect it. Right, Peter?" He didn’t say anything. "Honey, he’s been getting so much better, you’ve said so yourself."
"I know that." He sounded hollow. He walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. They could see Brad’s taillights pulling away. "This is going to sound stupid," Peter warned, slowly letting the curtain drop. "But I was still kind of hoping..."
She smiled. Felt her cheeks get heavy with the threat of tears. "Hoping that when he was ready, he’d come to us?"
"It was a silly wish," Peter whispered, wrapping his arms around her, resting his chin on her head. She fit so perfectly against his body. She felt so safe there. She’d wanted Neal to have that; to be a part of it.
"I don’t want him to leave," she admitted. "Peter-what are we going to do when he leaves?"
Peter didn’t have an answer, and she couldn’t bear to ask it again.
*
Brad laughed when Neal came for the second time, groaning and squirming on the mattress, his eyelids squeezed tight, breath coming in long shudders. “Liked that one, huh?” Neal just groaned and pushed Brad away. “I’ll take that as a resounding yes.” He rolled onto his back and waited for Neal to clean himself up, giving him the few minutes of space he liked to have after coming. “Hey,” he whispered, when Neal returned from the bathroom and rested his head on Brad’s chest, his soft hair brushing against Brad’s chin.
“Hey,” Neal breathed, exhausted, sated, safe. Hey, Neal breathed, like it was a word instead of a revelation. Brad froze, going completely stiff, not wanting to wake up in case this was a dream, not wanting to move and break the spell of Neal’s voice hanging in the air. Neal’s voice, deep and hoarse, which Brad had just heard for the first time.
“Feeling chatty today, are we?” he asked, fighting to keep himself from pulling Neal off the bed and swinging him in circles. Maybe he should call Peter and Elizabeth, maybe Neal should call his therapist, maybe-
Neal looked up at him, and Brad waited for it to hit him. Slowly, Neal’s fingers crept up to his mouth. Hey. His lips formed the word but no sound came out, not this time; one miracle a night was enough.
“Hay is for horses,” Brad replied, because in time of high emotion he turned into his grandmother.
Neal shook his head.
And the fingers which had been ghosting over his lips like a blind man learning a stranger’s body became white-knuckled, stretching Neal’s mouth into a grotesque mask. “Neal, what are you-”
In a second Neal was out of the bed, both hands over his face, covering his mouth and muffling the sickening moans crawling up out of his throat. Brad didn’t know what was happening, didn’t know why Neal was terrified instead of elated. “You said something,” he shared, reinforcing the wonder of it, glancing at his phone because instead of calling Peter to celebrate he felt like he might need back-up. “It’s okay. It’s great! You’re great, please, just...” Neal pushed himself into the corner of Brad’s room and turned his back to Brad. His shoulders were shaking.
So he waited. He spouted platitudes and promises, put some clothes on and grabbed Neal’s notepad from off the bedside table and slid it across the carpet.
There was fear in every line of Neal’s body. Terror. He’d spoken, and now seemed to be readying himself for a beating.
No one had ever feared Brad like this before. It made him sick to his stomach. He’d thought that Neal had stopped viewing him as a threat, but now that he’d become witness to Neal’s words Neal’s arms were raised to fend him off.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispered, sliding off the bed and resting on the floor with his back against the bedside table.
I couldn’t, Neal scrawled with an uneven hand. Before this, he added in the margin. I swear.
“No, I know, I know you weren’t pretending. This is a breakthrough, this is awesome, it’s-” he looked at Neal, who was tracing his fingers over the words he’d written. He’d pressed the pen into the notepad hard enough to leave indentations. “Neal, you don’t-you don’t have to be afraid of this.”
Neal raised an eloquent shoulder and let it fall. He was still naked; the bruises Brad had sucked on his collarbones were dark and precious. “How many years has it been since you last spoke?” Neal held up three fingers. Brad took Neal’s hand in his own, pressed their palms together, curled his fingers over Neal’s. “Come back to bed with me.” His voice was hushed. They were huddled in a dark corner of his room, two children in a make-believe fort, hiding from Neal’s monsters.
*
It’s not a choice was the first thing he wrote in his next therapy session. Marina looked at it with a frown.
“What isn’t a choice?”
Talking, he wrote. I spoke yesterday.
“Congratulations, Neal! That’s amazing progress. And of course, you’re right; it isn’t a choice. And even if it were, no one would blame you. No one’s going to blame you for being silent up until now and no one’s going to be mad at you for talking.”
He took his notepad back from her and wrote what she’d just said on a piece of paper near the back, tore that page out of the pad, and stuck it in his pocket. He didn’t know where his words were going anymore and he didn’t want to lose these.
She smiled at him when he returned the notebook to its place between them. “So-what did you say?”
‘Hey.’
“Bold choice. I like it. And how did you feel, before you said it?”
...afterglow.
She laughed. “So...relaxed, I’m guessing?” He nodded. “Safe, relaxed, and not thinking about having to speak, or trying to force yourself to talk?” He shook his head. “That’s what I figured. So, your homework for next time-yes, I get to give you homework, it’s part of the job description-is to pay attention to those moments. And to try to say something. Whatever you want to say. ‘Hey’ is fine.”
Are you telling me to have sex? He’d expected her to backtrack, but she did not react as planned.
“Absolutely! It’s good for you. Gets your endorphins flowing. It’s good exercise and good fun. Provided you’re doing it right, and being safe,” she said, tilting her head to look up at Neal through her glasses. “How are things between you and Brad these days?”
He smiled.
*
When he’d spoken to Brad-after they’d gotten past his minor breakdown-they’d celebrated. Brad had opened a bottle of Riesling, bringing the bottle but not any wineglasses into the bedroom. He’d sipped the sweet wine from Neal’s stomach, laughing and licking and eventually taking things further south. Brad had taken him to the bakery on his way to work the next morning, where the woman behind the counter had not-very-surreptitiously given Neal a once-over and Brad a thumbs up.
When he spoke to Peter for the first time-hey, again, in the middle of watching a game on TV while reading through case files-Peter buried his face in his hands and cried. Neal sat next to him on the couch and did nothing. He thought about touching Peter on the shoulder or turning off the TV or texting Elizabeth.
He’d never seen Peter cry before. He was quiet about it. Didn’t make much noise, didn’t move, didn’t reach for tissues or hide his tears.
Please, Neal thought, wishing that his throat and tongue and lips would work again, please, stop crying.
Peter looked up at him, his eyes red, his cheeks wet. “I am so happy for you,” he said, each word separate and distinct, the phrase as a whole heavier than it should have been. Neal tried to smile, but his lips felt numb.
He reached forward and brushed the last of Peter’s tears away with his fingertips. Peter’s cheek was warm, it moved under his touch, sliding into a wide smile.
Brad celebrated and Peter cried and Neal-Neal held on to each word, each sound that passed his lips. Each syllable a sign, proof that he was getting better. One more road sign pointing the way to his freedom.
part four