WC Fic: Standing on the Shoulders of Giants, Part 1

[rabidchild]

Title: Standing on the Shoulders of Giants
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Keller, OMC, Elizabeth; Neal/Peter/El established relationship in the background
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: Wing!fic. Warnings for non-con, dub-con, non-canon character death, imprisonment, violence, contemplations of suicide.
Word Count: 24,000
Summary: Prequel to What’s the Price of Heroes? What happened to Neal in the months before Peter found him again? A story of Becoming. This is my entry for White Collar Big Bang.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Art is by embroiderama, Find it here
On AO3

A/N: This is a prequel to another story, though it is not vital to have read it. The story thus far: After his anklet came off, Neal disappeared without a trace. Eighteen months later, Peter found him much changed and about to be auctioned off to the highest bidder (along with other winged people) by Matthew Keller. It is six months later, and Neal has just returned to Peter and Elizabeth.

Additional notes at the end.

----

Neal moved quietly through the darkened Burke house, reveling in the feeling of finally being home. He let his fingertips linger over the familiar things and smiled - the photos on the wall, the books on the shelves, the nubbiny fabric of the couch. Some of the things had been acquired after he left, and he appreciated them too - a fancy new coffee maker, the new rug in the dining room, and were those golf clubs in the front hall? That life had gone on without him did not disturb him, not any longer, although the fact that the new items had been chosen without his input made him feel disappointed not to have had the fun of helping in the decision.

He sighed and moved out to the back deck, stared up at the half moon and stretched his limbs - all of them - enjoying the feeling of the early Autumn breeze in his feathers. He heard her coming down the steps as soon as she started - his senses were much more acute than they used to be - and waited expectantly for her to find him there. Still, her small, warm hand on his waist was a surprise, or maybe more like a miracle. He had missed this so much.

“Hey,” he said, turning and taking Elizabeth into his arms.

“Hey yourself. Can’t sleep?”

“It’s hard to find a comfortable position, it always is.”

“We’ll figure it out,” she murmured and pressed a kiss to his bare chest. “I am going to make some tea - want some?” He nodded and she moved off, flicking the kitchen lights on as she went about it.

Minutes later, Neal wandered back into the house

“It’s so good to have you back, I almost can’t believe it. It’s like a dream I’m afraid to wake up from,” she said quietly at the wall as she dropped teabags into a pair of mugs.

“I think I feel the same way.”

“Was it terrible? Where you were?”

He shuddered involuntarily and chided himself. It was in the past, he was over it. “Yes.” He saw her flinch and regretted it, but knew she would not want anything other than the truth.

“Because of -“ She turned and her hand waved vaguely at the wings on his back.

“Yes.”

Her face crumpled a little but she did not cry. “When I think of where Peter found you, how he found you, it makes me want to - “

“Matthew Keller paid for what he did,” Neal said, his voice barely audible. He still regretted doing it; it was a hard thing to take a life, but he’d reconciled himself to the fact that he had no other choice - other lives, Peter’s among them, were hanging in the balance.

“I’m sorry for bringing it up,” Elizabeth said as the kettle whistled.

“You deserve to know what happened, and I want to tell you, but maybe now is not the right time.”

“I can’t sleep either,” she informed him as she poured water into the mugs.

He paused, not sure if he wanted to burden her, but the determination in her blue eyes would not be denied. He picked up a mug of tea, dipping the bag up and down idly, and sighed. “Then I’ll begin with a beginning.”

xXxXxXxXx

Twenty-six Months Earlier

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP

Neal woke, flailing at his alarm clock, like every other morning, and swearing to buy another one. He was halfway out of the bed before he realized he had made a mistake - he wasn’t going in to the office today. He didn’t have to go in to the office ever again - yesterday had been his last day on the anklet.

He pushed the covers aside and sat up, raising his now anklet-free left leg to look at it. He grinned like a mad, grinning thing at it, and contemplated going back to sleep, then decided against it. Even though he didn’t start his new job as a security consultant until the following week, he still had lots to do. He’d made plans to meet Peter and Elizabeth for lunch at their place, and he had a few errands to run first, not the least of which was to book some movers.

With his sentence up, Peter and Elizabeth reminded him they could all be less circumspect about their relationship, and so had asked him to move in with them. It was a big development on so many levels - not least of which was the fact that it signified that their being together was more than just a fling. Neal was so happy when they asked him over a month ago, he hardly knew how to respond. Now that the anklet was off for good, he could get started on the rest of his life.

He swung his legs out of bed and stood, then stumbled as a head rush caught him off balance. Well, last night he’d let the Harvard Squad take him out for drinks, and he’d gotten very tipsy, so some residual effect was to be expected. He resolved to punish himself with a good, hard run, and since he no longer had a radius to worry about, he thought a route along the Hudson was in order. He headed for his closet to get dressed, pulling on shorts, running shoes and a loose-fitting t-shirt, and was out the door in less than ten minutes.

The forecast called for a typically hot and sticky late June day, but Neal was still surprised to feel a bit light-headed at about his third mile. The sun was already high in the sky, beating down on the back of his neck as he ran, and while at any other time, he would have welcomed its warmth, today it made the skin along his neck and shoulders feel tight and uncomfortable. He slowed to a walk and finally stopped, bending at the waist with his hands on his knees. His vision was going white around the edges all of a sudden, and it seemed as if the ground was wavering, jittering, coming up to meet him. Blinking hard, he straightened and stumbled over to a nearby water fountain, took hands full of cold water and doused his face, neck and head. It did little to clear his vision, and to add insult to injury, he was suddenly feeling dizzy and nauseated.

He stumbled to a nearby park bench to sit, barely making it. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, and had broken out in a cold sweat as chills overtook him. Most alarming of all, he felt a sharp, stabbing pain between his shoulder blades that literally made him cry out.

What’s happening? he thought as his vision tunneled. He thought he heard someone say something, looked around in a panic to find a young woman looking at him, her eyes frightened. She was talking to him, but he could not hear her.

Peter, he wanted to say to her, find Peter Burke, but another stab of excruciating pain bowed his back, turning the words into a scream, and then he knew no more.

----

”Sir? Sir! What is your name?”

Neal heard their voices talking to him, but he was unable to respond. Talking was impossible. Even breathing was difficult. The pain was so all-consuming it obliterated everything.

”Is he still conscious? Does he even know where he is?”

“Sir!”

“Jesus, his heart rate’s through the roof. Can we get this man some morphine?”

“He’s already had 10 units.”

“Give him another three.”

He felt his arm move as someone brushed past to administer the drug through the IV and cried out in pain. Every touch, every contact was agony on his flushed, over-sensitized skin.

“Please,” Neal moaned through gritted teeth. He thought his teeth might shatter.

”We’ve got to get his temperature down before he seizes. Strip him and get the ice packs.”

He felt cooler air on his body - was he naked? He had no care or thought for modesty.

”Jesus fucking Christ, what IS THAT?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know. John, you ever seen anything like this?”

“Is it under the skin? I don’t - get a portable x-ray in here, nurse.”

“No wonder he’s in agony, shit!”

A hand on Neal's shoulder blade resulted in a flash of pain so much worse than before, he screamed and shook and lost control of his bladder. Before he passed out, he thought he was able to say something, but he wasn’t sure.

”Did he say his name was Peter?”

----

Neal's existence was reduced to the times he was awake and in pain, and the times the drugs made him unconscious, and he was still in pain. He was unable to speak, move, or think. His body temperature remained at a constant 106F no matter what they did. They didn’t think he’d live through the night. They didn’t know how he was still alive.

Time became meaningless. So did existence. He was no longer even sure who or what or where he was. The only constant was the pain.

----

Voices. Voices murmuring.

”We still don’t know what they are?”

“Osteochondroma?”

“In an adult male? And have you ever seen them grow this fast?”

“They’ve grown by at least 50% since last night.”

“Have they been scanned since last night?”

“Here’s what we got this morning.”

“I don’t - wait, have you looked at this, John? Really looked at it? It looks like -“

“Yeah. I know. What the hell is going on here?”

“I thought I read a journal article about this - a case in Kolkata.”

“The way they’re growing - they’ve invaded the bone, started generating blood vessels, even nerves - there’ll be no way to remove them without severe damage.”

“But they’re clearly killing him.”

“There must be SOMEthing.”

“I guess we’ll have our own journal article before long.”

“Hell of a way to get published.”

----

They had him lying on his side - whatever was growing out of his back made it impossible for him to lie in any other position. This made other things difficult, of course, like administering the drugs. And putting him into the restraints - extra-long ones to prevent him from thrashing around too much and hurting himself.

When he started hallucinating Kate sitting with him, he knew he didn’t have long. And he knew he had to get away - get back to Peter and El before it was too late.

The restraints were easy to slip - he was still Neal Caffrey, after all. He clumsily pulled the IV and the catheter out, watched dully as the blood seeped from his arm. He shook his head. He needed to get to Peter.

He left with no resistance - no one stopped him or even looked up as he passed by. He didn’t even stop to consider why. His mind was working too much or not enough, his thoughts barely forming into coherence. All he knew was his goal - he needed to get to Peter.

He was vaguely aware that his arm was dripping blood from where the IV had been inserted. He cradled it against himself so it would be less noticeable.

He made it to the exit at last, and found himself in a parking structure. How? He didn’t know, didn’t care - he needed to get to Peter.

He found the street. It was deserted. It was the middle of the night. Finding a cab would be a bitch. He almost got to the corner before he passed out.

----

“Neal?”

“Peter?”

“Nah, buddy, not Burke.”

“Can you find him? I need him.”

“I tried, but I couldn’t. Listen, you’re sick, really sick. We should get you some help.”

“Not the hospital. They think I’m a freak.”

“No, not the hospital. Somewhere safe though, all right? I know a place.”

“Somewhere safe?”

“You know it.”

“Thanks, Matthew.”

----

More voices, whispers, but Neal could hear them clearly. He couldn’t move, but he could still hear.

“The surgery could kill him.”

“If we don’t do the surgery, it kills him. You’ve seen this before.”

“He’ll never survive the anesthesia, not with his blood pressure where it is.”

“Then do it without.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Tell me again what choice we have?”

“Christ, Keller, you’re a cold motherfucker.

“That’s why they pay me the big bucks. Get cuttin’, Doc.”

Luckily, Neal passed out before the screaming became too bad.

----

When Neal woke again - really woke - he knew, somehow, that a lot of time had passed since he was last aware. He wasn’t sure how he knew, perhaps the way the sunlight played in the room, but he knew.

He’d been sleeping on his side and was surprised to find no restraints binding his limbs. He took a quick mental inventory, moved his muscles experimentally. Overall, he’d seen better days - there was a persistent nausea and a lingering stiffness in his body that spoke of being confined in a bed for a long time. But he was no longer feverish, which was a relief, and his brain no longer suffered the dullness that only heavy narcotics could bring. He chanced sitting up, pushing with his arms against the bed he was on - he noticed the clean sheets with passing interest - until he was sitting upright.

The room was nondescript, with whitewashed walls undecorated by art or even a clock. A sink and cabinet were near the door, as well as a box of latex gloves and a wheeled stool. A hospital, or clinic, then. The window was small, unbarred, facing an internal courtyard or airshaft. It was a partly cloudy day outside; the sun’s rays were obscured by a bank of clouds.

Looking down on himself, he noted that he was wearing a pair of loose sweatpants but no shirt. There were mostly-healed scratches all over his chest and abdomen. He had to pee.

He swung his legs to the floor, hoping to go and find a toilet, and when he got his bare feet flat on the floor, he leaned forwards. He paused - would he have the strength? Only one way to find out. He pushed himself to his feet, teetering on wobbly legs. He took a stumbling step, then steadied himself.

He felt wobbly, that was for sure; his long illness, what he could remember of it, had clearly taken its toll. He remembered long, feverish nights, interspersed with longer periods when there were no memories, and pain, always the pain: bone-deep and all-consuming. He felt none of that now, surprisingly, and wondered what could have changed. He also felt strangely top-heavy, and wondered if his fevers had left him brain-damaged; he recalled the doctors and nurses at the hospital saying how high they were, how he surely couldn't survive them. He tried another step and then another; the strange top-heaviness he felt was beginning to pass.

He noticed a small en suite in the corner and he went in, relieved himself. He went to the tiny sink and ran the cold water, washed his hands and then splashed water on his face. There were rough paper towels and he grabbed a few, dried his face, glanced up and finally caught sight of himself in the small mirror. His hair was longer, and he’d grown a beard; his eyes looked a bit sunken and he thought he barely looked like himself. How long had it been, and WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?

Behind him, he glimpsed a pale shape. No, not behind him, on him. He whirled, too fast, and cried out in pain as whatever-it-was slapped against the door. Muscles contracted, limbs flexed, but his arms and legs hadn’t moved. Limbs, limbs - other limbs. He had -

He stumbled from the room, tripped, righted himself, re-balanced more easily as something flared at his back. The clouds obscuring the sun passed, and he caught a glimpse of his shadow. He whirled around again.

There was a pair of wings on his back.

A pair. Of fucking. Wings.

He stopped moving, standing utterly still, feeling a wave of nausea and he fought against it, tried to breathe deeply through his nose. “Calm yourself, Caffrey,” he muttered, the first words he’d said, and his voice was scratchy and too low in his ears. When he felt marginally calmer, he reached back over his shoulder and touched them for the first time.

They were - soft on the surface, downy, the skin loose and warm over hard bone within. His fingertips explored the joint - words failed to describe the physical evidence he was getting; his brain boggled. The wing was joined to him through his skin - no, in his skin, from his skin, a part of him, like his legs, his arms. He startled and the wings reacted, spreading behind him and then calming. He felt them with his hand, could feel his hand on them, and they gave a momentary lift, almost, when they moved. There was a tug there, a pull that was uncomfortable but not painful, as from muscles being used in ways to which they were not yet accustomed. As he moved them, he caught a glimpse of their bottoms from the corner of his eyes.

They seemed kind of small, for man-sized wings, he thought irrationally, stubby and covered with a snowy down. There appeared to be no primary or secondary feathers, his rational mind realized - he’d studied, he knew the anatomy of birds, having drawn and painted hundreds of them. They’re new, then.

Well, sure, that made sense - of course his new wings would be covered in down at the outset.

He thought it might be a good idea if he sat down. It was that or crouch, gibbering, in the corner, and that had never really been his style.

The wings parted and raised gracefully as he sat on the bed, instinctively moving to accommodate his body, to not be sat on. So, his lower brain seemed to have adjusted to their presence on his body, then. Odd how that happened. How quickly, too.

He heard a key in a lock and realized it was the door to the room. He must have really been in shock if his first thought wasn’t trying to figure a way out of there. He sat up straighter, could feel the wings fan out slightly, as if bracing for something.

The first thing Neal saw coming through the door was a food tray. The second thing - the person holding the tray - made his panic level ratchet up by about a power of ten; the wings reflected his panic too, they stood out and back, reaching, the sudden movement pulling uncomfortably at the muscles in this back and shoulders, across his pectorals.

“Matthew Keller,” Neal said, his voice a lot calmer than he felt.

“Good afternoon, Neal. No need to panic.”

Neal cursed the damn wings for giving his emotions away and tried not to glare at the man. Keller had that smirk on his face he always had when he knew he’d have you in checkmate within five moves, the one Neal had once admired, but had in recent years grown to hate. He set the tray down on a small table beside the table. Neal could smell warm, savory things - chicken and vegetables and fresh bread. His stomach rumbled - he was starving.

“I brought you some lunch,” Keller said. “You’ll need a lot of protein.”

Neal glanced at it uneasily, torn between his growling stomach and his innate distrust of Keller.

“Go ahead, the food is perfectly fine,” Keller said, picking up a green bean and tossing it into his own mouth to demonstrate.

Neal pulled the tray onto his lap and took a swig from the bottle of iced tea that was on it, then began to eat. Keller took a seat in the stool across the room.

“Where am I?” Neal said around mouthfuls of chicken. “What’s been done to me?”

“Where you are is immaterial. What has been done is that I saved your life.”

Neal scoffed. “You. Saved my life? Tell me another one.”

“Believe what you want, but it’s true. I found you in quite a delicate condition, and there is no doubt about it, Neal, but you would have died within a day if I hadn’t found you.”

Neal stared at him and, for once, saw that the man was telling him the truth. “How? How did you save my life?”

“I think the more important question is what has happened.”

“No, the more important question is why, but I don’t expect you to tell me.”

Keller chuckled. “Clever as always, Neal, even after the ordeal you’ve been through. You look good, considering.”

“Considering what, exactly? What happened to me?”

Keller smirked, clearly tickled that Neal's line of questioning had come back around to where he wanted it. “You have wings.”

“Thank you for stating the obvious. In your own inimitable way, you’ve really gotten to the core of it.”

Keller outright laughed. “Part of you thinks I somehow did this to you. But I didn’t, I assure you.”

“Then what is it?”

“You’re what we call a ‘seraph.’”

Neal laughed, incredulous. “A seraph? As in seraphim and cherubim? What the fuck, Keller?”

“Well, I didn’t coin the phrase, though it is apt. Take a look at yourself.”

Neal calmed down with an effort, inclined his head, ready to hear what Keller had to say.

“No one knows how it happens, or why, but around two years ago, a number of people began to fall ill. They started sprouting growths on their backs, boney tumors that were untreatable, that killed nearly every victim. At first, it was thought to be some horrible virus, or bioweapon, but the spread was random, and rare. The going assumption now is that it’s a genetic disease; what triggers it is still unknown. Scientists are trying to isolate the gene that will predict it, but it’s been slow-going. So has treatment and prevention.

“But one thing was discovered recently that has saved lives - the fact that these growths are not tumors, but actual limbs. Wings. Once they form, they grow outward, trying to flourish, but they do more damage than anything, rupturing the skin and muscle. The process is… horrific, and almost always fatal. If the fevers that accompany the transformation don’t kill a person, the shock and infections when the wings emerge do. Few have survived it, until recently.”

“What happened recently?”

“Once it was determined what the growths were, it was also found that they could be freed through a surgical procedure. More people have since survived. Not a lot, but enough that scientists can learn from them.”

“Learn what?”

“Where it comes from, why. There’s a huge buzz in certain circles.”

“Why have I never heard of it? Something like this ought to have triggered some sort of worldwide sensation.”

“Efforts to keep it under wraps have been extensive and largely successful. Believe me, you don’t want to see what happens when people find out. If they’ll line up for Jesus on a potato chip, what do you think they’ll do to a real-life angel? There was a girl in Brazil… well, let’s just say it didn’t end well for her.”

Neal flinched, then wondered if Moz, with all his conspiracy theories, had ever caught wind of it. “Doesn’t sound like it ends well for anyone.”

Keller shrugged.

“And the name? Seraph?”

Keller shrugged again. “Some clever doctor along the way with an angel kink, no doubt. No one knows where it came from, but it’s stuck.”

“And you? Where are you in all of this? Why are you helping me?”

“I never said I was helping you, but yes, I did save your life. You know I have a thing for preserving beauty.”

Neal stopped eating, suddenly feeling queasy under the look Keller was directing at him. He was used to Keller’s leers by now, but this one was different, filled with a sort of predatory hunger. He felt suddenly exposed and wished he had a shirt on. He straightened his back and set the tray aside, finished the iced tea. “What happens now?”

“You’ve still got a lot of healing to do. The wings have been freed, but they’ll continue to grow some, and you’ll generate feathers as well. It’s a long process.”

“Long. How long have I been here?”

“Six weeks.”

Neal's brain boggled. Six weeks? His thoughts turned immediately to Elizabeth and Peter, they must be so worried about him. “Six weeks?” he repeated, and got to his feet. He felt dizzy, suddenly.

“What are you doing?”

Neal looked at him like he was crazy. “I have to go, I have… I have ...” He had what, a life? People who cared about him? What about now?

“You have to think about your own safety and the safety of those you love,” Keller said quietly and Neal looked at him with an odd expression.

“That’s an uncharacteristically sympathetic response coming from you.”

Keller stood then and looked at his watch. “Sympathy has nothing to do with it. You’re an investment, Caffrey.”

“Investment? In what?” Neal said and his words were slurred, this tongue suddenly too thick and sluggish. He blinked his eyes, hard, realizing his vision was tunneling. He glanced over at the food tray. “The food?”

Keller laughed. “…was not drugged, I didn’t lie. I didn’t say anything about the iced tea, though.”

Neal sank to his knees, shaking his head. “I don’t even know why I’m surprised,” he muttered in the direction of the floor. He fell over onto his side, staring at Keller’s shoes. They walked slowly towards him and Keller crouched down. Neal tried to move his head but couldn’t; Keller’s finger under his chin did it for him.

“You’re a big investment, Neal, my biggest so far. But for now, relax - it’ll be a while before I cash in.”

----

How much longer Keller kept him drugged up, Neal would never be able to tell. Whatever it was they had him on kept him cowed and calm, so that he did not give them any trouble, and he slept a lot. He rarely saw Keller again, mostly a staff of about half a dozen people who came in to check on him, made sure he was fed and clean.

The wings did continue to grow, the feathers filling in over the course of his confinement. They itched, and his new joints ached, and sometimes the fevers returned too.

It was during one of these fevers that Neal began to dream of home. What resonated with him at first, what killed, was how normal it was - more memory than dream. He hadn’t been able to think of Peter and Elizabeth - he’d been so sick, and on those occasions when he’d felt better, he’d viciously suppressed the memories, knowing they would only lead him into despair. But this… this…

It was Pancake Sunday, and he was helping Elizabeth out by juicing some oranges. He stood at the kitchen island, barefoot and in pajama pants, Peter’s “FBI Agents Do It in Triplicate” apron on, the activities of his lovers behind him a happy counterpoint.

Then suddenly he was assailed by excruciating pain and he cried out, falling to his knees on the kitchen floor. He closed his eyes, tried to breathe through it, but it kept coming in waves, each one worse than the last. He was soon lying on his side on the floor, writhing in agony as the wings tore their way out of his body. His entire torso was soon covered in blood, his elbows slipping on the tile floor.

“Neal?!” Elizabeth said from her spot at the stove.

“Elizabeth!” he moaned.

“I said, did you want blueberries in yours?”

He woke with a start and became immediately aware there was a hand on his body, and realized he was no longer alone in his tiny room. He raised his eyes and saw Keller seated on the bed beside him, looking at him with a peculiar expression on his face. It was part fascination, part disgust, and he ran his fingers through the soft down that still remained at the tops of Neal's wings; he’d been shedding it lately, and there was soon a cloud of down in the air around them, caught up in the air currents in the space.

“Keller,” Neal began, trying to keep his voice even despite the hammering of his heart in his chest.

“Do they hurt still?”

“Yes,” Neal admitted; the drugs made escape impossible, so lying was irrelevant.

“Can you move them?”

Neal felt them fanning out behind him; his control of them was improving, though he winced as the healing surgical scars pulled. Keller’s hand came down again on Neal's hip, just above the waistband of the pajama pants he wore, resting against Neal's flushed skin and then trailing along his abdomen. Neal could not control his recoil.

“Is there something you wanted?” Neal said. Keller’s eyes flicked up to his, and Neal saw that his pupils were dilated with desire. He looked down and saw the hard-on in Keller’s pants.

“It’s a miracle, you know,” Keller breathed.

“You’ll forgive me if I disagree,” Neal said warily and sat up, forcing Keller’s hand to fall away. Keller stood self-consciously and turned to go, his face reddening.

“We’re moving you out in a week. Thought you’d want to know.”

“Moving me where?” Neal asked but Keller had already gone.

----

One week later, Keller returned with two burly orderlies at his elbow, who held Neal down - unnecessarily, since the drugs kept Neal totally compliant - and shot him full of something else, something that almost paralyzed him. They wrapped a blanket around him and then put him into a wheelchair and wheeled him outside. It was the first fresh air Neal had encountered in weeks, and he found himself entranced by it, and the yellow leaves on the trees.

“It’s Fall?” he murmured, though no one answered him. He was placed in the backseat of a minivan and strapped in, then one of the orderlies got in beside him. Keller was in the passenger seat, and the other orderly drove. It wasn’t until they got onto a bridge that Neal realized he’d been in Staten Island all this time. So close to home and yet... “Peter,” he whispered plaintively, falling over slightly so that his forehead leaned against the tinted glass of the window beside him.

He lost more time after that, and when he woke, they were driving on an Interstate, the sound of the tires on the road surface strangely soothing.

“He’s awake,” the man seated next to him said. Neal noticed he was reading a copy of National Geographic. How random.

There was the sound of leather creaking and Keller turned around to look at Neal. “Nice to see those baby blues.”

“Is it?” Neal replied, moving his head to look at him. He felt strange - the drug that had kept him immobile had worn off, but he was still drugged, still felt the sluggishness that had become too familiar over the last weeks. “Or are you more interested in protecting your ‘investment’?”

Keller shrugged. “You always were smart, Neal.”

“Where are we going?”

“Your new home.”

“Don’t you mean my new prison?”

”Potayto, potahto. Call it a safe haven.”

“Safe for whom?”

Keller scowled and waved his hand and the man beside Neal prepped a syringe. He didn’t know how long he stayed out.

----

Neal was aware of being manhandled out of the van and transported along a short walk… somewhere. The cry of seagulls alerted him to the fact they were near the ocean - or a landfill. The stuttering of the wheelchair’s wheels led him to conclude they were on a dock. He passed out before they put him on board the boat.

He woke again, aware of the gentle swaying of being at sea. He felt almost normal - either he was developing a tolerance for the drugs or they’d given him the wrong dosage. He found himself in a tiny cabin, alone, lying on a bed. There was a single porthole opposite, so he forced himself to his feet and stumbled over to it. He saw nothing but ocean, though the gulls’ cries were still overhead, so they couldn’t have been that far out. Finding his legs wobbly, he sank to the floor and sat on his knees. His guards found him there an hour later, asleep, and put him back to bed.

The sensation of hands at his throat woke him again, and he started, his right hand coming up and grabbing at a wrist as his eyes opened. He looked up, saw one of his captors above him, who easily twisted his arm away. Another needle-prick in his arm and he was gone.

----

The final time Neal woke from his drug-induced state, he found himself lying on another narrow bed in another brightly-lit, whitewashed room, though the sound of the gulls was still present. The room was small - about the size of the Burkes’ bedroom, and one entire wall was taken up by floor to ceiling windows, looking out at a windswept sky; he could hear breaking waves somewhere close by.

He sat up and immediately regretted it. Luckily, there was an en suite nearby and he was able to reach the toilet before he vomited. Only bile came up, but at least he felt better afterwards.

When he was done - or rather, when he was convinced the dry heaves had subsided - he splashed water on his face and then shoveled some into his mouth directly from the tap. When he emerged, someone was standing in the open door of the room.

“Hello,” the man said with a small smile and a wave. He was shorter than Neal, maybe five-foot-seven, compactly-built with an olive, deeply tanned complexion. He was older, perhaps 60, with close-cut, wiry curls, black flecked with gray. His eyes were friendly, if tired-looking and serious, and he wore a pair of reading glasses that had one arm taped on, so that they hung crookedly on his face. And, most importantly, the man had a pair of wings too.

Neal gasped when he saw them, took an involuntary step forward. “Y-you’re like me!” he exclaimed.

The man smiled, twisted so that Neal could see his wings, fluffed them out as if showing them off, and then turned back around. His wings were different - where Neal's had remained an almost snowy white, with shadings of pearl grey and black spots on the tips of his primary and secondary feathers, this man’s wings were a dark, rich and glossy brown lined with black, like a sparrow or a hawk, and Neal glimpsed a cream-colored down underneath.

“Yes, yes I am,” he said, his voice almost a laugh. Neal noticed he held a book in one hand, and that he was dressed in a vest of some sort, that accommodated his wings but left his arms bare, and that he was barefoot. At his throat he wore a hand-hammered silver necklace that dipped down to the hollow of his throat, thick, smooth and sleek, though Neal thought it would have been better suited to a woman. With a jolt, he recalled his encounter on the boat and his hand went to his own throat - he was wearing one as well.

“I’m Ben, by the way. Ben Morgenstern.” His voice, when he spoke, was deep but scratchy, whether from disuse or some other reason, Neal couldn’t tell; he had a pleasant manner, and a friendly face, and Neal instantly liked him.

“Neal Caffrey.” Neal took a step forward and held out his hand. Ben shook it, his grip solid and strong. “You’re a guest of Keller’s too?”

A complicated look crossed over Ben’s face then, part grief, but also part resignation; Neal didn’t know what to make of it. “You could say so.”

“What is this place?”

“A lodge, on an island off the coast of Maine. We’re pretty far out, probably 12 or 15 miles. But the views are gorgeous, and the food is good.” He smiled then, and walked down the hallway, leaving the door to Neal's room open behind him.

Not having anything else to do, Neal followed him down the hall, which had a number of doors leading to other bedrooms similar to the one Neal had just left, all empty. At the end of the hall was a large room, like a great hall, decorated with hunting trophies and rich, antique Turkish rugs. The ceilings were high, perhaps thirty feet, and there was a gallery above lined with many bookcases. The outward-facing wall was made up almost entirely of windows and large glass doors, which had been opened to allow the cool sea breezes in. Beyond them was a vast flagstone terrace that looked out over the sea. From here, it appeared to drop right into the ocean, though Neal thought it was an optical illusion. Neal was immediately reminded of the spy’s house at the end of North by Northwest.

He found Ben standing at a low balustrade at one end of the space, looking out at the ocean.

“Beautiful view isn’t it?” Ben remarked as Neal came up to stand beside him. Neal noticed that there was a 50-foot drop off beyond the terrace down a sheer cliff-face, with the ocean lapping at the sandy beach below. “The main house was built in 1895, but these quarters were added in the 1930’s when the place was turned into a hotel. Matthew spent a lot of money to turn it back into a house.”

“I see that,” Neal said, turning to take in the place. Behind them he saw another house, larger than this one, situated at the top of the cliff, perhaps a half mile away. That one was a sprawling, four-story mansion built in a neo-Renaissance style, with at least 60 rooms, and Neal whistled, low. Post-prison life had clearly agreed with Keller.

“I see you two have met, that’s good,” a voice said from behind, and Neal stiffened as he noticed Keller standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets. “Ben, will you give us a few?”

Ben nodded and disappeared inside the house, and Keller strolled out to stand beside Neal. “What do you think?”

“Who’d you have to kill to score this place?”

Keller laughed. “No one, you’ll be surprised to learn. Business has been good the last few years.”

“Clearly.” He turned to stare out at the water; he had nothing to say to Keller, though he had a thousand questions.

“You’ll like it here, Neal, it’s comfortable. There’s an entire library, and a gym downstairs. I’ll have paints brought in for you if you like, to keep your skills sharp. The morning light is exquisite.”

“Is that why I’m here, then? You’re trading in forgeries now?”

“Not even close.”

“And Ben? Who’s he? Another prisoner of yours?”

“Ben, like you, is a rarity, and is protected here.”

Suddenly, Neal understood. “You’re collecting seraphs, aren’t you? Why?”

“I would think that would be fairly obvious.”

Neal felt ill suddenly. “We’re valuable,” he said, his voice wavering.

Keller tapped the side of his nose with his finger. “Like I have said, you’re an investment.”

“You bastard, you’d traffic in humans to make a buck?”

“No, but I’d traffic in rare creatures such as yourself for a lot of bucks - several million, if I play my cards right. You’re no longer human, Neal. We passed that exit a few miles back.”

“Son of a bitch!” Neal spat, his disgust transforming into anger in a microsecond as he saw red. He pulled his right arm back and landed a vicious right cross on Keller’s jaw.

Keller stumbled back from the force of the blow, but soon righted himself, and Neal braced for a fight that did not come. Instead, Keller spat blood on the flagstones and looked at Neal, his eyes narrowing. From his pocket he pulled what looked like a small television remote control. Holding it in his right hand, he pointed it at Neal but then paused. “You know, I was hoping not to have to use this, but what the hell.”

His thumb depressed one of the buttons. Neal heard a high-pitched whine and then suddenly his entire body - every nerve ending, every muscle - felt like it was exploding with pain. It was a pain of white-hot intensity, radiating out from the collar at his throat, and was so all-encompassing that he literally thought of nothing else. Mercifully, it also lasted a short while.

When Neal came to his senses, he was lying curled on his side, panting; he also noticed with some embarrassment that he had lost control of his bladder.

Keller was crouching over him. “Sorry I had to do that, Neal, but you needed to see that I mean business.” Neal noticed the sweat that had accumulated on Keller’s upper lip, the gleam in his eyes that he was quite familiar with, from the days they’d run together back in Europe. He wasn’t sorry - not by a longshot.

Keller gestured at his own neck, nodded at the collar Neal wore. “You like it? Designed it myself - call it my insurance policy, to make sure my investments remain protected. You step out of line, I hit that button. You try to escape, the small amount of HMX embedded inside it will blow your fucking head off. Try to remove it, the HMX explodes. Stray too far from the island, the HMX explodes.”

“That’s some insurance policy if it destroys your investments,” Neal said, his voice unsteady.

Keller shrugged, “It’s a cost of doing business, and one I can live with.” He rose. “Behave, Neal, and no further harm will come to you,” he said as he left.

Neal rolled over onto his back, his wings splayed behind him, and stared up at the clouds passing by overhead. How the hell was he getting out of this one?

----

Neal limped back to his room, where he took a shower and shaved off the beard that had grown on his face over the last several weeks of his illness and subsequent recovery/imprisonment with Keller. He tossed his soiled clothes in a corner and dressed in a pair of linen drawstring pants he found in the dresser that had been provided. He saw there were some additional garments in there - probably shirts or vests similar to what Ben had been wearing, but it seemed like his body temperature had been running higher than normal since his transformation, and he preferred as few clothes as possible. Besides, the garments seemed complicated to get on, and he didn’t feel like bothering with them at the moment.

Feeling antsy and stir-crazy, he also realized that he hadn’t had any exercise for several weeks, so he did a few reps of push-ups and sit-ups, trying to work off his residual anger with Keller. He was just about to rise to take another shower when he noticed Ben standing in the doorway again.

“Hi,” Ben said uneasily. “I see you’re exercising - that’s good. You’ll need to get your strength up.”

Neal got up and wiped his face and chest on the damp towel he’d used earlier, and stared at the man. “They set up dinner on the terrace. If you’re interested,” Ben said and then retreated as he’d done earlier.

Neal followed and took a seat at a table that had been set for two - so he and Ben were the only seraphs in Keller’s collection so far - and served himself a pile of salad. He supposed the food could be drugged, which was clearly not beyond Keller, but he doubted it. The explosive shock-collar was a much better deterrent from escape than drugs.

“I’m sorry. About before,” Ben said, watching him eat. He fingered the collar he wore delicately, and Neal's fingers went up to his own, wincing as he touched the tender flesh there - the thing had left a slight electrical burn that chafed.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. You couldn’t have predicted what would happen.”

“But I could’ve warned you about it. I didn’t think of it. I was - I was just happy to have someone else to talk to.”

“How long have you been here?”

“A while, a long while. But in a way that’s OK, because I’m safe here.”

“That what he tells you?”

“It’s what I believe. When I - when I changed, the doctors, they said they wanted to study me, to figure out why - why this happens. But I know better. The CIA were going to take me to Area 51 or something, to dissect me. Or worse. Matthew helped me get away.”

“Did he? So what, you’re loyal to him for that reason?” If Neal was going to have to be on his toes with Ben, he wanted to know now.

Ben scoffed. “Hell no. Keller’s a sadistic bastard, a thief, and a double crosser. But this was the lesser of all evils. The second I have a chance, I’m out of here. I just have to figure out the angle.”

Neal smiled, a genuine smile.

“What?” Ben asked, smiling back.

“Nothing. You just remind me of someone I know.”

----

Neal was dreaming again.

“What’s this?” Neal asked, staring dubiously at the bowl on the tray Peter held out to him.

“Chicken soup. What does it look like?”

Neal shrugged - it seemed slightly too green to him. He pushed himself up in the bed and coughed into his hand - he was just getting over the flu. “I’ll take your word for it.”

He sat forward as Peter plumped up his pillows for him and then settled back, smiling up at Peter as he set the tray down across his lap. Beside the bowl was a small dish of oyster crackers and he sprinkled a few over the top. Peter sat down at the foot of the bed and watched him as he tasted the soup, which was, indeed chicken, if a bit heavy on the parsley and dill. Still, it was delicious, and the fact that Neal hadn’t eaten for more than a day suddenly made itself known, and Neal had consumed half the bowl before coming up for air.

“You like it?” Peter said, beaming proudly, and Neal smiled up at him.

“Very tasty,” Neal said, wiping at his chin with the back of his hand. Peter leaned forward, took the napkin off the tray and held it to the corners of Neal's mouth, dabbing there. Neal caught Peter’s wrist before he could take it away and pulled his hand to his face, kissing the palm. “Thanks for cooking for me. And for taking care of me when I’m sick.”

Peter rested his open hand against Neal's face gently for a few seconds before pulling it away. “It gives me an unnatural amount of pleasure to do it,” he confessed.

“Does it?”

“It’s nice to be needed. You’re always so… self-sufficient.”

Neal was unspeakably touched.

“Well, I’d better get back downstairs and clean up. Maybe you’ll feel up to coming down for dinner later.”

“Maybe.” Neal watched him go, and suddenly his heart felt like it was breaking, like he wasn’t going to see him again. And just as suddenly, the room morphed and changed into the tiny room at the clinic in Staten Island where Keller had been keeping him after his surgery, and he felt again the crushing grief to have been parted from those he loved, and the pain from his healing wings, and the constant dizziness from the drugs.

The drugs, the hated drugs. They kept him docile, they made him feel sick, and there was nothing he could do about it; he had never felt so helpless in his entire life. Soon everything began to swim in his vision, and then it all went black.

Neal woke shaking, the illness he’d felt in the dream leaving him feeling breathless and weak. Looking up, he noticed that the sky outside was marginally lighter; the sun would soon be up. Rising from the bed, he went to the bathroom and took care of business, then padded out of the unlocked door of his room, up the hall and out onto the terrace, staring out at the ocean and imagining he could still smell the herbs on Peter’s hands from preparing the soup.

Ben found him sitting on the balustrade two hours later and handed him a cup of coffee. “It’s cream and sugar,” he said sheepishly as Neal took it and sipped at it gratefully. “I didn’t know how you take it.”

“Thanks,” Neal said, his voice sounding hollow in his own ears.

“There’s breakfast.”

Neal lacked the energy or will to respond or even to be polite, so he just sipped at the coffee.

“What’s wrong?” Ben asked, the question almost drowned out by the gulls crying overhead.

“I had a dream,” was all Neal could say, but Ben nodded understandingly and squeezed Neal's shoulder, attempting to comfort him. He moved over to the low wall and sat down sideways, facing Neal.

“I know it’s hard, kid, thinking of what you left behind, believe me I do, but you’ll find ways to cope, I promise. I did.”

“Yeah? How?”

Ben smiled a shy, crooked smile, like the one Neal had seen the day before when they’d first met, and stood. He stepped up onto the top of the balustrade, winked at Neal and then dove head-first down the steep cliff face.

Neal surged to his feet, his coffee cup falling to the flagstones with a crash, and leaned out over the wall with his hand out as if he could catch the older man, but what he saw literally took his breath away. Ben unfurled his wings and, about twenty feet from the beach below, straightened his back out, flapped his wings once, then again, and was soon gliding out over the breakers. He flew another hundred yards out then wheeled back, rising upward until he was level with Neal. As he came in for a landing on the terrace, he winked again, hovered for an instant, and then landed on his feet gracefully.

“Y-you can fly?” Neal asked, astounded.

“Correction: we can fly. Otherwise, what the hell good are these goddamned things?” His wings fluttered restively behind him before settling, finally, behind him.

“You have to teach me,” Neal begged, taking a step forward.

“All in good time, Neal. But first thing’s first - you’re going to need to be a lot stronger if you are ever going to try, so come in for breakfast. It’s waffles today!”

----

After breakfast, Neal waited patiently for Ben as he retreated to their living quarters for several minutes, returning some time later with a box that he pressed into Neal's hands. “Running shoes?” Neal asked, perplexed.

Ben looked at him like he’d just asked him why the sky was blue. “Yeah, running shoes.” Neal noticed he had a pair on as well, and then the older man began to stretch. “Flying takes it out of you like you will not believe, and truth be told, Neal, you’re a pretty skinny guy.”

Neal looked down at himself, affronted.

“Now, now, don’t get your panties in a twist - you’ve also been very ill the last several weeks and have lost muscle mass and tone. The first thing we do is build your endurance, then we begin weight training.”

“Weight training?” Neal frowned - he’d never been one for that, preferring running or swimming to keep fit. He sat down and began to pull the sneakers onto his bare feet.

“Of course. You need a strong core to fly.” He hunched his own shoulders, and Neal noticed for the first time that Ben, though shorter than him, was also densely-muscled, with broad shoulders and clearly some very strong arms. He turned as he began to stretch his lats, and Neal caught glimpses, through the gaps in the garment he wore, of mottled, angry-looking scar tissue along the skin and muscles where his wings emerged from his back. Ben turned his head and Neal quickly schooled his expression into a neutral one, but he wondered what could have happened to the man.

“You gonna stretch?” Ben asked and Neal sheepishly got up and prepared for a run.

Ben led him out of the building and down a set of stairs bolted to the cliff face to the beach below.

Running with wings on one’s back was - different - and took some getting used to. Initially, Neal found they made him feel top-heavy, ungainly, their mass causing more drag than he was used to as the feathers fluttered in the wind. Eventually, he mirrored Ben’s technique of keeping them tight against his body and slightly lowered, which was a bit uncomfortable at first, but made movement easier.

Embarrassingly, he found he was sucking wind after less than three miles and had to stop, a stitch in his side stealing his breath. Looking up, he saw that they’d run about two-thirds of the distance around the island.

Ben came back to him when he noticed he’d stopped and jogged in place beside him. Neal gave him a sour look. So much for youth and age being an advantage. “You are fit.”

Ben shrugged. “Not much else to do here at the Château d'If. You’ll get there.”

“How is it we can run around down here?” Neal asked, and fingered his collar. “Aren’t these things supposed to keep us near the house?”

Ben shook his head. “On the island. They give us a radius of about half a mile; if we go beyond that -“ He made an explosive noise with his mouth and his hands splayed out to illustrate the consequences. “It allows us to fly a bit further out, and up and away from the house. The collar emits a sound if you go too far, a fair warning if you will.” He pointed at a guardhouse on a cliff in the distance, inland. “The radio tower there controls not only the communications into and out of here, but the signal to the collars. And yes, before you ask, it is heavily guarded. And yes, I have tried, but there is also an alarm that goes off if one of the collars comes within fifty feet of it. Matthew is a very clever jailer.”

“And it doesn’t help that he thinks like a convict.”

“You two know each other, don’t you?”

Neal began to walk along the beach. “We go back a few years, and your estimation of him is correct - he is ruthless and smart. Getting out of here is going to be a challenge.”

“You think you’re up to that challenge?”

“No prison is inescapable,” Neal said, “not unless you let it be.” He began to jog slowly back up the beach.

Part 2