Fic: Only Son, Part 1
Title: Only Son
Rating: R for violence
Characters/Pairings: Neal and Moz, (though P/E/N established relationship is in there)
Warnings/Triggers: child abuse
Spoilers: None
Word Count: ~8800 for both parts
Summary: The story of how Neal and Mozzie met, and why Neal never finished high school. Continues my Origins set of pre-series fics, but can be read standalone. For the child abuse (physical) square on my hc_bingo card.
----
Peter crawled back into bed after seeing Elizabeth off in her cab to the airport. She was headed to Boston for the day to meet with a potential client. Peter snuggled up against Neal, burying his nose in his neck and throwing a leg over both of his.
“Cold nose!” Neal protested, but nuzzled Peter back just the same, pulling him in closer. “Elizabeth make it out on time?”
“Barely.” Peter lay his head on Neal’s chest and sighed. Now that daylight saving time had kicked in, the sun was angling in through the blinds across their bed at an earlier hour, painting stripes of light across Neal’s bare torso. Peter traced a finger down the faint scar that ran medially down his abdomen, glowing silver-pink in the sunlight. “You never told me how you got this,” Peter murmured.
He could feel Neal tense up. He flattened his hand on Neal’s belly. “I’m sorry.”
Neal ran his forefinger across his upper lip, his one and only tell. Peter had gone too far. “No, you should know,” he said, his tone a bit clipped.
Peter raised himself up on his elbow and looked Neal in the eyes. “Not if you don’t want to tell, babe.”
Neal’s face softened and his eyes took on the far-away cast of memory. “I haven’t thought about it in a very long time.”
----
August, 1996
The young man spots his mark as he leaves the office building on Water Street. He’s been following the man off and on for a month, getting to know his routine. He knows that on Thursdays he heads uptown to throw a hump into his mistress, but that he’ll stop at the bank first to withdraw a fat pile of cash. Thursday nights he also takes her out for dinner and he likes to throw hundreds around like party favors. Big shot.
Not today. Today’s the day the young man will relieve him of his cash. And he’ll thank him for it.
He follows the Big Shot closely, biding his time, leaning on the wall just around the corner of the bank. When the Big Shot emerges from the bank, the young man falls into step just behind him. They move with the flow of the foot traffic on the busy street. It is a pleasant and sunny day for late August in New York, and all the secretaries are out and about on their lunch hours. The young man smiles at a pair of them that walk toward him; they look at him, dismiss him. The young man is, alas, still a boy. This doesn’t stop them from checking out his ass once they’ve walked past, though.
The Big Shot hurries on toward his waiting car, parked across the busy street. He arrives at the corner, steps into the street and looks up, down, awaiting a break in the traffic so he can cross. The Big Shot is horny and too impatient to wait for the lights to change. This is when the young man makes his move. He spots an empty water bottle in the gutter, kicks it over as the Big Shot is taking an impatient step forward. The timing is perfect. As the bottle trips up the Big Shot, a Yellow Cab comes speeding along the street, horn blaring. The young man grabs the Big Shot by the arm, pulling him from harm’s way and spinning him around. As he does so, he deftly reaches into the man’s jacket and removes his bundle of cash, money clip and all. “Oh my God, are you OK?” the young man exclaims, slipping the cash into the messenger bag slung across his body.
“What the hell. Did you see that guy?” the Big Shot says, shaken. “Hey, thanks, kid. You really saved my bacon.”
“Don’t mention it. I only did what anyone would have done.”
“Let me repay you,” he said, reaching for this jacket pocket.
“Oh no,” the young man urged, too quickly. Shit, he hadn’t considered this might happen. “It’s OK. It’s my good deed for the day.”
“Well, let me give you a ride or something. My car’s over there. What’s your name?”
The young man smiled, touching the brim of the battered grey trilby perched on his head. “Nick. Nick Halden.”
----
Neal patted the Town Car on the trunk as it pulled away after dropping him off on Central Park West. Once it was out of sight, he turned and headed for the subway to head back downtown, so he could hop the PATH train home to NJ. He waited until he was just outside his apartment door to take the money out and count it. Two thousand bucks - his biggest score yet. He slipped five hundred into the lining of his hat; he’d visit the bank tomorrow. The rest he slipped back into the bag, then took out his keys and let himself into the one bedroom apartment.
He found his old man sprawled on the couch in front of the TV, watching a soap opera. David Caffrey was a near mirror image of his son, taller and with broader shoulders, but there was no mistaking the were father and son. However, where the younger man had an open and honest face, David’s was pinched from years of hard time and harder drinking, aged well beyond his 45 years, nose dotted purple with gin blossoms.
He rose as Neal entered the apartment, limped over to join him at the small kitchen table. The elder Caffrey had been an accomplished cat burglar in his day, but a bad fall had led to an artificial knee and a ten-year stint in Rahway that had effectively ended that career. He’d been reduced to running small cons on retirees, not a vocation he was proud of, and had thankfully been able to stop now that he’d been reunited with his son.
Neal, who he hadn’t seen since the kid was five, was turning out to be quite the talented little grifter. As fast and nimble as his old man, the boy made bank on that innocent young face of his as well, and seeing him in action made David’s heart swell with pride sometimes. He figured Neal had picked up some skills while in foster care the previous year - he didn’t like to talk about it - but there was no doubt he was also a natural.
“How’d we do today?” David asked.
Neal pulled the money clip out of the bag and handed it over. “Fifteen hundred.”
“Fifteen? Oh, my boy, that’s excellent.” He chuffed Neal playfully on the chin and Neal barely suppressed a flinch. He gave David a genuine smile, though, relieved he hadn’t noticed.
Neal took the money back and peeled off five hundreds, heading over to the counter and pulling out a manila envelope. “For the rent, Dad,” he reminded him, returning the rest.
“Of course. It’s a good thing we have you to look after us.” He handed Neal a hundred and slipped the rest into his wallet, fingering the money clip. “Cartier. Huh. I know a fence downtown.”
“Mr. Rivers? I can head down there tomorrow.”
David smiled. The kid really thought of everything. “Yes. But, no. You’ve got an appointment tomorrow.”
“Appointment?”
“I got you an interview at that prep school on the West Side. Malden Academy.”
“Dad, the public school is fine. We can’t afford it, anyway.”
“Nah - it’s for a scholarship, Neal. You’re too smart to go to that crap public school. Besides, bound to be a few senators’ sons at that school. Think of the possibilities.”
Neal sighed. “Sure Dad. What time?”
----
October, 1996
Neal sat at his table in art class, staring at the light rain falling outside. He yawned. The old man had been on a bender the day before and Neal had been up since three cleaning up puke and trying to get him to lie down and sleep. He’d finally dropped off at six, too late for Neal to have gotten any sleep himself. He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, looked over as the teacher entered.
It wasn’t Mrs. Lund who entered, but a short, balding man in his early 30’s. He wore a brown corduroy blazer with leather patches on the elbows, a worn-looking pink checked shirt and jeans. Neal noted the Doc Martens on his feet and the tan bandana tied around his throat and immediately thought, “This looks interesting.”
The teacher straightened to his full height and removed his glasses, regarding the class with a raised eyebrow. “Good morning, class. I’m Mr. Moskowitz. I’ll be subbing for Mrs. Lund, who has had to, um, attend to an emergency.” In reality, the woman’s husband had left her and she’d had a nervous breakdown, but Moskowitz wasn’t about to share that information. “I’ve got her lesson plan here in front of me and I see that you are working on sketching still-lifes.” He tossed the papers he held in his hand to the floor with disgust, eliciting titters of nervous laughter from the class.”How quaintly prosaic. I suppose it will have to do for today.” He took a vase and a bunch of silk flowers and plopped them on a table in the center of the room. “See what your mediocre talents can make of these. I’ll busy myself rewriting your syllabus.”
They looked at him, mouths slightly agape. “Chop-chop, children. We haven’t got all morning.” They bounced into action, retrieving pads, easels, charcoal and setting to it.
Neal sat at his station, sketching. He’d chosen to use pen and ink for this assignment. He preferred it for the detail he could set onto the paper; he didn’t like the mess and indistinct, feathery result from charcoal.
Moskowitz wandered around behind the students, evaluating their work. “That’s good, young lady,” he commented to Georgina Paulsen, president of the junior class. “You have a promising career ahead of you as a greeting card illustrator.”
Ouch, Neal thought, wincing. He had finished already, and was working on another piece in his own sketchpad, tracking Moskowitz’s movements around the room.
“Oh, I have no doubt you’ll find ample opportunities for your art,” he was saying to Ken Scofield, captain of the lacrosse team and son of the well-known Wall Street investment banker, “inking the specials board at Applebee’s.”
Neal smirked. He hated Scofield.
When Mr. Moskowitz reached Neal’s station, he said nothing, merely sniffed. He moved to the front of the classroom and turned to face them all. “The bell’s about to ring, so I’ll ask you all to file your work and clean up your stations. I’m not your maid. Let’s go.” Seventeen teenagers hopped from their seats and set about clearing up, Moskowitz eyeing them all with arms crossed disdainfully.
----
Later that day, Neal maneuvered his lunch tray through the bustling cafeteria, finally setting it down beside his best friend Maddy. Maddy was another scholarship kid, tall and slender, with her dark hair cut into a Betty Page style that was completely at odds with the usual glossy, highlighted manes of the rest of the girls at the school. Maddy sang lead in an all-girl emo band after school, and if she were into guys, Neal would be in love with her.
“Hi honey,” Neal greeted her as he sat.
“How was your day, dear?” Maddy answered warmly. They amused themselves by talking as if they were a married couple in a 50’s sitcom.
“Twelve kinds of shitty. How about you?”
“Meh. Calc exam this afternoon.” Despite being only a freshman, Maddy was a math genius, which had gotten her the slot at Malden.
“There’s a new art teacher,” Neal said, taking a gulp from one of the milks on his tray.
“I heard. What’s his deal?”
“No idea. He’s a weird one. There he goes.” Moskowitz was walking toward the teacher’s cafeteria.
“What is with the neckerchief?” Maddy snarked. Neal grinned.
“What’re you looking at Caffrey?” Scofield sneered as he passed their table.
“Endless possibilities. My fortune cookie told me so.”
“Smartass. You know, you’re not getting any out of the dyke there.” He pointed his chin at Maddy.
“That’s Miss Dyke to you, Scofield,” Maddy replied, but Neal was already on his feet.
“Take that back.”
“Make me,” Scofield sneered, butting his chest against Neal’s. Neal was slender but muscular and athletic. Despite Scofield’s size advantage, he was pretty sure he could give as well as he got.
Maddy rose as well, pushed the two of them apart. “We can measure your dicks later, boys.” She said, pushing Neal back into his seat. Scofield sneered and backed away; some teachers had taken notice.
“I can take care of myself, Maddy,” Neal said, his face red.
“I’m sure you can, and then you’ll be bounced out of this school faster than you can say boo.” She put a hand on his cheek. “Don’t leave me here all alone, dear.”
“Sorry honey.” Neal shook his head and tried to forget all about it.
----
The next morning, Neal spotted Scofield standing outside the art room, talking with a pretty blonde cheerleader. He reached his hand down and retrieved something from his pocket, tucked it up his sleeve. Taking a deep breath, he headed down the hall, whistling tunelessly. When he spotted him, he knew Scofield would have no choice but to engage him. But Neal was ready.
“Where’s your bodyguard, Caffrey?” the larger boy sneered.
“I’m going to say home room,” Neal answered, gesturing vaguely.
Scofield hulked over and stood menacingly over him. “I wasn’t done with you yesterday.”
Neal said nothing, but leaned toward him, a challenge evident on his face. Scofield snaked an arm out and clocked Neal with an elbow, knocking him against some lockers. Neal reached out for him, merely grabbing hold of his wrist before hitting the lockers, and subsequently his head. “Ow!”
The commotion drew Mr. Moskowitz’s attention, who had been approaching from down the hall. He rushed forward and regarded them both with a critical eye.
“Oh, hey, Mr. Moskowitz,” Scofield said. “Neal just tripped and I was helping him up.” He hauled Neal to his feet by the collar of his blazer. Neal had his hand in his own pocket.
Moskowitz gave him an appraising look, down and then up. “Cut the shit, Scofield. I may have been born at night, but it wasn’t last night. Get out of here or I’ll see you in detention.” Scofield slouched off down the hall.
“You all right, kid?” he asked Neal.
Neal straightened out his jacket, rearranged his tie. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“You’re Caffrey, right?”
“Yeah. I mean, yes sir.”
Moskowitz snorted. “Sir is what you call the cops. Come inside?” He pointed towards the empty classroom. He put his briefcase down on the desk and gestured with his chin. “Have a seat.”
Neal took a seat in the front row. Moskowitz leaned on the briefcase with his forearms, lowering his voice. “You know, there are easier ways to steal a watch than taking an elbow to the face.”
Neal’s face colored. Moskowitz had seen him lift Scofield’s watch. He was busted. He’d be kicked out of school for sure.
“Let’s see it.” The older man held out his hand and Neal reluctantly gave him the watch. He whistled, low. “Patek Philippe. Nice. Shame to have to cut the band, though - what’d you use, box cutter?”
“Exacto blade.” Neal muttered.
“Precision work, that. You’ve got a light touch. I should probably make you turn that in to lost and found at the very least.”
Neal looked him in the face, aggrieved. “That thing’ll make my rent for the next six months!”
“Which is why I’ll introduce you to a reputable fence instead.” He handed the watch back to Neal. “Stow it somewhere safe.”
Neal gave him a look approaching awe as he shoved the watch to the bottom of his messenger bag. “Now, the real reason I called you in here, Neal, is to talk with you about your art. You’ve got quite a lot of talent. Do you know that?”
He shrugged. “I just like to draw.”
“Ah, callow youth. Was it Oscar Wilde who said it was wasted on children?”
“Um, it was Shaw, I think.”
Moskowitz smiled - it was rare for him to be truly surprised by anyone. “You’re right. Tell me Neal, what do you like about drawing?”
----
Over the course of the next several weeks, Mr. Moskowitz kept an eye out for Neal, both in the halls after the incident with that little asshole Scofield, and in the classroom where he helped him with his technique, assigning extra credit exercises designed to improve his eye. Eventually, he offered to teach Neal how to paint, and the two fell into a daily routine of after school tutoring in the art room. Moskowitz supplied the paints and canvases, and Neal supplied the enthusiasm and energy.
If he was honest with himself, he saw just a little bit of himself there. Smart, talented, obviously misunderstood, Neal was guarded and didn’t seem to open up to others easily, but when he did, he was the most charming creature Moskowitz had ever encountered. Thoughtful, observant and a natural talker, he thought the young man would go far.
“Here, try the shading this way,” Moskowitz said, adjusting the way Neal was holding the brush and demonstrating.
Neal took up the brush and repeated the technique, getting it perfect the first time. The kid was like a savant, never having to be shown anything twice, and often surpassing his teacher with practice. “Like this, Mr. Moz?”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“I told you I wouldn’t stop,” Neal smiled. “Moskowitz is a tongue-tier.”
Neal painted some more, small studies of a bowl of (actual) oranges that were set up on a table in front of them. Moskowitz was pleased with the young man’s progress.
“Mr. Moz, do you know how to break into a safe?” Neal asked suddenly, never taking his eyes off the canvas.
Moskowitz choked on the mug of tea he was drinking. “What makes you ask that?”
“Well, you seem to…know things…about things. Like pick pocketing and sleight of hand.” He looked Moskowitz in the eye then, unblinking. “I saw you palm that card the other day in the teacher’s break room.”
Moskowitz flinched. He was slipping. Or else Neal was the most observant kid on the planet. “I was doing it to prove a point,” he said defensively.
“Or to beat Mr. Meeks at gin rummy?”
“You’re getting too big for your britches, kid. But no, I’m not the best teacher for safes. Why do you want to know?”
“There are some gaps in my skillset.”
“Where do you learn to say things like that?” Moskowitz had his suspicions. He was fairly certain Neal’s old man was having him grift for him on the side. He didn’t like to think why the kid might be looking to make bigger scores. “I know guys. Are you really interested in this, Neal, or is it something for your dad?”
Neal’s face fell. “No, it’s not for him. It’s for me. I swear.”
“Fine. We’ll see. I don’t like to think of you in that role.”
“Why not?”
“Just…you’re really quite a good artist, Neal.”
“Artists starve, Mr. Moz.”
“Point taken.”
Neal missed school the next day and the morning he returned, Moskowitz noticed he was even more quiet than usual.
The class was working on painting a mural in the gym from a drawing Neal had submitted, and Moskowitz was moving among them, offering tips and direction. They were under the gun to get it completed in time for the school’s Founder’s Day the following weekend. He eased past Neal, put a hand on his arm so he wouldn’t startle the boy, when he noticed him hiss and flinch away from his touch.
“Something wrong, Neal?” Neal kept painting, ignoring him, but his face was pale and sweaty. “Neal!” he said sternly, to get his attention. Neal looked at him with guarded eyes. “Will you come with me, please?” Neal picked up his messenger bag and followed him out of the gym.
Moskowitz led Neal to an empty office near the locker room. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, Mr. Moz.” He wouldn’t meet Moskowitz’s eyes.
“Don’t lie to me, I know something’s wrong.” He grabbed Neal’s left hand for emphasis, but the young man cried out and pulled away. When he looked at Moskowitz, his blue eyes were glazed with pain and full of tears.
“What happened to you, Neal?”
He didn’t respond. Moskowitz took his arm and pushed the sleeve up, exposing a large bruise that was unmistakably bone-deep spreading nearly from wrist to elbow. He breathed out through his nose, trying to calm himself. “Did your father do this to you?”
“No.”
Moskowitz lowered his voice, made his tone gentler. “I don’t believe you.”
“You’re going to have to.” He marveled at the steely note in Neal’s young voice.
Moskowitz wouldn’t back down. “If you took your shirt off, would I see foot-shaped bruises there, Neal?” Neal didn’t answer. “Would I?”
“No. It’s from a mark, OK? I…almost got caught.” The boy was crying now, and it was breaking Moskowitz’s heart.
“Come here,” he said, and pulled Neal into his arms. Neal sobbed into his shoulder, his entire body shaking.
“I…it was so scary, Moz.”
“It’s OK, kid. Shhh. We all have close calls from time to time.” He held him for a few more minutes, until he calmed down, and when they parted, he took his chin in his hand so that he was looking him in the eyes and said, “Listen to me Neal, because I need you to hear me. You’re not alone, OK? If you ever get in trouble like this again, I want you to come to me. No matter what. Got it?””
Neal sniffed and nodded. Moskowitz put his hands on his shoulders and sighed.
“Now get out of here. Go back to class.” Moskowitz watched him go, deep in thought. He’d have to think about expanding Neal’s education a bit more now, before the kid got himself seriously hurt.
----
Part 2