Fic: Only Son, Part 2
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.
Part 1
-------
March, 1997
Moz - that was his name now, there was no way around it - had been teaching at Malden Academy for nearly the entire school year. The administration had offered him a full time gig, and he was inclined to accept it. The benefits were good, and he was able to maintain a New York address. But most of all, God damn it all to hell, the kids were beginning to mean something to him. He really did feel like he was making a difference in a few of their lives, from the shy young woman who opened up when asked her opinion in his art history course, to the fledgling arts society he was the faculty adviser for. And of course, there was Neal.
Neal Caffrey simultaneously brought out the best and worst in Moz; the best in that he could feel no more tender emotions towards the boy if he were his own son, and worst because he had unfortunately begun to teach the young man all the nefarious skills he himself had picked up over the years. To date, Neal had mastered a few of the classics - the Beijing tea scam, the melon drop, the fiddle game to name a few - but Moz managed to keep him away from the more serious aspects of the Life. He wouldn’t allow him to apprentice himself to a safe cracker - which was what it would take for Neal to fill in that particular “skillset” - instead trying to focus the boy on his more legal talents.
Neal’s artistic talents were impressive and he never ceased to surprise Moz with his depth of understanding. It was this that Moskowitz clung to as his hope for the boy - to talk him into going to art school, getting out from under the bad influences of both his father and his teacher, and make his mark on the world in a meaningful way.
One afternoon after school, Moz had set Neal to the task of reproducing Vermeer’s Girl with the Wineglass as an exercise in applying light and perspective, when they had an unexpected visitor.
“So this is where you’ve been spending your time,” David Caffrey commented from the doorway, hands in his pockets and a curious expression on his face.
“Dad,” Neal said, turning toward him. He glanced at Moz uncertainly.
Moskowitz stepped forward, his hand outstretched. “Mr. Caffrey, it is a pleasure to meet you, sir. Your son is very talented. You must be very proud.”
David looked uneasy. “Yeah, he’s, uh, a chip off the old block.” David had walked into the room and was looking over some of Neal’s work. The da Vinci sketches in particular caught his eye. “You made these, son? They look as good as the real thing,” he commented.
Neal positively beamed. “Thanks, Dad.”
“So what brings you all the way down here, Mr. Caffrey?”
“I, uh, was hoping to have a parent-teacher conference with you. Discuss Neal’s future, as it were.”
Neal and Moz exchanged a look. “Sure,” Moz said. “Will you excuse us Neal?”
Neal, standing behind his father, shook his head no, but Moz gestured for him to leave. Neal sighed and did as he was told.
“You really teach Neal to do all this?” Caffrey asked when the boy had gone.
“The talent is his. I merely help him refine it.”
“Is there any money in it?”
“Well, the art world is fickle…”
“That’s not what I meant. Is my boy good enough to pass these off as the real deal?”
“If you’re asking if he has what it takes to be a forger -“
“I am.”
“Then yes, he’s got more than enough talent. But look, Mr. Caffrey - “
“I know who you are.”
“Come again?”
“I did a little homework. I know you were the Detroit mob’s go-to guy for counterfeit plates, bond forgeries, fake coins. That krugerrand job in St. Louis six years ago - that was you.”
Moz suddenly felt the room closing in on him. He had thought he’d left that life behind him and completely covered his tracks. He was apparently wrong. “I may have dabbled...” He tried to downplay his role; better if the man thought he was a schmoe.
“I’d say it was more than a little dabbling. Word is that job paid off millions. Did you even get a cut?”
Moz didn’t answer. He’d actually been paid quite well on that one, but it had had the unforeseen side effect of making him an indispensable earner in Detroit, a fact that kept him a virtual prisoner in the city far longer than he’d intended to stay.
Caffrey continued. “But when the Russians moved into town and started taking territory, you took the opportunity to lam it, I hear. What would Johnny B. pay to have his long, lost golden goose back?”
Still, Moz did not react - what was there to say - Caffrey had him cold. “What do you want, Caffrey?”
“Teach my kid what you know. If what you’re saying is true, Neal’s probably the best forger to come up in years - probably since you, wouldn’t you say?”
“He’s better, actually.”
“Teach him what you know, and I’ll forget I ever met Odin Moskowitz.”
Moz looked at him for a long minute, weighing his options. Who was he kidding, he basically had two - do this or return to Detroit. It was disappointing - he really had higher hopes for Neal’s talents. “Neal?” he called out.
Neal, who’d been standing outside the door eavesdropping, popped his head into the room. “Yes?”
“Neal, your father is blackmailing me to teach you how to forge paintings and documents. Does this interest you?”
Neal stepped into the room, eyes wide. “Yes.”
“Fine. We’ll start Monday.” He looked at the elder Caffrey and narrowed his eyes. “I’ll do this, but you realize it will take time. Years. You ready to wait that long for a payoff?”
“I spent ten years in Rahway, Moskowitz, I can wait for anything.” With that, David Caffrey turned to go, pausing to give his son a playful punch on the arm. Moz didn’t miss the boy’s flinch when his father made a move towards him.
When he’d gone, Neal walked up to Moz, eyes wide. “I didn’t tell him a thing, Mr. Moz. I swear.”
Moz smiled fondly at him. “I know. Get back to the Vermeer.”
“OK,” Neal said, returning to his work table and picking up his brush. He looked up, a curious look on his face. “Odin?”
“My mother was into Norse mythology. Shut up.”
----
Summer, 1997
Time passed quickly, Moz and Neal focusing as ever on the young man’s painting. Moz believed they still needed to focus on the basics before getting anywhere near the chemistry and physics involved in aging a painting, or mixing period-specific pigments.
With summer quickly approaching, they would be without the school to serve as the location for their sessions, so Moz decided to share his addresses with Neal.
“Addresses?” Neal repeated, looking at the list in his hand. There were seven, one for each day of the week, and Moz moved constantly from one to the next as a precaution in case he was spotted by anyone from his former life.
“Yeah. Commit them to memory, Neal, because I’ll ask that you destroy that paper.”
“Already done,” Neal said, tearing the paper up into tiny bits. “When do we start?”
----
One afternoon in mid-July, Neal and Moz sat in a café in SoHo sipping Italian sodas. Wednesday was not air-conditioned, so they’d fled to the relative coolness of the city’s streets.
“You coming back to Malden in September, Mr. Moz?”
“I am,” Moz replied with a smile. “I find it strangely rewarding.”
Neal smiled the kind of smile that would get him into women’s pants and a mark’s confidence later in life. But today, he was just a happy kid with a lemon soda. “That’s good. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”
“You’re going to be a senior. Have you given any thought to what college you want to go to?”
Neal’s face fell. “I don’t think I get to go to college, Mr. Moz.”
“Why not?”
“Who’s going to pay for it?”
“There are scholarships, and loans you could apply for. I could help you. Being a teacher at a snooty place like Malden’s got to mean something.”
“What about my dad?”
“He’ll come around. When we lay out for him that it will help you on the long con, he can’t say no. Once you’re away from him, Neal, well, you can write your own ticket, kid.”
Neal got a far-away look on his face. Leaving his father behind both excited and scared him. He looked at Moz with a look of trepidation. Moz patted him on the back. “Don’t worry. We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it, eh?”
Neal laughed. “Yeah.”
“Just promise me you’ll think about it.”
“OK.”
Moz’s brain was already whirring.
----
September, 1997
The school year started up again, and Neal continued his training with Moz after school every day, and sometimes on weekends. One afternoon, Moz slipped a piece of paper and a booklet across the table at Neal. “What’s this?”
“NJ State driver’s manual and practice tests. You’re turning 17 in a month. Don’t you want to get a license?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it. We don’t have a car.”
“’Tis a rite of passage, my son. Besides, you’ll need an ID to travel, to vote. It’s all good. Study that. I’ve seen you boost cars before, so I know you know how to drive. Now let’s make it official.”
Neal looked sheepish at having been caught stealing a car. Truthfully, he did it for kicks, returning the car to the same spot he’d found it. A good friend had taught him the basics while he was briefly in a foster home he’d lived in after his grandmother died. He felt a stab of grief and regret remembering of his friend Nick, but shook it off. “OK. What do I have to do?”
Appropriately enough, Moz took Neal to his driver’s license road test in a stolen car on his 17th birthday. He signed all the paperwork as Neal’s guardian, showed a forged proof of insurance (Neal’s first forgery - a minor one but significant nonetheless), and watched with pride swelling in his chest as his boy passed with flying colors. Laughing, they returned the car to the shopping mall where they’d boosted it (but at a different entrance - Moz couldn’t resist fucking with the owner’s head), and hopped a bus back to the city.
Moz treated Neal to a birthday dinner - pizza followed by frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity. Neal had finished his own dessert and was starting in on Moz’s when he slid a file folder across the table to the boy. “What’s this?” he asked around a mouthful of chocolate.
“Colleges,” Moz answered, a slight smile playing around his lips.
Neal swallowed. “I can’t apply to college, Mr. Moz.”
“You already did. These are the ones you’ve been accepted to.”
Incredulous, Neal opened the file and found acceptance letters to not just one, but three of the top fine arts programs in the country. Rhode Island School of Design, UCLA, Cranbrook Academy - all had accepted him into their programs through early admission. He looked up at Moz, speechless.
“Miss Dante helped with the applications,” Moz said, referring to one of the school’s guidance counselors that he was a little sweet on. “She thinks you made the applications yourself, so…”
“How can I thank you?”
“By going to school, kid. Don’t waste your talent pulling petty cons. You’re meant for better things.”
They shared a silent moment, Neal poking at his dessert and rifling through the paperwork. “Where should I go?”
“That’s up to you. But if it were me, I’d opt for the warmer climate.”
----
Later that night, Neal sat on his sofa bed, legs drawn up to his chest, his driver’s license and the letters arranged around him, marveling at his sudden good fortune. He knew he was staring at his tickets to a life away from here - a possibility he had never seriously entertained before, despite what Mr. Moskowitz told him about his talent. But for now, he was mostly as pleased as he could be that he’d scored a driver’s license - now he could start saving for a car.
“What have we here?”
Neal jumped. He hadn’t heard his father enter the apartment. Normally, he was always vigilant, leaving nothing that might betray his true feelings or intentions about the apartment. His sketches he kept on his person or at school; his diary was in his messenger bag at all times; even the money he’d managed to skim off of his scores over the last year or so was in a bank - safe from his father’s drunken grasp. But his daydreaming about the future had distracted him and he wasn’t able to hide the college letters away in time.
He looked up at his father. He could smell the whisky on him; it fairly leaked from his pores. “Colleges, dad. Thought it would be fun to see if I could get in.”
David was not fooled. “Thinking of leaving your old man?”
“Of course not.” Neal ducked his head down, not making eye contact, shoved the letters back into the folder.
“And what’s that?” David indicated the driver’s license.
“My license. Mr. Moskowitz took me. It’s my birthday today.”
“Well, happy fucking birthday. Tell me, is that Mr. Moskowitz of yours going to put you through school, too? College ain’t cheap.”
Neal glanced up at him, took in his glazed eyes, the set of his shoulders and knew he was in trouble. His forays into the con game lately had sharpened his ability to read a person’s body language, and this one was screaming imminent violence - get out. He snatched up the license and shoved it in his back pocket. He scrambled off the bed and asked his father if he’d like some coffee.
“No, I don’t want coffee!” he hissed, grabbing Neal’s arm as he passed him. Neal hadn’t been headed to the kitchen but for the door. He looked up at his father, and his eyes went flat with fear.
“Dad, no.” he twisted away, wrenching his shoulder badly but getting away, the extra tutelage with Moz finally paying off, but David's right arm shot out and grabbed him by the shirt.
“I’ll give you coffee,” he muttered, shaking him violently. He slapped him, open handed - he usually avoided leaving bruises on Neal’s face, his money-maker as he called it - and shoved him against the wall. Neal’s head left a dent in the plaster; he saw stars and sank to the floor, dazed. David hauled him to his feet again and began punching him in the gut, twice, four times, by the sixth he was panting, his arms shaking and he dropped Neal to the floor. That was when the kicking began. Neal tried to crawl away, earning him a kick to the head. Mercifully, he passed out.
When Neal came to, it was to the sound of snoring. He was lying on his side by the door; his father was sprawled on the sofa bed on his back, sawing wood. Neal struggled to a sitting position, wincing. He thought this time he might have a cracked rib for sure. And he was feeling a bit dizzy. He sought out the wall and leaned against it, breathing heavily while the dizziness passed, and did a quick inventory. The back of his head was throbbing; when he put a hand there, it came back sticky with blood. His shoulder wouldn’t work - he figured it was probably dislocated. He’d already come to a conclusion about the ribs, and his belly felt like it was on fire. He sank down to the floor again, hoping the room would stop spinning, that he’d begin to feel a bit better, so that he could eventually pull it together and get out of there. His dad was usually very remorseful after one of these “incidents,” but had never been one for the nursing. Something inside Neal knew he needed more help than an Ace bandage and handful of Advil would give.
His muddy brain remembered what Mr. Moz had said all those months ago: “If you ever get in trouble like this again, I want you to come to me. No matter what.” He knew what he had to do. He pushed himself to a seated position, crawled back towards the sofa bed to retrieve his messenger bag from where he’d left it leaning. He pulled it over his shoulder, hissing as the muscles pulled, but making it work eventually. He rested his injured arm on top of the bag, using it as a makeshift sling, turned and headed for the door. He was struck with the realization that he’d never see the place again, but didn’t spare it another glance, or his old man.
Thus began Neal Caffrey’s policy of never looking back.
----
Moz entered the lobby of the building that housed “Tuesday” with a slight spring in his step. He had meant to give the special horsehair brushes he’d ordered to Neal as a birthday present, and in the rush to get to the NJ DMV on time had completely forgotten to take them. He didn’t think the boy would mind, but he felt a little bad for not having given him the gift on his birthday.
When he turned into the hall, he saw a body huddled next to his door. He rushed forward and realized with a sick feeling that it was Neal. He was lying on his side in a fetal position, facing the door. “Neal!” he breathed, “Oh, my God.” He reached down, felt that the boy’s pulse was strong in his neck, and rolled him over on to his back, supporting his head. There was blood on his hand when he pulled it back. He looked down at Neal, saw the angle his right shoulder was in was not quite right and surmised it was dislocated. He stood, unlocked the door and stepped over Neal to enter, flicking the hall light on. He then crouched down and grabbed him by the collar, dragging him into the apartment.
Moz left Neal on the floor and went to fetch first aid supplies. When he returned, he knelt beside him and gently lifted each of his eyelids. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be looking for, but his pupils reacted as expected to the bright overhead light, so that had to be a good thing, right? Neal groaned and twitched, opened his eyes. He looked around wildly for a second, confused, but when he saw Moz, he relaxed and sighed with relief. “It was Tuesday,” he breathed.
“What?”
“Tuesday. I couldn’t remember what day it was before...”
“What happened, Neal?”
“Would you believe me if I said I fell?”
“No. Who did this? Was it your father?”
Neal didn’t answer, but wouldn’t lie to Moz; the truth was plain in his eyes anyway. He clutched at his belly with his left arm, tried to curl up on his side, whimpering from the pain. “God!” he gasped, panting, the pain in his ribs making his breathing shallow.
Moz’s shaking hand hovered over him, he didn’t how to comfort him. He was moaning like a wounded animal and it was almost too much for Moz. He stood, went to get the phone from the kitchen and returned, knelt beside him.
Neal’s hand reached out and grabbed his wrist. “Don’t. Please. No cops,” he begged.
Moz looked at him sadly. “No Neal, this time, yes to the cops. I’m calling 911.” He took Neal’s hand in his, let him squeeze it. Neal hugged it to his chest as Moz gave his address to the operator.
“Mozzie, help me, Mozzie, please.” Neal cried, squeezing his hand in a death grip. Moz pushed Neal’s hair out of his face with his free hand, palmed his cheek to get his attention. “Listen to me Neal, they’ll be here soon. Just breathe through it, OK? Just breathe.”
Neal’s eyes focused on his and Moz began to take deep breaths. Neal mimicked him, calming down. He loosened his grip on Moz’s hand as the two of them continued to breathe in unison. Two minutes later, the police arrived.
“What’s going on here?”
“Where is the ambulance?” Moz asked, frantic.
“Three minutes out. What happened? This your kid?”
“No, I’m his teacher. I found him in the hall. How long for the ambulance?”
The policeman crouched down and put a hand on Moz’s shoulder. “Three minutes, maybe less. I heard the siren as I got here. It’s ok. Help is coming.”
For the first time in his life, Moz was happy to see the police. He looked at the man gratefully. “Thank you.”
“Now tell me what happened.”
“I need to report a case of child abuse.”
----
Moz took a seat at Neal’s bedside in the recovery suite. The police officer had pulled a few strings to allow him to visit Neal in the ICU and Moz was grateful. Neal shouldn’t have to wake up alone, and it wasn’t as if his father would be able to do much good from the jail cell he knew he currently occupied.
The surgery to repair the bleeding in Neal’s abdomen had been a success and he lay on his back, right arm taped to his side to immobilize his shoulder, his belly swaddled in bandages from the chest down. He could see where bruises had formed on the few patches of the boy’s body left uncovered by the bandages, and the anger seething in his gut and in his chest threatened to overwhelm him.
He wasn’t sure if he was angrier at David Caffrey or at himself. His memory kept returning to the instances where he now knew Neal had been covering for his father - all those bruises and scrapes attributed to marks that had caught him with his hand in their pockets; he should’ve known - Neal was too good to get caught. The black eye that had supposedly come from an overly active game of basketball in gym class. Moz should’ve seen that Neal was lying, because he’d been that kid once upon a time. He’d been the one covering for the abuser, so afraid of what lay outside the home he’d rather take a beating than be sent away.
It was an oversight that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Neal stirred in his bed, shifted a little, and Moz sat forward in his chair. A few minutes later, he opened his eyes and looked at him. Moz could see the relief there and silently thanked the cop again for getting him in here. “Hey,” Moz said, forcing a smile on his face. “Good to see you awake.”
“Mozzie,” Neal greeted, smiling. “Hospital?”
“Yeah.”
Neal nodded and drifted off again.
He slept another several hours and Moz stayed at his side the whole time. The nurses brought him coffee and pastries, silent tributes for a man who’d saved a life, but he couldn't help but think he didn’t deserve it. If he’d acted sooner, they wouldn’t be here.
He dozed fitfully in the chair until dawn. When he opened his eyes, he saw that Neal was awake and looking at him. He sat up, leaned forward, put his hand on the railing of the hospital bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Not as bad as last night. Thank you.”
Moz looked down at his shoes. “I did what anyone would’ve done.”
“You saved my life. And you care about me. I haven't had that in a long time”
“I should have done something sooner.”
“I wouldn’t have wanted it sooner. Don’t blame yourself for something you had no control over.”
“I can blame myself for a whole lot of things, Neal.”
Neal reached up his hand and placed it over Moz’s on the railing. “I’m asking you not to.”
Moz nodded. He took a deep breath, feeling a change of subject was in order. “Hey, look at this.” He pulled an envelope out of his jacket. “It arrived yesterday; I picked it up after you left the restaurant.” He held it in front of Neal’s eyes.
“The Paris-Sorbonne? Mr. Moz, you didn’t…”
“Meh - Rhode Island’s a safety school. Want me to open it?” Neal nodded and he tore the envelope open. “Crap, it’s in French. Let’s hope my verb tense isn’t as rusty as it used to be…”
----
Moz stayed with Neal almost non-stop while he was in ICU, but when he was transferred to a semi-private room two days later, he decided he needed to go home and get some sleep and a shower, check in on his job. He left pictures of the elder Caffrey with all of the nurses on the floor; he’d been let out on bail and though he thought it unlikely he’d try to visit his son, Moz was taking no chances.
When he returned to the school, he went to the office to report in, let them know he wouldn’t need a substitute for that day. All of the secretaries came rushing over, giving out hugs and kisses to let him know what a great thing he’d done in saving Neal. He accepted their well wishes and pats on the back amiably, but couldn’t help but feel a fraud. He took his leave as soon as he could and returned to the classroom.
Late in the day, as his last class filed out, he spotted an unwelcome face in the hallway. David Caffrey. He waited until the room was empty and entered, shutting the door behind him. Moz could tell he was angry.
“What do you want, Caffrey?”
“You called the cops on me.”
“Yes, I did. And I’d do it again. How dare you come here?”
“How is he?”
“He could’ve died.”
“I want to see him.”
“You’ll never see him again, not if I have anything to do with it.”
“I’m his father.”
“Well, maybe you should act like it. Do you know what the job of a father is? It’s to protect and to nurture and to provide. What have you provided? How have you protected him? All you’ve done is put him on the street to earn for you, which he did, by the way, and how did you thank him? With abuse and pain and neglect. You are the poorest excuse for a father I’ve ever run across, Caffrey, and believe me, I’ve seen my fair share.” Moz was truly angry now, advancing on David, the force of his anger causing the taller man to back into the wall.
“He’s my son. Not yours.”
“I would be the luckiest man on the planet to call that kid my son,” Moz said quietly, his voice shaking. “Now get out of my sight before I call a cop. I’ve got a few on speed dial now.”
Caffrey turned to go, had a thought and turned back. “You’ll never have him,” he sneered. “I’ll call Johnny B. in Detroit. I’m sure he’ll be interested in knowing he can hook up with his old friend here in New York.”
Moz flinched as if he’d been struck. So there it was - the thing he’d been expecting and hoping he’d never hear - the sound of the other shoe dropping.
----
Moz stood by Neal’s bed, watching him sleep. His color was so much better today, and the nurses told him he’d taken a bit of solid food at lunch, which was a relief. The surgeon had reported that Neal would recover fully, with a fairly nasty scar that he assured him would fade almost completely over time. Moz figured he had another day or two before he had to leave. How was he going to break it to the boy?
Neal woke a few minutes later and smiled at him, happy to see him. One look at Moz’s face and he knew something was up; the kid was too perceptive by half. “What’s wrong, Mr. Moz?”
“I had a visit from your father today.”
“And?”
“And he is going to be making a few calls to some old friends in Detroit.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry, kid.” He couldn’t stop the tears that were forming in his eyes. “I’ve got to leave.”
“When?”
“Two days, max. We’ll spend them together, though. I won’t leave you before I have to.”
Neal looked at him for a full minute, and Moz could see the emotions flitting across his face: fear, concern and finally, determination. “That’s great, Mr. Moz,” he said, “but you need to be making plans. Where will you go?”
“I hadn’t thought -“
“You’ll need a passport. Can’t leave a paper trail. You should leave from Toronto. Less scrutiny in Canada. Maybe head to the islands for a while.”
“What? How do you know about all this?”
“Always have an exit strategy. You taught me that. Listen, you can hang low in the Caribbean until I get better, then we can go to Paris.”
“What? Paris?”
“Of course. I got into the Sorbonne, Mr. Moz. There’s no way I’m not going now.”
“You can’t be lamming it with me. I won’t allow it.”
Neal looked at him, an earnest expression on his face. “There’s nothing left for me here, Mr. Moz. I can’t stay, and you know it. Besides, you’ll need someone who will have your back. I’m your guy.”
“You’ve got to graduate first, Neal.”
“Like you can’t forge a little thing like a high school transcript? Please.”
----
Present day
Neal finished his story with a sigh and looked up at Peter, who sat facing him with his mouth slightly agape. “So that’s why you never finished high school?”
“Yeah.”
“And your dad?”
“Moz flew back to testify against him. I did not. He got eighteen months. I haven’t seen him since.”
“What happened in Paris? All I know is you dropped out after your second year.”
Neal smiled. “That’s a much happier story, and maybe I’ll tell you some day.”
“Some day?”
“Well, once the statute of limitations expires. Now, I’m starving. How about some of your famous apple pancakes?”
----
Thank you for your time.