WC Fic: "Rarely Pure" (part 2 of 3)
Continued from Part One--where I'm taking a stab at filling my own kink meme prompt. Disclaimers etc. are up there, but you should still be warned. For pretty much everything.
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Peter’s mind was whirling. Neal looked shell-shocked--and Peter would have liked nothing more than to wrap him up and take him home, but he couldn’t. If this Sanchez character was really after Neal--and from Neal’s reaction, Peter had no doubt that he was--he first had to make sure Neal was safe. Then he had to assess the risk--Sanchez was dangerous, and ruthless. June lived in this house, along with her granddaughter and some staff--and if Sanchez had tracked Neal here, he might have tracked Neal to their home as well, so Elizabeth’s safety was also questionable. Peter wasn’t taking any chances. Elizabeth had her arms around Neal, sitting beside him on the bed, and he had his face buried in her hair. She was still shooting questioning glances at Peter, who was choosing to ignore her. For now.
He was dialing Diana as Elizabeth was speaking. “Peter, I have a couple of key meetings today,” began El. “I really can’t--”
“Cancel them.” Peter’s voice was hard. He couldn’t think. He had to act. “Diana, yeah. I need you to come to Neal’s loft. Now. Bring Jones. And get a safe house ready. Yeah, that one will do. You’ll need to take him there. Elizabeth too. Now.”
Elizabeth frowned. “Peter. I just can’t--”
“El, I wouldn’t ask, except it’s important.” He came up to where she and Neal were seated at the bed, and pulled up a chair. He took her hand, tried to smile. Wasn’t sure it came out right. “Trust me.” She shifted, so Neal was sitting a little more upright beside her, keeping one arm around him. Peter smiled tightly at her. He should ask her to leave, but he wasn’t going to. Not unless Neal did. He knew it wasn’t fair.
Then he reached out for Neal’s hand, wrapping it in his own and squeezing slightly before speaking. “Neal. Neal, look at me.” He heard Neal take in a shaky breath before looking up at Peter. The shame and fear in Neal’s eyes nearly broke his heart, but Peter forced himself to put it aside. Those feelings wouldn’t help Neal, or any of them, right now. “Last night--what were you up to?”
“Nothing, Peter--nothing, I just--I stayed inside my radius, I--” Neal’s voice was getting high and panicky, as if accused of a crime he’d never committed. Except, Neal had never sounded like this, not even when he had been accused in that manner.
It made Peter feel sick. He could feel Elizabeth’s glare without looking, see how she’d shifted to tighten her arms around Neal, hear her voice trying to soothe him.
He held up a hand, hanging onto Neal’s with the other. “Neal, Neal, I need you to focus for a minute. I just want to know where you went, and why. No tricks. No surprises. Just answer the question, Neal.” He held Neal’s gaze while he spoke, and watched as Neal straightened.
“Nowhere, Peter, I told you--” Neal replied, with a touch of asperity in his voice.
“You just didn’t come home.”
Bingo. Peter watched as some of the tension drained out of Neal at the unexpectedly right answer. In all his speculation about what Neal might have been up to that night--he and El had been waiting for one very long hour--it had never occurred to him that the answer might be so simple.
Okay. “Okay.”
“So you were--what, wandering?” Peter said the words like a statement, but he was bluffing, he couldn’t--
Neal nodded again.
Peter almost wished Neal had been up to one of the nefarious Caffrey-esque schemes he’d imagined. He hated the dull glaze of Neal’s eyes.
Treading carefully, Peter still needed to make sure. “You didn’t meet Sanchez, or run into him--”
“NO!” The answer burst violently from Neal. Peter squeezed his hand. All right.
“Okay, Neal, okay. You have any way of contacting him? Sending him a message?”
Neal was shaking his head vehemently in denial before Peter had even finished answering the question. But he surprised Peter by saying, almost calmly, “I didn’t try. I suppose I could have.”
“How?” Did Neal have a way--
“He knows how to get in here. I guess I could have left him a note, or something, if I’d wanted.”
Peter kept the emotion off his face. Of course. Of course. He tried to pretend the whole notion didn’t make him angry, didn’t make his skin crawl. “Right. You said he left you things. What kind of things?”
“Cards, and notes, and origami.” Neal’s voice was stronger, now. He was pulling himself together. Good man.
“And he just left them in here for you?”
“No. He mailed them at first. To the office, and then here. And then he just left them. Outside, and then inside.”
“Inside?”
Neal just nodded.
“You don’t lock your door,” said Peter, nodding.
“No, I did,” protested Neal indignantly. “I’m not an idiot. I did, and I got Mozzie to make me a lock--it should have worked--” Neal’s voice was fracturing, so Peter cut him off.
“And he still got in?” Neal nodded. “Forced entry?” Neal shook his head. “Fine. Where are they?”
“What?”
“The things he sent.” Peter could see Neal had about had it, and bent forward to kiss the hand in his. Just a few more questions, Neal,, he thought. Elizabeth had shifted once more, her body firm against Neal’s, but no longer holding him, letting him focus on Peter.
“I burned them.” Neal said the words quietly, his voice low.
Peter tried not to sigh. That could have been valuable evidence. “Did you keep any of them?” he tried. “Anything at all? Think, Neal.”
“There’s a postcard, the last one he sent, in the bottom drawer. I don’t--I don’t know why I put it there. And he left me some soap in the bathroom. Yesterday. I didn’t touch it, so it’s probably still there where he left it.”
That kind of explained the wandering, but soap? That was an odd one--in both pattern and kind. Peter was fairly sure, Neal’s meticulous grooming habits aside, that he didn’t have--or at least, he hadn’t had--some particular association with soap. He’d have to figure it out later. Neal was back to playing a leaf in the wind, and he had to get him out of here. “Okay, Neal. All right. That’s good. I’m going to have to get a team in here to dust for prints and evidence. No, don’t argue. It needs to be done. While that happens, you and Elizabeth are going on a little trip.”
“I--I don’t--I need a shower--my radius--” Elizabeth had put her arm back around Neal.
Peter leaned forward, capturing Neal’s lips in a kiss, squeezing the hand still in his. “I know. It’s okay. You’re going to be fine, Neal. I promise. Just pack a bag, and trust me. Diana will take you, and she’ll be here soon.”
“You--you didn’t--” Neal stammered.
“Not a word.” He cupped Neal’s face in his other hand. “I love you, and I promise. Now pack.”
“Can I take a shower first?” His eyes were pleading.
“No, Neal. When you get there. I need you gone as soon as Diana gets here.” Neal’s eyes were very blue. Peter reminded himself that he was the cold, hard, F.B.I. agent, reminded himself that this was for Neal’s own good, and reminded himself that he was not arresting Neal. He tugged Neal slightly in the direction of his closet. “Pack.”
While Neal obediently rose and began putting things in a bag, Peter leaned forward until his forehead touched Elizabeth’s. “El,” he breathed. He felt cold through and through, like he’d never be warm again.
She didn’t say anything, but he could feel her hands stroking his hair, rubbing his back.
“I’ll bring your stuff up later. It’ll just be a few days, most likely. I’m so sorry.” He wanted to cry, to beg her forgiveness. But there was no time for it.
“It’s all right. You know I trust you. But Peter,” said Elizabeth, watching Neal fold his clothes with shaking hands, “this is serious.” There was the hint of a question in her voice.
“Yeah,” said Peter, watching as well, aching to help “It is.”
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With Elizabeth present, and Neal so skittish, Peter had confined himself to handing Neal things he might need and folding what Neal directed for a few minutes before leaving him with Elizabeth and heading downstairs to talk to June. Diana and Jones arrived about 10 minutes later, and Diana went up and brought them downstairs. Elizabeth came down first, and they had a quick word, and Neal and Diana were down a few minutes later. Neal was apparently packed and ready to go--Peter guessed he’d had plenty of practice at packing quickly--his face pale but composed. He waved Neal on his way when Diana brought him down, not letting him pause to talk to June. Elizabeth was already in the car. June smiled warmly at him as he turned away reluctantly, Diana herding him out the door, an apology clearly on his lips and fear in his eyes.
Peter wasn’t sure if June was in danger--but at the very least, he wanted to warn her and post some guys to watch her. He had no doubt that June could and would take care of herself, but just in case. She had grandkids, Sanchez was ruthless, and Neal would do anything for June. Peter wasn’t taking chances.
He hoped Sanchez would.
In the end, Peter convinced June to close her house and send her staff home for a few days. Cindy went off to stay with friends, Samantha and her family were out of the country anyway, and June had some “old friends” for whom security would not be an issue. It took hours for the team to sweep June’s house and Neal’s apartment, and Peter was dead tired by the time he was able to drag himself home. It had been a draining day.
It was only two o’clock in the afternoon.
Peter showered, changed, packed a bag, and was back at the office by 3:30.
There was still a lot to do.
Sanchez would never know what hit him.
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The safe house was a tiny renovated farmhouse just north of the city. It was not far, but Diana was nothing if not thorough--they drove first to the office and switched cars there, then took a circuitous route and switched a couple more times, before they finally arrived. It was late evening by the time Neal and Elizabeth managed to eat the lunch provided, courtesy of Jones, in the small country-style kitchenette.
Well, Elizabeth was eating. Despite having had nothing all day (Elizabeth wasn’t even sure he’d had dinner the night before) Neal had wanted to shower on arrival even when all she could think of was food. He acquiesced easily when she suggested they eat first, but he took very little (artfully arranging it over his plate) and ate pretty much nothing, occupying himself by playing with his food. Elizabeth had no doubt that if he had wanted, she’d have been fooled into thinking he was eating. She didn’t know if Neal wanted her to notice that he wasn’t trying, or was too distraught to try, or just comfortable enough with her not to try harder, knowing she’d notice, but hoping Diana wouldn’t. She couldn’t tell anymore. The past few weeks had been hard on them all.
Otherwise, Neal was very much what Elizabeth thought of as Caffrey that evening--he was exactly as Peter had described in those early days, as he sometimes was in company, as he occasionally was when he and Peter returned home from a difficult case. He was polite and charming and witty and, to Elizabeth’s eye--distant. He had Diana smiling, he had Elizabeth laughing, and in his eyes, she could see a -- sadness? A deep unhappiness? She didn’t know, but she knew Diana--more perceptive than most--could sense it too. And Peter was downright worried--almost scared. He’d asked her to look after Neal--and of course, he hadn’t needed to ask, but the look in his eyes suggested that it was more important now. And there was something so fragile, so brittle about Neal, that Elizabeth would take his word for it.
Watching Neal smile and flirt with more awkward annoyance than charm and move his food from side to side, whatever the reason for his behaviour, Elizabeth finally couldn’t stand it anymore. “Neal,” she said, putting a hand on his wrist. “Stop it.”
He turned wide, startled eyes to her. If it was a con, it was a really good one.
She knew Neal was good, but she didn’t think he was that good. Not with her.
Under her hand, his wrist was trembling.
Tell me what’s wrong, she wanted to demand. Let me help.. But she knew what Neal would say.
Neal was a con artist with poor impulse control and bad judgment. Peter was honest and lawful and thought things through, and his judgment was excellent. Elizabeth loved them both--but when it came to judgment, she would always, always take Peter’s word for it.
She wished that Neal would confide in her as he had in Peter. And she also wished, in that moment, that whatever it was, that she somehow had the power to fix it. But she knew, in that place where she’d known the minute her childhood dog had died, her mother had collapsed, Peter had been shot--that she couldn’t.
She could only hope that he--that they--would recover.
And so she let it go. She let Neal prattle on, let Diana shoot him down with more indulgence than usual, let him pretend to eat. By the time they’d cleaned up the dinner plates, Neal was running down. He’d looked exhausted before, but keeping up the facade was clearly doing a number on him--his complexion was ashen and his eyes were dull. With Diana around, Elizabeth really didn’t feel comfortable behaving as she would have at home, but she squeezed Neal’s shoulder as she passed--but ”Go shower, then get some sleep, Neal,” was all she said, before heading over to her own room.
The room was fine--functional and clean, but it wasn’t home. Elizabeth watched mindless TV for a couple of hours before finally allowing herself to crawl into bed. In the bed, cold and foreign and empty without either Peter or Neal, sleep was a long time in coming.
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Neal gave in to his need to shower as soon as Elizabeth gave him permission. He showered, and then showered again, before feeling decently clean. Then he wondered what to do. Peter wasn’t due until morning and while Diana was obviously staying awake, he’d run out of innocuous things to say and didn’t like the speculative way she kept looking at him. He didn’t know what Peter had said to her, and while he might have been able to find out without revealing anything, he was too tired to do it properly, and he knew it was too risky in his current state to have such a delicate discussion. And he simply wasn’t in the mood for a heart to heart.
He just wanted it to be over.
He lay in the bed--cold and foreign and empty--and considered sleep. It was impossible.
Three a.m. found him sitting in the window seat and staring out the window, watching the stars. He tried doing that meditation crap that Mozzie had tried to instill in him, but it was futile. His mind was racing.
He remembered being young, and wanting, so badly.
When he was young, all he’d wanted was a warm bed and a kiss good night.
When he was twenty, all he’d wanted were planes and women and fine food.
Now, at thirty, all he wanted was safety and comfort and to be clean again.
He wished he had less impossible dreams.
He started violently and half-turned as he felt arms slip around him. Warm and soft and Elizabeth, and he relaxed against her. He hadn’t heard her come in but now she’d fitted herself against his side, her head leant against his shoulder. He shifted to accommodate her.
“I’m sorry,” he said, before she could say anything. “I never meant for this to happen.”
“It’s okay,” she said softly, “although I’d feel better if I knew why we were here. Peter said he couldn’t tell me. I think you could.”
“It’s my fault,” said Neal. “I’m sorry. You have to believe I never meant for this, for any of this--”
And now he was crying, and he kept his face turned away, hoping Elizabeth wouldn’t see the tears, wouldn’t see--
“Hey, hey, Neal--come on,” said Elizabeth. “I’m sure this isn’t--”
“It is,” said Neal. “I knew, I knew I would destroy you--”
And then Elizabeth laughed, startlingly loud in the quiet room, cutting off whatever Neal was saying. “Destroy us? Seriously, Neal--did you really think you could do that to us?”
“Elizabeth, look around,” said Neal slowly, a little pissed off. How could she not understand? “You’ve had to cancel your plans. You’re in a safe house.”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth. “Yes, yes I am. With you. Peter put us here, and I have to believe it is for a very good reason, even if I don’t know what it is, because I trust Peter.”
“It’s my fault,” insisted Neal.
“Well,” said Elizabeth, “since I don’t know why we’re here, I will allow that it might be. In which case, I will be very annoyed with you. But Neal,” she said, holding up a forestalling hand as Neal opened his mouth, “I also know you. I know that you wouldn’t do anything knowingly to hurt me or Peter. So, if it is your fault, I know that you didn’t mean for it to happen.”
“But I should have known,” said Neal. “I should never have--”
“Should never have what, Neal?” asked Elizabeth patiently, when Neal’s voice trailed off.
“Never let you get involved with me. I should’ve been more--”
“Neal,” she interrupted firmly, “you remember way back when, when we first started seeing you--”
“Yeah, I wanted you, and I’m sorry, but I--”
Elizabeth chuckled softly. “Sweetie, we wanted you. Peter and I. We planned for you.”
Neal blinked a moment at the bald statement, clearly non-plussed. Elizabeth’s smile dimmed slightly; at the time, they’d known that the only way to get Neal had been for him to come to them, to make him think it had all been his idea in the first place. Apparently, it had worked a little too well. “I thought--” began Neal.
“Listen,” she interrupted again, “do you think I’m smart?”
“Elizabeth,” he said, so earnestly, blue eyes bright in the darkness, “you’re one of the smartest people I know. And I know a lot of smart people.”
“And do you think Peter’s smart?”
“I don’t--” blurted Neal. He was so tired. He didn’t know what she was getting at. Of course he thought--
“Just answer the question.”
“You know the answer to the question,” he retorted quietly.
“Well, then,” she continued, “you know we’re smart, and you know we chose you. So why do you think we’re wrong?”
“Because I’m not worth it. I’m at least not worth this,” he said, waving his hand around. He knew Elizabeth was neither dense nor stupid, but surely--
“What if,” asked Elizabeth softly, “we think you are?”
“I think you’d be wrong.” He said it as an absolute truth. The colour of the sky was more variable. He knew he’d conned them, but he hadn’t meant to hurt them. He hadn’t ever meant to hurt them, but sometimes, he took before thinking. And the consequences when he did that were still his fault, wasn’t that what Peter kept trying to teach him?
“Why?” she asked simply.
“Because you don’t know everything.” Obviously. If they knew--Sanchez had warned him, told him--
The smell of stale cologne over stale sweat, unwashed semen in the air. The smell had made Neal nauseous the first couple of weeks, and so the smell of vomit also hung in the poorly cleaned space. Neal had begged for bleach, one day, but of course the guards wouldn’t allow him access to a container of bleach, no matter how he pleaded, and he had nothing anymore he was willing to offer--
He closed his eyes, held his breath, tried to keep his mind from understanding what was happening around him, to him, digging his fingernails into his forearm to focus on that small pain to the exclusion of all else. “Oh, baby,” murmured Sanchez, his voice like fingernails on chalk, right in his ear, breaking his focus, “you’re so good. You’re perfect for me. That Kate that visits you, she has no idea--”
“Don’t you say her name!” Neal had blurted stupidly, unthinkingly, and his ears were ringing from the blow before he could even think to back away.
Sanchez’s anger, never far from the surface, had already ignited, and he was yelling before Neal’s hearing had settled. “--I still let you visit her, and don’t think for a second I couldn’t stop you if I wanted. Don’t you dare. Everything--everything you have is because of me, and because of my kindness to you--don’t you forget it, you pathetic fool. You can’t have her, and you are lucky you get to even see her. You think she--you think anyone’s going to want you after you’ve been mine, after you’ve done the things I’ve watched you do, the things you’ve volunteered to do? You really think after that a girl like Kate’s going to kiss your mouth?” And just as suddenly, unpredictably, Sanchez smiled sweetly, indulgently, even as Neal’s mind reeled from the idea that Sanchez would take Kate from him, take even his hope from him, even when he knew Sanchez was right--
“Oh, baby,” murmured Sanchez, still smiling and now stroking Neal’s face, his cut lip, the skin on his sides and Neal forced himself not to flinch, not to pull away, not to squirm, “you are so very foolish. What did you ever do before me?”
He blinked, and he was back in the small room, in the hideously beige and utilitarian safehouse, and Elizabeth was asking him a question. He dragged his thoughts back to the present.
“Does Peter know?” She sounded curious.
“Some.” He turned his face away. “Not everything.” He knew he was putting it off, but he hadn’t been able to bear telling him. Not then. Not yet.
“And you think,” said Elizabeth softly, “that if he knew everything--all these things you think we don’t know--you think we would change our minds.”
Neal couldn’t answer. His throat had closed up. He nodded, silently.
“Neal, honey, you know I’m happy to hear anything you want to tell me. I want you to tell me anything you’d like. But I only want you to tell me those things you want to, the things you’re comfortable telling me, unless you feel I need to know. We’re not here to force you to reveal your secrets, Neal. That’s not how this works.”
“But--” He didn’t have the words to explain. He fought for the words, but Elizabeth was already speaking.
“Neal, we love you. And we know you. Do you honestly think there is something you can tell us that will change how we feel?”
He couldn’t say the words. He just nodded. Yes.
“Okay, then. If you think we need to know--if you really do--and if Peter agrees--then you can tell us. But Neal--we get to decide what’s worth it to us, all right?”
“No.” The protest was out before he could stop it. Elizabeth stayed silent. Neal took a breath, steadied himself. He’d done worse things, he told himself, and for them, he could do this. They deserved to know.
Long ago, Neal had been young, and foolish, and had earnestly told Moz--after a beautifully executed con, elated and gleeful and loquacious--that the truth would set them all free. Back then, Neal had really believed that truth was art, and art truth--simple and pure and immutable. Back then, Mozzie had simply smiled, and shook his head, and quoted Oscar Wilde at him. Neal hadn’t believed him.
But that had been a long, long time ago. Before Kate, before Peter, before prison and an anklet and the FBI offices. That had been long before he’d learned that Moz, as was often the case, had had the right of it all along.
“I don’t want to tell you,” said Neal. “But when Peter comes, I will.”
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Part Three
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Peter’s mind was whirling. Neal looked shell-shocked--and Peter would have liked nothing more than to wrap him up and take him home, but he couldn’t. If this Sanchez character was really after Neal--and from Neal’s reaction, Peter had no doubt that he was--he first had to make sure Neal was safe. Then he had to assess the risk--Sanchez was dangerous, and ruthless. June lived in this house, along with her granddaughter and some staff--and if Sanchez had tracked Neal here, he might have tracked Neal to their home as well, so Elizabeth’s safety was also questionable. Peter wasn’t taking any chances. Elizabeth had her arms around Neal, sitting beside him on the bed, and he had his face buried in her hair. She was still shooting questioning glances at Peter, who was choosing to ignore her. For now.
He was dialing Diana as Elizabeth was speaking. “Peter, I have a couple of key meetings today,” began El. “I really can’t--”
“Cancel them.” Peter’s voice was hard. He couldn’t think. He had to act. “Diana, yeah. I need you to come to Neal’s loft. Now. Bring Jones. And get a safe house ready. Yeah, that one will do. You’ll need to take him there. Elizabeth too. Now.”
Elizabeth frowned. “Peter. I just can’t--”
“El, I wouldn’t ask, except it’s important.” He came up to where she and Neal were seated at the bed, and pulled up a chair. He took her hand, tried to smile. Wasn’t sure it came out right. “Trust me.” She shifted, so Neal was sitting a little more upright beside her, keeping one arm around him. Peter smiled tightly at her. He should ask her to leave, but he wasn’t going to. Not unless Neal did. He knew it wasn’t fair.
Then he reached out for Neal’s hand, wrapping it in his own and squeezing slightly before speaking. “Neal. Neal, look at me.” He heard Neal take in a shaky breath before looking up at Peter. The shame and fear in Neal’s eyes nearly broke his heart, but Peter forced himself to put it aside. Those feelings wouldn’t help Neal, or any of them, right now. “Last night--what were you up to?”
“Nothing, Peter--nothing, I just--I stayed inside my radius, I--” Neal’s voice was getting high and panicky, as if accused of a crime he’d never committed. Except, Neal had never sounded like this, not even when he had been accused in that manner.
It made Peter feel sick. He could feel Elizabeth’s glare without looking, see how she’d shifted to tighten her arms around Neal, hear her voice trying to soothe him.
He held up a hand, hanging onto Neal’s with the other. “Neal, Neal, I need you to focus for a minute. I just want to know where you went, and why. No tricks. No surprises. Just answer the question, Neal.” He held Neal’s gaze while he spoke, and watched as Neal straightened.
“Nowhere, Peter, I told you--” Neal replied, with a touch of asperity in his voice.
“You just didn’t come home.”
Bingo. Peter watched as some of the tension drained out of Neal at the unexpectedly right answer. In all his speculation about what Neal might have been up to that night--he and El had been waiting for one very long hour--it had never occurred to him that the answer might be so simple.
Okay. “Okay.”
“So you were--what, wandering?” Peter said the words like a statement, but he was bluffing, he couldn’t--
Neal nodded again.
Peter almost wished Neal had been up to one of the nefarious Caffrey-esque schemes he’d imagined. He hated the dull glaze of Neal’s eyes.
Treading carefully, Peter still needed to make sure. “You didn’t meet Sanchez, or run into him--”
“NO!” The answer burst violently from Neal. Peter squeezed his hand. All right.
“Okay, Neal, okay. You have any way of contacting him? Sending him a message?”
Neal was shaking his head vehemently in denial before Peter had even finished answering the question. But he surprised Peter by saying, almost calmly, “I didn’t try. I suppose I could have.”
“How?” Did Neal have a way--
“He knows how to get in here. I guess I could have left him a note, or something, if I’d wanted.”
Peter kept the emotion off his face. Of course. Of course. He tried to pretend the whole notion didn’t make him angry, didn’t make his skin crawl. “Right. You said he left you things. What kind of things?”
“Cards, and notes, and origami.” Neal’s voice was stronger, now. He was pulling himself together. Good man.
“And he just left them in here for you?”
“No. He mailed them at first. To the office, and then here. And then he just left them. Outside, and then inside.”
“Inside?”
Neal just nodded.
“You don’t lock your door,” said Peter, nodding.
“No, I did,” protested Neal indignantly. “I’m not an idiot. I did, and I got Mozzie to make me a lock--it should have worked--” Neal’s voice was fracturing, so Peter cut him off.
“And he still got in?” Neal nodded. “Forced entry?” Neal shook his head. “Fine. Where are they?”
“What?”
“The things he sent.” Peter could see Neal had about had it, and bent forward to kiss the hand in his. Just a few more questions, Neal,, he thought. Elizabeth had shifted once more, her body firm against Neal’s, but no longer holding him, letting him focus on Peter.
“I burned them.” Neal said the words quietly, his voice low.
Peter tried not to sigh. That could have been valuable evidence. “Did you keep any of them?” he tried. “Anything at all? Think, Neal.”
“There’s a postcard, the last one he sent, in the bottom drawer. I don’t--I don’t know why I put it there. And he left me some soap in the bathroom. Yesterday. I didn’t touch it, so it’s probably still there where he left it.”
That kind of explained the wandering, but soap? That was an odd one--in both pattern and kind. Peter was fairly sure, Neal’s meticulous grooming habits aside, that he didn’t have--or at least, he hadn’t had--some particular association with soap. He’d have to figure it out later. Neal was back to playing a leaf in the wind, and he had to get him out of here. “Okay, Neal. All right. That’s good. I’m going to have to get a team in here to dust for prints and evidence. No, don’t argue. It needs to be done. While that happens, you and Elizabeth are going on a little trip.”
“I--I don’t--I need a shower--my radius--” Elizabeth had put her arm back around Neal.
Peter leaned forward, capturing Neal’s lips in a kiss, squeezing the hand still in his. “I know. It’s okay. You’re going to be fine, Neal. I promise. Just pack a bag, and trust me. Diana will take you, and she’ll be here soon.”
“You--you didn’t--” Neal stammered.
“Not a word.” He cupped Neal’s face in his other hand. “I love you, and I promise. Now pack.”
“Can I take a shower first?” His eyes were pleading.
“No, Neal. When you get there. I need you gone as soon as Diana gets here.” Neal’s eyes were very blue. Peter reminded himself that he was the cold, hard, F.B.I. agent, reminded himself that this was for Neal’s own good, and reminded himself that he was not arresting Neal. He tugged Neal slightly in the direction of his closet. “Pack.”
While Neal obediently rose and began putting things in a bag, Peter leaned forward until his forehead touched Elizabeth’s. “El,” he breathed. He felt cold through and through, like he’d never be warm again.
She didn’t say anything, but he could feel her hands stroking his hair, rubbing his back.
“I’ll bring your stuff up later. It’ll just be a few days, most likely. I’m so sorry.” He wanted to cry, to beg her forgiveness. But there was no time for it.
“It’s all right. You know I trust you. But Peter,” said Elizabeth, watching Neal fold his clothes with shaking hands, “this is serious.” There was the hint of a question in her voice.
“Yeah,” said Peter, watching as well, aching to help “It is.”
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With Elizabeth present, and Neal so skittish, Peter had confined himself to handing Neal things he might need and folding what Neal directed for a few minutes before leaving him with Elizabeth and heading downstairs to talk to June. Diana and Jones arrived about 10 minutes later, and Diana went up and brought them downstairs. Elizabeth came down first, and they had a quick word, and Neal and Diana were down a few minutes later. Neal was apparently packed and ready to go--Peter guessed he’d had plenty of practice at packing quickly--his face pale but composed. He waved Neal on his way when Diana brought him down, not letting him pause to talk to June. Elizabeth was already in the car. June smiled warmly at him as he turned away reluctantly, Diana herding him out the door, an apology clearly on his lips and fear in his eyes.
Peter wasn’t sure if June was in danger--but at the very least, he wanted to warn her and post some guys to watch her. He had no doubt that June could and would take care of herself, but just in case. She had grandkids, Sanchez was ruthless, and Neal would do anything for June. Peter wasn’t taking chances.
He hoped Sanchez would.
In the end, Peter convinced June to close her house and send her staff home for a few days. Cindy went off to stay with friends, Samantha and her family were out of the country anyway, and June had some “old friends” for whom security would not be an issue. It took hours for the team to sweep June’s house and Neal’s apartment, and Peter was dead tired by the time he was able to drag himself home. It had been a draining day.
It was only two o’clock in the afternoon.
Peter showered, changed, packed a bag, and was back at the office by 3:30.
There was still a lot to do.
Sanchez would never know what hit him.
************************************
The safe house was a tiny renovated farmhouse just north of the city. It was not far, but Diana was nothing if not thorough--they drove first to the office and switched cars there, then took a circuitous route and switched a couple more times, before they finally arrived. It was late evening by the time Neal and Elizabeth managed to eat the lunch provided, courtesy of Jones, in the small country-style kitchenette.
Well, Elizabeth was eating. Despite having had nothing all day (Elizabeth wasn’t even sure he’d had dinner the night before) Neal had wanted to shower on arrival even when all she could think of was food. He acquiesced easily when she suggested they eat first, but he took very little (artfully arranging it over his plate) and ate pretty much nothing, occupying himself by playing with his food. Elizabeth had no doubt that if he had wanted, she’d have been fooled into thinking he was eating. She didn’t know if Neal wanted her to notice that he wasn’t trying, or was too distraught to try, or just comfortable enough with her not to try harder, knowing she’d notice, but hoping Diana wouldn’t. She couldn’t tell anymore. The past few weeks had been hard on them all.
Otherwise, Neal was very much what Elizabeth thought of as Caffrey that evening--he was exactly as Peter had described in those early days, as he sometimes was in company, as he occasionally was when he and Peter returned home from a difficult case. He was polite and charming and witty and, to Elizabeth’s eye--distant. He had Diana smiling, he had Elizabeth laughing, and in his eyes, she could see a -- sadness? A deep unhappiness? She didn’t know, but she knew Diana--more perceptive than most--could sense it too. And Peter was downright worried--almost scared. He’d asked her to look after Neal--and of course, he hadn’t needed to ask, but the look in his eyes suggested that it was more important now. And there was something so fragile, so brittle about Neal, that Elizabeth would take his word for it.
Watching Neal smile and flirt with more awkward annoyance than charm and move his food from side to side, whatever the reason for his behaviour, Elizabeth finally couldn’t stand it anymore. “Neal,” she said, putting a hand on his wrist. “Stop it.”
He turned wide, startled eyes to her. If it was a con, it was a really good one.
She knew Neal was good, but she didn’t think he was that good. Not with her.
Under her hand, his wrist was trembling.
Tell me what’s wrong, she wanted to demand. Let me help.. But she knew what Neal would say.
Neal was a con artist with poor impulse control and bad judgment. Peter was honest and lawful and thought things through, and his judgment was excellent. Elizabeth loved them both--but when it came to judgment, she would always, always take Peter’s word for it.
She wished that Neal would confide in her as he had in Peter. And she also wished, in that moment, that whatever it was, that she somehow had the power to fix it. But she knew, in that place where she’d known the minute her childhood dog had died, her mother had collapsed, Peter had been shot--that she couldn’t.
She could only hope that he--that they--would recover.
And so she let it go. She let Neal prattle on, let Diana shoot him down with more indulgence than usual, let him pretend to eat. By the time they’d cleaned up the dinner plates, Neal was running down. He’d looked exhausted before, but keeping up the facade was clearly doing a number on him--his complexion was ashen and his eyes were dull. With Diana around, Elizabeth really didn’t feel comfortable behaving as she would have at home, but she squeezed Neal’s shoulder as she passed--but ”Go shower, then get some sleep, Neal,” was all she said, before heading over to her own room.
The room was fine--functional and clean, but it wasn’t home. Elizabeth watched mindless TV for a couple of hours before finally allowing herself to crawl into bed. In the bed, cold and foreign and empty without either Peter or Neal, sleep was a long time in coming.
***********************************************
Neal gave in to his need to shower as soon as Elizabeth gave him permission. He showered, and then showered again, before feeling decently clean. Then he wondered what to do. Peter wasn’t due until morning and while Diana was obviously staying awake, he’d run out of innocuous things to say and didn’t like the speculative way she kept looking at him. He didn’t know what Peter had said to her, and while he might have been able to find out without revealing anything, he was too tired to do it properly, and he knew it was too risky in his current state to have such a delicate discussion. And he simply wasn’t in the mood for a heart to heart.
He just wanted it to be over.
He lay in the bed--cold and foreign and empty--and considered sleep. It was impossible.
Three a.m. found him sitting in the window seat and staring out the window, watching the stars. He tried doing that meditation crap that Mozzie had tried to instill in him, but it was futile. His mind was racing.
He remembered being young, and wanting, so badly.
When he was young, all he’d wanted was a warm bed and a kiss good night.
When he was twenty, all he’d wanted were planes and women and fine food.
Now, at thirty, all he wanted was safety and comfort and to be clean again.
He wished he had less impossible dreams.
He started violently and half-turned as he felt arms slip around him. Warm and soft and Elizabeth, and he relaxed against her. He hadn’t heard her come in but now she’d fitted herself against his side, her head leant against his shoulder. He shifted to accommodate her.
“I’m sorry,” he said, before she could say anything. “I never meant for this to happen.”
“It’s okay,” she said softly, “although I’d feel better if I knew why we were here. Peter said he couldn’t tell me. I think you could.”
“It’s my fault,” said Neal. “I’m sorry. You have to believe I never meant for this, for any of this--”
And now he was crying, and he kept his face turned away, hoping Elizabeth wouldn’t see the tears, wouldn’t see--
“Hey, hey, Neal--come on,” said Elizabeth. “I’m sure this isn’t--”
“It is,” said Neal. “I knew, I knew I would destroy you--”
And then Elizabeth laughed, startlingly loud in the quiet room, cutting off whatever Neal was saying. “Destroy us? Seriously, Neal--did you really think you could do that to us?”
“Elizabeth, look around,” said Neal slowly, a little pissed off. How could she not understand? “You’ve had to cancel your plans. You’re in a safe house.”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth. “Yes, yes I am. With you. Peter put us here, and I have to believe it is for a very good reason, even if I don’t know what it is, because I trust Peter.”
“It’s my fault,” insisted Neal.
“Well,” said Elizabeth, “since I don’t know why we’re here, I will allow that it might be. In which case, I will be very annoyed with you. But Neal,” she said, holding up a forestalling hand as Neal opened his mouth, “I also know you. I know that you wouldn’t do anything knowingly to hurt me or Peter. So, if it is your fault, I know that you didn’t mean for it to happen.”
“But I should have known,” said Neal. “I should never have--”
“Should never have what, Neal?” asked Elizabeth patiently, when Neal’s voice trailed off.
“Never let you get involved with me. I should’ve been more--”
“Neal,” she interrupted firmly, “you remember way back when, when we first started seeing you--”
“Yeah, I wanted you, and I’m sorry, but I--”
Elizabeth chuckled softly. “Sweetie, we wanted you. Peter and I. We planned for you.”
Neal blinked a moment at the bald statement, clearly non-plussed. Elizabeth’s smile dimmed slightly; at the time, they’d known that the only way to get Neal had been for him to come to them, to make him think it had all been his idea in the first place. Apparently, it had worked a little too well. “I thought--” began Neal.
“Listen,” she interrupted again, “do you think I’m smart?”
“Elizabeth,” he said, so earnestly, blue eyes bright in the darkness, “you’re one of the smartest people I know. And I know a lot of smart people.”
“And do you think Peter’s smart?”
“I don’t--” blurted Neal. He was so tired. He didn’t know what she was getting at. Of course he thought--
“Just answer the question.”
“You know the answer to the question,” he retorted quietly.
“Well, then,” she continued, “you know we’re smart, and you know we chose you. So why do you think we’re wrong?”
“Because I’m not worth it. I’m at least not worth this,” he said, waving his hand around. He knew Elizabeth was neither dense nor stupid, but surely--
“What if,” asked Elizabeth softly, “we think you are?”
“I think you’d be wrong.” He said it as an absolute truth. The colour of the sky was more variable. He knew he’d conned them, but he hadn’t meant to hurt them. He hadn’t ever meant to hurt them, but sometimes, he took before thinking. And the consequences when he did that were still his fault, wasn’t that what Peter kept trying to teach him?
“Why?” she asked simply.
“Because you don’t know everything.” Obviously. If they knew--Sanchez had warned him, told him--
The smell of stale cologne over stale sweat, unwashed semen in the air. The smell had made Neal nauseous the first couple of weeks, and so the smell of vomit also hung in the poorly cleaned space. Neal had begged for bleach, one day, but of course the guards wouldn’t allow him access to a container of bleach, no matter how he pleaded, and he had nothing anymore he was willing to offer--
He closed his eyes, held his breath, tried to keep his mind from understanding what was happening around him, to him, digging his fingernails into his forearm to focus on that small pain to the exclusion of all else. “Oh, baby,” murmured Sanchez, his voice like fingernails on chalk, right in his ear, breaking his focus, “you’re so good. You’re perfect for me. That Kate that visits you, she has no idea--”
“Don’t you say her name!” Neal had blurted stupidly, unthinkingly, and his ears were ringing from the blow before he could even think to back away.
Sanchez’s anger, never far from the surface, had already ignited, and he was yelling before Neal’s hearing had settled. “--I still let you visit her, and don’t think for a second I couldn’t stop you if I wanted. Don’t you dare. Everything--everything you have is because of me, and because of my kindness to you--don’t you forget it, you pathetic fool. You can’t have her, and you are lucky you get to even see her. You think she--you think anyone’s going to want you after you’ve been mine, after you’ve done the things I’ve watched you do, the things you’ve volunteered to do? You really think after that a girl like Kate’s going to kiss your mouth?” And just as suddenly, unpredictably, Sanchez smiled sweetly, indulgently, even as Neal’s mind reeled from the idea that Sanchez would take Kate from him, take even his hope from him, even when he knew Sanchez was right--
“Oh, baby,” murmured Sanchez, still smiling and now stroking Neal’s face, his cut lip, the skin on his sides and Neal forced himself not to flinch, not to pull away, not to squirm, “you are so very foolish. What did you ever do before me?”
He blinked, and he was back in the small room, in the hideously beige and utilitarian safehouse, and Elizabeth was asking him a question. He dragged his thoughts back to the present.
“Does Peter know?” She sounded curious.
“Some.” He turned his face away. “Not everything.” He knew he was putting it off, but he hadn’t been able to bear telling him. Not then. Not yet.
“And you think,” said Elizabeth softly, “that if he knew everything--all these things you think we don’t know--you think we would change our minds.”
Neal couldn’t answer. His throat had closed up. He nodded, silently.
“Neal, honey, you know I’m happy to hear anything you want to tell me. I want you to tell me anything you’d like. But I only want you to tell me those things you want to, the things you’re comfortable telling me, unless you feel I need to know. We’re not here to force you to reveal your secrets, Neal. That’s not how this works.”
“But--” He didn’t have the words to explain. He fought for the words, but Elizabeth was already speaking.
“Neal, we love you. And we know you. Do you honestly think there is something you can tell us that will change how we feel?”
He couldn’t say the words. He just nodded. Yes.
“Okay, then. If you think we need to know--if you really do--and if Peter agrees--then you can tell us. But Neal--we get to decide what’s worth it to us, all right?”
“No.” The protest was out before he could stop it. Elizabeth stayed silent. Neal took a breath, steadied himself. He’d done worse things, he told himself, and for them, he could do this. They deserved to know.
Long ago, Neal had been young, and foolish, and had earnestly told Moz--after a beautifully executed con, elated and gleeful and loquacious--that the truth would set them all free. Back then, Neal had really believed that truth was art, and art truth--simple and pure and immutable. Back then, Mozzie had simply smiled, and shook his head, and quoted Oscar Wilde at him. Neal hadn’t believed him.
But that had been a long, long time ago. Before Kate, before Peter, before prison and an anklet and the FBI offices. That had been long before he’d learned that Moz, as was often the case, had had the right of it all along.
“I don’t want to tell you,” said Neal. “But when Peter comes, I will.”
********************************************
Part Three