[WC Fic] "Rarely Pure", rated NC-17 (Part 1 of 3) P/E/N
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Title: Rarely Pure
Author: Ivorysilk
Rating: R
Summary: Mozzie had once quoted Oscar Wilde at him, stating, “The truth is rarely pure and never simple.” He hadn’t believed Moz then--he'd been young, and foolish, and had still believed that truth was like art--simple and pure. He'd really believed that somehow, both would eventually set him free. But that had been before Kate, before Peter, before prison. That had been a long, long time ago.
(Originally written for the anonymous kink meme, for for my own prompt, as well as for the "blackmail" square on my h/c bingo card.) Peter/Eizabeth/Neal trio-ing.
Spoilers: Not really. All the canon is vague, and the characterization is bendy to fit my own nefarious schemes.
Warnings (highlight to read): Language. References to past physical and sexual assault, prison nastiness, and stalking behaviour. Adult themes and suchlike.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, or this universe. I am writing this for my own self-indulgent fun, and because, like Neal, I clearly covet other people's things.
Many thanks to TeaOtter, for her patience and encouragement and her insightful assistance without which, I'd never have finished. Thanks to rabidchild67, for the quick and thorough beta, and for gracefully and graciously tolerating my last-minute demands and deadline. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own.
Comments, positive or negative, are treasured. Thanks for reading.
Part One / Part Two / Part Three
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Neal had just returned from a coffee run--latte for himself, double shot espresso for Jones, mocca chino for Diana and regular plain coffee with double cream and sugar (don’t tell Elizabeth) for Peter--when he found an unmarked plain brown paper package on his desk. Not thinking anything of it--his birthday was coming up and he’d been dropping hints all week--he tore into it with delight.
Inside was an origami rose. Made of stiff red paper, and barely recognizable--but definitely a red paper rose. Neal recognized it instantly.
“Hey, what are you doing?” [He could feel his eyes on him, the sour smell of his breath and the sharpness of stale sweat as he moved closer.]
“Folding paper.” [Making a wish.]
“Hey, that’s that ori-whatever thingy, right? I’ve seen you, you keep leaving bits of paper everywhere? Usually birds, right?” [Eager and stupid, as if Neal had wanted to be noticed.]
“Cranes.” [He’d done it for the legend. For the memory. For the hope. One thousand cranes.]
“Right. Whatever. What difference does it make?” [None. None at all. No one is coming, and no one will hear.]
“There’s an ancient Japanese legend about cranes.” [She’d taught him that summer, patient and kind; the arts of a geisha being lost to time and convenience, to modernism and mechanization.]
“Don’t talk to me as if I’m stupid, you pansy-ass. You’re mine, now. You do as I tell you. Where’d you learn to do that, anyway?” [Impatient, and cruel; he had to be careful, careful, there was no escape, and no help here.]
“In Japan.” [In Osaka, with its towering sky-scrapers and noisy streets and quiet temples far, far from New York, from Manhattan, from home.]
“Teach me how.” [He can’t, not him; he has no poetry in his soul, he has no eye for art. He remembers teaching others: Mozzie in a dingy apartment, lying low one long winter, making vivid paper gardens while discussing wine and world peace; Alex, in the afterglow, her skin warm and her hair soft, naked but precise while Neal traced the patterns on her skin and breathed the instructions in her ear; Kate, who had laughed at him and told him she didn’t care about ancient Japanese arts when she had all of Europe to explore, but whose delicate fingers had made perfect folds anyway--]
“I don’t--” [He said it without thinking, before he could check himself.]
“Are you saying no to me, baby? You know what happens when you say no to me.” [No, no, no, he had, had to be more careful.]
“I’ll teach you if you want.” [Smiling and subservient, had to look the part, had to make him believe--]
“That’s better. I knew you’d be more fun than Josh, baby.”
Neal shuddered at the feeling of a hard, restraining hand gripping his shoulder, shuddered at the feel of clumsy, grimy fingers carding through his hair, running over his scalp. He stared at the rose, the paper petals mangled and sloppily formed, but he had to praise it anyway, tell him how brilliant--.
He blinked hard.
The White Collar offices faded back into his vision, with the accompanying sound of typing, rapid-fire telephone conversations, doors opening and files being shuffled. He hadn’t been paying attention. He had to--
Neal crumpled the rose in one hand, and crossed over the floor to the kitchen area, across the bullpen from his desk, to drop the wad of paper in the garbage can there. He emptied the coffee filter over it, obscuring it from sight with the damp coffee grinds. He forced his breathing to even out, forced a smile back into place. He desperately wanted a shower.
”I’ll find you, baby. When I’m out, when I'm free; don’t you worry. I’ll find you.”
***
He’d been careless. He’d been stupid. He knew that complacency killed; Mozzie had drummed it into him and before Mozzie, life had taught him the same. He should have been following, he should have known when he’d been released. He should have have known, even if he hadn’t received the postcard. It had been almost five years, though, and his life now--his life now was so far from the horror it had been for those months that he’d all but forgotten.
Correction. A good con artist didn’t lie to himself. He hadn’t forgotten, he’d actively tried to block it out.
So he’d become careless, and that was--that was dangerous. He needed to make sure--the first rule was, you have to make sure to protect yourself. Because no one else will.
It wasn’t so entirely true, anymore. Peter would protect him, when he could. Moz too. Jones, Diana, Elizabeth--he now had a whole contingent of people who would protect him.
But he couldn’t let that make him complacent either. Because while he knew they would protect him--he also knew that went only so far. Only so far. Everyone had their limit and he--he wasn’t sure where this would fall. Or if it would be a deal-breaker for them--if, having heard what he’d been and what he’d done, if once he’d confessed, they’d just let him fall. They knew of many things they thought he’d done; this was so beyond anything they could have imagined of him, he couldn’t predict how they’d react. And he wouldn’t risk it. Besides, he couldn’t--he just couldn’t imagine having that conversation. He was Neal Caffrey. He was not--that--that--
He wasn’t. And if he never told anyone, and if he was careful, no one would ever need to know what he had become for a few short months a long, long time ago.
********************
That evening, he was due at Elizabeth’s and Peter’s house for dinner. He had thought about begging off, but then Peter would ask questions, and Elizabeth would call and be disappointed, and not going was more trouble than simply going. Besides, he did want to see them, and he didn’t want--didn’t want him to be able to encroach on his life. Not now. Not ever again.
He could do this, he told himself. And he knew, once he arrived and had kissed Elizabeth and been kissed by her and then by Peter, he knew it had been the right choice. Satchmo was soft and warm at his knee, Elizabeth was laughing in his ear, and Peter was looking at him with that combination of exasperation and affection that never failed to make Neal feel wanted and warm and cared about.
And right then, he needed to feel wanted and warm and cared about. Neal relaxed, he focussed on the sense of coziness and acceptance and affection (he tried not to think of words like home and belonging and love), and he almost forgot about the origami rose.
This, this was what he needed, he told himself, one souffle and two servings of creme caramel and three Keep looking at/stop looking at my wife like that and I’ll toss you into prison and suchlike jokes later, he was kissing Peter fiercely while El dropped gentle kisses at the nape of his neck. This was who he was now, he told himself, as Peter’s hands spanned his hips and El’s fingers deftly undid his tie, while he leaned forward and back to help them as they carefully but urgently tugged and pushed. He was fine, and he was safe, and he was whole.
Afterwards, at night, curled up next to Peter, his head on Peter’s chest while Peter sleepily played with his hair, he forced himself to let his muscles go lax, his breathing to even out. Everything was fine, he told his idiot head. You’re safe and he’s far, far away. A stupid piece of paper can’t touch you, can’t hurt you, can’t--.
Elizabeth, on Peter’s other side, had already dropped off to sleep.
It was too quiet. It was too dark. Even the presence of Elizabeth and Peter near at hand didn’t--
“Neal,” said Peter, his quiet voice breaking the silence like a knife, “you know, if you tell me what’s wrong, I might be able to help.”
Neal stiffened instantly. “What makes you think--” he began, raising his head and conjuring up a smile he was far away from feeling. He thought he’d done so well, acting normally while distracting Peter and El from any closer examination (not that there had been anything to examine, he’d done a good job, he had), Peter shouldn’t have suspected--
“Neal.” And Peter’s voice was disappointed and rebuking, all at the same time. Neal hated him a little for it. He ignored the little pang his heart gave at the thought that Peter knew him that well, cared enough to know him that well, cared so much unlike --
“It’s ridiculous,” said Neal aloud. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.” It would be worse if you knew.
He knew telling Peter wouldn’t help, would just--complicate things, had the potential to backfire, and was a risk Neal wasn’t willing to take. But he was tempted, he was so tempted--
“Clearly, it’s not that ridiculous, not if it’s upsetting you,” said Peter seriously, his voice still quiet. “Maybe I can help, Neal.” It’s too late now, there’s nothing you can do, nothing--
“Do I get immunity?” asked Neal, slightly teasing.
“Do you need immunity?” asked Peter, not.
Neal sighed. Didn’t hurt to let Peter think what he wanted. “Thanks, Peter,” he answered, deliberately misleading. “It’s nothing. I’ll deal with it; don’t worry.” You don’t need to know this. He can’t touch me now. He *can’t*.
“Okay, but Neal--” and the tone implied that Peter wasn’t fooled, wasn’t distracted, and how had he lost his touch so badly?--”whatever it is, the offer is always open, okay. I love you. You know that.”
And Neal wanted to believe him. So badly. But he knew better. You say you love me, but it’s not the same, not like El. You say you love me, but you don’t trust me, and I know what that means, you’ll think I deserved it, you’ll tell me I--
He stopped thinking about it. He couldn’t. He appreciated the thought, though. He kissed Peter, lightly, and settled back down. “Yes, Peter,” he said. “I know.”
* *
The next morning, he found a white paper swan in a package on his desk. There was no postmark yet again, but the handwriting on the paper was distinctive.
Neal reminded himself that he was in a federal building. He reminded himself that he was surrounded by F.B.I. agents who could and would shoot a gun to protect him. He rationalized that the fact that he was being sent packages meant that he hadn’t been able to get inside, past security, the security of a federal building.
He told himself he was safe.
Then he went up to the rooftop and burned the heavy white paper with a lighter filched from Jones. Then he ran back inside, found an empty bathroom, and threw up the plain eggs and exotic fruit he’d eaten at the Burkes’ table that morning. By the time he emerged, sauntering back to his desk while chewing gum and smiling, his tie still perfectly knotted in a double Windsor, the swan was simply ash and memory.
He ignored the strange look Diana gave him.
He told himself he was safe.
* *
He knew he should’ve kept up--it was easier than starting from scratch--but still, he made some inquiries, discreetly. It would have been easier to ask Moz, or even Peter--but he couldn’t, and so he was forced to do it on his own. He reminded himself that this was what he’d done, back before there had been a Mozzie or a Peter or an F.B.I office as his almost-ally.
But he wasn’t successful. No one had heard of him, no one knew if he was in or out or anywhere. He was a ghost. He couldn’t find anything.
It was more likely, he knew, that none of his contacts were talking. He knew that Mozzie would have been able to find out. Knew Moz was way more thorough, had more sources, more connections, more leverage.
He couldn’t ask.
He knew that he could just ask someone to run the name--take the chance, even if Peter found out. Knew that then he would know for sure, would know the official records and whatever address was on file. Would know the terms of any sentence, what the charges were, what the suspicions were, how dangerous he was thought to be.
He wouldn’t ask. Instead, he burned the papers and tried to forget.
Over the next few days and weeks, however, it became harder to forget. There was more origami--a tulip, a rabbit, a diamond, a frog. Then there were cards--sappy, ridiculous greeting cards of sunsets and flowers and butterflies, with ridiculous sentiments--I miss you, I long for you, I love you.
At first, they were simply mailed to the office, in plain packages with no postmark or return address. And then--and then they were left in front of June’s front door, without packaging, just addressed, in that same broad loopy writing, to “Neal”.
It kept like that for a while. Cards, notes, letters. Fine paper, fine ink. He started avoiding Elizabeth and Peter’s home, worried that he would find them, terrified that he already had. Then, once he received confirmation of that, he began avoiding Elizabeth and Peter after work altogether. Most of the time, it was easy--Peter kept asking him to come to lunch or dinner, and he usually wasn’t hungry. He thought about inviting them over to June’s, but that seemed like a selfish, risky idea, exposing them for the sake of his need for comfort. Peter stayed over once or twice anyway, because Neal couldn’t bring himself to kick him out properly, rationalizing his behavior in a thousand ways. On those nights, Neal actually slept well. But he could never bring himself to ask.
As it was, he worried about June’s staff. He worried about Cindy. He worried about June. He wanted to warn them, but had no idea what to say. Instead, he convinced himself that they were safe. That he didn’t want them. They were safe.
He wasn’t sure they were.
He knew he wasn’t eating enough, lately. With everything else, however, forcing himself to eat when he didn’t want to just seemed like more effort than it was worth. He was dealing with the situation, and he’d find a balance. He just needed a little time.
But then--then there were the notes. On thick vellum, expensive and decorated, handwritten and inserted into art-house cards--Monet and Degas and Rembrandt. Notes that spoke of longing, of love, of forever. Notes that made promises and talked of plans.
It freaked him out. He had trouble sleeping, remembering. He longed for Peter and Elizabeth--just one night, safe in their bed. Maybe then he could sleep. He wondered if it would be too risky, just once. Peter was a federal agent. Surely he wouldn’t attack a federal agent. Surely he wouldn’t invade his home. Surely even he wasn’t so crazy.
But he knew that such things had happened before. He knew that Peter had decided on White Collar so he wouldn’t have to look over his shoulder at home. Knew that Peter went home to relax, and let down his guard, and not be a federal agent for a while. And so it was too risky. Because Neal knew that he couldn’t rely on him, not for reason, not for logic. Not for anything.
And then the notes began to be left in his room. He locked the door--even got Mozzie to change the locks, invented some excuse that Moz didn’t entirely buy--but it didn’t help. There were notes left on his doorknob, stuck outside the French doors, left with his mail on the table. He told himself that the staff had been bribed, had brought them up. It was careless, but Neal didn’t ask to make sure. Didn’t question, didn’t confirm. It was careless, and he knew that men had died for less.
He didn’t ask.
He knew that this was a courtship. Back in prison, there hadn’t been this level of kindness, of courtesy, of care. Probably, probably there were terms of probation, something that couldn’t be violated. Maybe even a tracking anklet. This was harmless, he wasn’t even infatuated, he was just playing around because he could, because Neal was letting him, because he’d promised and it didn’t do, in the criminal world, to be known for empty threats. Neal told himself this would be over soon.
But it didn’t feel like a courtship. It felt like he was being stalked. It felt like he was being hunted.
Peter made another joke about prison, and Neal couldn’t hide the revulsion on his face. Couldn’t hide how he went stiff and panicky at the thought of being back in that room and--
“I’m sorry, Neal. It never used to bother you, not like this.”
“It always bothered me, Peter.”
“I just need you to be careful. To remember the consequences. You do that, I stop with the reminders.”
“I promise you, Peter--I never forget.”
And then finally, there was the postcard left on his nightstand. Cowper’s painting of the four queens finding the sleeping Lancelot.
The postcard, left on his nightstand, in his loft, in his locked room. The postcard which he found when he woke up in the morning. The postcard which had most definitely not been there the night before.
Neal started to shake. He felt cold, and nauseous, and all the rationalizations in the world of how he was safe and how this was crazy and how this would all soon be over didn’t help.
Neal reached for the card with a trembling hand, turning it over. The words, in that same loopy writing, blurred. But the words didn’t matter.
Because this note was signed.
Signed with his name, in liquid ink, the name that Neal had tried so hard to forget.
Love, Lionel.
* *
Lionel had been transferred on a Tuesday. He remembered that.
They’d put him in a cell with Neal that Tuesday afternoon, after processing, because they’d been short for space--it was Christmas time, and crime always went up at Christmas, for all the obvious reasons. Christmas was always harder in prison, though. When they’d told him about the temporary cellmate, Neal had swallowed his slight trepidation and looked forward to the company. Lionel was chatting with the guards when he’d arrived, and when the guards left, he’d sat on Neal’s bunk and smiled.
Neal was good at reading people. Sometimes, though--sometimes he made mistakes.
The first night had been the worst. Neal had eventually passed out. He really didn’t remember much of it aside from that anyway, except in dreams, and for that he was grateful.
He worked at forgetting the rest.
* *
Neal checked every corner of the apartment. There was nothing there. Just the apartment, with its hidden rooms and small but modern bathroom and kitchenette. He could hear, faintly, the household bustling downstairs along with the call of the few pigeons that had made their way to the terrace.
He didn’t know when Lionel had gotten in. He didn’t know when Lionel had gotten out. It frightened him more than he could say that he’d slept through his “visit”. It worried him that Lionel had--had come and gone, had had Neal at his mercy, but had then left without apparently touching him.
There had been days, in those weeks and months, that Lionel hadn’t touched him. Had Neal frightened and on edge, but had left Neal entirely alone. Those days had almost been the worst--Lionel knew all about anticipation and heightening fear. Except the culmination of that fear had not been anti-climactic, because Lionel always made sure it was worth it for him. Despite the fear and the anxiety and the nausea--the wait was definitely better than what came after.
Neal tried not to think about what Lionel was planning now. Tried to tell himself that he hadn’t done anything, because he couldn’t, anymore. Not without repercussions. Not without consequence.
But who knew if that were true? It’s not like Neal was going to go to the police. It’s not like they would believe him and, even if they did--what were they going to do? Women were harassed and stalked all the time in broad daylight, and no one did much about it.
He wouldn’t go to Moz--Moz would just tell Neal to run, although where and how were questionable, and Peter? He just--he couldn’t. Peter apparently had no problem with Neal going back to prison, and as for the details ... Peter already thought Neal had enough sexual hangups and Neal couldn’t imagine telling Peter there was some other guy for whom he did anything asked of him without question or hesitation. He didn’t want to have that conversation. He just--he couldn’t.
He reassured himself that he didn’t have to, because the mere thought sent him into a panic. He needed this life safe. He needed this life to be untainted by everything that had come before. Adler had always encouraged him to remake himself--and he was trying. He was trying.
A breeze ruffled his hair and Neal looked up. The French doors were slightly ajar. Neal caught his breath. Here, at June’s, he never usually locked his doors, not until recently--and he still hadn’t thought to lock the terrace doors. The doors were exposed glass, and not covered in any way. It had never mattered. He’d always felt safe enough before.
He looked back at the postcard, lying on the floor beside the bed where he’d dropped it. He knew what had happened to Lancelot, when he’d been found sleeping. Somehow, though, Neal didn’t think he could count on a random princess to rescue him from this situation.
He looked at the time. 6:45 a.m. Peter was expecting him in by 9. It was grey and drizzly outside, a bleak Wednesday morning.
It had begun on Wednesday.
* * *
When Neal went into the office that morning, he didn’t try to put it off any longer. He found a probie, and asked. He didn’t take Peter’s name, and the probie--young, eager, not cautious enough, not for this line of work, not yet--didn’t ask.
He knew Peter would find out. He’d wanted to ask Jones or Diana, discreetly, because they’d probably keep his secret if he could spin it right, could just smile properly--but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Couldn’t, and didn’t think too hard or long about why.
He had expected to have a little while before Peter confronted him, but as it turned out all he got were fifty-three minutes.
“Neal,” said Peter, low beside his desk, and how had he not noticed Peter coming up? He didn’t visibly startle only because he’d spent years training himself out of such reflexes. “Why do you have Chen running names for you?”
“I--it was just a favour, Peter. I--I needed some information.” Get a grip, Caffrey! he bellowed at himself. He really hadn’t expected--
“Since when do the resources of the Federal Bureau of Investigation get to be your personal research center?” Peter’s voice was low and borderline angry.
Neal swallowed, raising pleading blue eyes, hoping against hope that for just this once, Peter would just let it go. “Please, Peter. It was important.”
“Then you should have come to me,” said Peter implacably. “Not Chen. I’ve told him he has to double-check everything you ask him to do with me or Jones or Diana first from now on. Do you know how inefficient that is?” Peter looked deeply annoyed. Neal understood. Peter liked his department to be efficient.
“I’m sorry, Peter. I won’t do it again. I promise.” Neal tried to pour sincerity into his voice while containing the panic in a little box. He’d figure something else out. He had to.
“I’ve told you--I need to be able to trust you, Neal. And that includes not going behind my back to my probie. Now, what did you need him to do?” Peter’s tone had changed into brisk problem-solving mode, and that ratcheted up Neal’s panic. He scrambled to figure out a way to contain this--
“Just--it’s not important. It doesn’t matter, Peter. I’ll--” Shit, he had to get it together--
“What is it, Neal? Is it illegal? Were you really trying to get Chen to-” Peter’s brows had drawn together suspiciously, and he was frowning at Neal.
“No!” Neal’s protest was immediate and heartfelt. “No, Peter, I promise. I--I mean my friend--wasn’t going to use the information for anything illegal. It was just--just a favour.” It had been a dumb idea, anyway--Lionel knew that Neal worked here, would find out his name had been run--
“What did you need, Neal?” Peter’s voice was inexorable.
“I--”
“The names, Neal.”
“Peter, really--it was just one, and I can--”
“Why didn’t you ask Moz? Or did you, already? No, I can see from your face that you didn’t. Listen, Neal, I can get the name from Chen, or you can just tell me. Easy or hard, Neal. Up to you.”
And the thing was, Neal knew Peter would. Peter’s voice was still calm and low, despite the scolding note; no one else in the office even raised their head. Neal resisted the urge to close his eyes, resisted the churning of bile in his gut. He hadn’t eaten anything to bring up he told himself. Telling Peter wouldn’t mean--”Lionel Sanchez.”
“I’ll need to know why, Neal.” Peter’s voice was still calm, calm like he didn’t know, didn’t realize, didn’t understand--when everything inside Neal was screaming.
“I--I can’t tell you, but I p-promise, it’s nothing illegal.” Neal smiled, wide and convincing, hoping Peter had missed the stutter.
Peter was still a minute, looking at Neal. Then he stood up straight and said loudly. “Neal--we’re taking a break. Walk with me.”
“What?” Neal blinked.
“Right now.” Peter smiled, but his smile was--there was-- “We’re getting coffee. Walk with me.”
“A-all right.” Neal was confused, and nothing, not even Peter’s odd smile, made sense.
“Neal,” said Peter, once they were well out of the building, walking down the block and away from the coffee shop they usually went to, “you need to talk to me. Right now.”
“Okay, Peter, about what?” Neal grinned, kept the tone light and teasing. It was more effort than it should have been, all things being equal, but he needed to step up his game if he was going to salvage anything at all here.
Peter’s expression remained dead serious. “About what’s going on with you. It’s been over three weeks, and I let it go, but--” Peter stopped, and turned towards Neal. He looked upset. “Look, if you just want to break up with us--”
Neal was horrified. He couldn’t lose them--they were the only thing keeping him sane, and--“I don’t! No, Peter. I swear. It’s not that. I just--I have some stuff I need to work through.” He finished weakly, knowing it sounded lame.
“Neal, you know,” Peter sounded awkward but determined, “--you know that I’m here for you. You know that. But I --”
“I can’t tell you Peter,” interrupted Neal, almost gently, willing Peter to believe him. “It’s not illegal. It’s just--not your problem.” God, how could anyone not love Peter?
“You’re losing weight.” Peter’s voice was blunt.
“What?” asked Neal, startled by the sudden change in topic.
“You. You’re not eating. You look tired. Neal--we’re worried. Me and El. We’re worried about you.” Peter had stopped, turned to Neal, was looking him straight in the eye. Neal could see his concern, his--it wasn’t love, he didn’t deserve that, didn’t hope for the impossible, wouldn’t dare (after Kate, his mind whispered mockingly) wish for what couldn’t be, but Peter liked him, at least, Neal knew that Peter liked him--
“Oh, that’s sweet!” Neal said, teasingly, even though he knew Peter was absolutely serious. “But don’t be. You know I can take care of myself, and there’s nothing to worry about anyway; I’m completely fine, Peter.” Neal smiled broadly, made it confident and reassuring.
Peter’s face didn’t change except to look sadder and more worried. “That’s just it, Neal. You can’t. You are the most--” Peter closed his eyes, took a breath. “I miss you, Neal. Please.”
Neal didn’t know what to say. He almost always knew what to say, but words were failing him, so he fell back on what he’d said before. “I’m sorry, Peter. It’s--it’s for a friend. I can’t.”
************************
Neal was subdued as they walked back to the office, coffee in hand. Despite his blithe words, he seemed shaken after their conversation, and Peter tried not to let his satisfaction show. Good. He wanted Neal to consider whatever he was doing, to stop this. The thing with the treasure had been bad enough--Peter couldn’t stand it if Neal was trying to pull something like that again.
He’d run the name Neal had given him when he got back. If Neal was involved with something, the name would probably provide a good clue.
Unfortunately, when Peter got back, a couple of junior agents accosted him about a small statue missing from the MoMA, and then he had to attend the monthly meeting of department heads, and then Jones wanted to run something by him regarding a mortgage fraud scam case he was working on--and so it wasn’t until after lunch that he finally got a chance to sit down, close his office door, and run the name.
He was shocked at what he found.
He stared at the screen for a second, scrolling down, and down, and down. The information made his blood run cold. Neal was--if Neal, or even if someone Neal knew well was involved with this guy, it spelled trouble. Or worse.
He looked down at the bullpen, where Neal was hunched diligently over his desk, working away. Peter frowned. Diligently working at paperwork was always a sign that Neal was deeply upset. If this Sanchez character was connected to or worse, threatening someone Neal knew, Peter could understand why. He’d be upset too.
“Neal!” he rose from his desk to call out his window, pointing beckoningly. He watched as Neal rose obediently and sauntered up the short stairs to his door.
“You bellowed?” asked Neal drawlingly, lounging against the door frame with a fair measure of all his old insouciant charm.
“Close the door,” said Peter, not smiling. “Neal, I ran the name. If you do have a friend involved with Sanchez--I think you should come clean now.”
“I told you Peter,” Neal began, the expression on his face shifting slightly from the calculated nonchalance, “It’s for an old friend, and I can’t--”
“Neal! Neal, your friend is in some deep shit, if he’s involved with this Sanchez character. If you want to help him, if you want me to help him, you have to tell me everything now. Come on, Neal. Is it Alex?
“No!” said Neal, clearly alarmed. “No, Alex has nothing to do with this. Don’t get her involved, Peter.”
“Well, then, what?” asked Peter impatiently. “Moz? Kate? Neal, this guy doesn’t play games. He’s a killer and worse. And, from what I can tell, he’s got pull. He’s out a full five years earlier than he ought to be, allegedly for good behaviour, but the prison records--he probably should have been in a supermax, but he was in a medium security facility which makes no sense and whatever I can access, whatever hasn’t mysteriously disappeared, don’t back early release up at all. He shouldn’t be out, and yet he is. Neal, this guy is dangerous, and any connection with him isn’t safe. For anyone. Let me help. We can bring him in, and everyone wins.”
“What did he do?” asked Neal instead.
Peter sighed, but told him anyway. Maybe telling Neal what he’d found would scare him into confessing. “What hasn’t he done? He’s got mafia connections; he’s been implicated in murder, in human trafficking, in arms dealing. He’s bad news. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t, Peter,” repeated Neal, sounding almost desperate. “I told you. It’s not my business to tell. Listen,” he said suddenly, “why don’t we go out somewhere tonight? Just the three of us. Somewhere--somewhere far away, Peter.”
“Neal, you have a radius.” Peter’s voice was sobering. He wished, not for the first time, that the stakes were lower--for him, for Neal. That they didn’t need to be so careful. That they could just be.
“Please, Peter?” Neal begged outright. “Anywhere you want, It doesn’t even need to be fancy. Just somewhere not here.” It startled Peter. Neal rarely asked for anything, let alone begged.
“I can’t do that Neal, not without a reason,” said Peter, and he made his voice hard, forced himself to be hard. Sometimes, he hated who he’d become to Neal. “You know that.”
Neal looked away. “Okay. All right.” Neal was clearly trying to keep the defeat out of his tone. There was an awkward silence for a minute, as each man digested the stalemate neither of them wanted to be at.
“Neal,” said Peter, “why don’t you come over tonight instead? You haven’t done that for a really long time. El misses cooking for you--I just don’t have the same appreciation, she says. What do you say?” He let himself show his hope, and pleading, and everything he wanted to say but couldn’t.
But Neal looked right at Peter, his voice flat. “I’m sorry, Peter, I’d promised Moz--”
Peter’s couldn’t help but show his hurt, his disappointed. “Sure, Neal. Sure. You never used to lie to me before, either.”
*********************************
That was the first time he’d ever absolutely lied to Peter, and it wasn’t even a good lie. Neal left Peter’s office, and sat at his desk, ignoring how shaky he felt, how his hands trembled. He told himself that Peter might be upset, but it would all work out. He hid his hands under the desk. He had things under control.
He just wished his stupid hands would stop trembling.
Days went by. Neal went to work and went home and kept his personal interactions with everyone, even Mozzie, at a minimum. He locked his doors; he jammed shut the windows; he painted large canvasses to hang in front of the glass. June made a couple of comments about the covered windows, but while she was obviously curious, she never asked. He spent as much time as he could at the office--he’d have tried to spend some nights there, but he knew that Peter was closely scrutinizing everything he did, and so he forced himself to go home to avoid further suspicion. He slept, when he had to, on a chair, like he’d done in detention, making sure he woke every half hour. He hoped that Lionel had forgotten, he worried that he was just planning something, he wondered if he would ever be able to let his guard down.
He stopped that train of thought in its tracks. This would end. He had to believe that this would end.
Days went by.
Days became a blur.
Peter came over to go over cold cases on a Tuesday night, while El had the girls over. He wanted to go through them quickly, but five hours and a six pack later, Peter was yawning and Neal was slurring. By the time Peter had started packing up to go home, Neal had fallen into bed without thinking. Peter ran his large hand over his hair, kissed his head, and told him to get some sleep.
He wasn’t sure what had woken him, but the clock read just a little after four and he was wide awake. He ignored the tears on his face and how his hands shook. He looked around. The apartment was still and familiar, moonlight streaming in through the clear glass doors. Despite that, despite the comfort of his own space and his own stuff, he wished sharply that he hadn’t told Peter to go home, that he had asked Peter to stay.
He hadn’t let Peter stay often, in the last few weeks. But sometimes--sometimes it would be too hard to force him to go. Sometimes--sometimes he told himself it made sense, that it wouldn’t help to let Peter get all suspicious. But sometimes--sometimes he knew it was because he was foolish, like he’d been with Kate, like he’d been when he’d gotten caught, so foolish that he just couldn’t help himself. He would have let Peter stay tonight, except Peter had really wanted to go home. What Peter had really wanted, all night, was for Neal to go with him.
After the last time, when he’d come home to the greeting card covered in pictures of cute golden lab puppies, simply a street name inside, he’d understood and promised aloud (because Lionel was probably listening, he knew everything, nowhere was safe) that he wouldn’t set foot in the Burkes’ home again. (Not until Lionel had gotten bored, had forgotten Neal, had moved on, had gone.)
It would happen, Neal knew. Until then, he just had to be careful. Careful and patient.
He crossed to the bathroom and used the toilet. Turning towards the sink to wash up, he turned on the tap, washed his hands and splashed water over his face. He reached out to grab a towel, and froze.
On the gleaming marble vanity, in June’s cut-glass crystal bowl beside the sink, was a pile of tiny bars of embossed French-milled lavender-scented soaps. A little note, still on vellum, said “For you. I know how you like to be clean.”
Neal clenched his hands into fists but it didn’t help. He leaned over the sink and spat the bile out, forced himself to take small sips of water between the gagging and the spasms until it stopped. He knew it would subside, eventually. It always had before.
Peter had once told him that often people that witnessed traumatic things forgot details, which was why working in Violent Crimes was an exercise in fits and starts and false leads. Neal didn’t remember that first night, and for that he was grateful--but even years later, his memory of what happened after was clear and sharp.
When he came to, he was--he hurt, and he didn’t care to think too hard about how and why and where. There were unnamable things in his hair, sticking to his skin, and that was worst of all. He tensed to rise--
“Where you going, baby?” Heavy arm across his body.
He went instantly still. Struggling would only make him angry. “Nowhere. Just--the sink. I want--”
“You’re not going anywhere. I like you like this. Covered in me.” Possessive and dangerous, Neal recognized that dark tone. He’d just never expected anyone to direct it at him.
“Please.” He had to, he needed to--
“Don’t argue. You know how I hate that. If you’re good, I’ll let you have a shower tomorrow morning, maybe.”
Oh God oh God he had to be allowed a shower tomorrow, he couldn’t--he couldn’t go through the day like this--
He subsided instantly. “Okay. I’m sorry.” Made his voice as small and contrite as he could.
That’s okay, baby,” and his voice was full of smugness. “You’ll learn. Don’t worry.”
And so he’d tried. He remembered trying so hard, harder than he’d ever tried (than he’d ever had to try) for Peter. And he was good, very good, all the rest of that night and all morning. It didn’t matter. It would be three days before Neal, the bruises not yet faded from his pale skin, dark and vivid and colourful for all the other inmates to see and mock (grateful that Kate wasn’t due for a visit, she couldn’t see him like this, he wouldn’t see her like this no matter how badly he needed those few minutes of her laugh and her smile and her beauty eclipsing the gray of his existence), was permitted to finally wash the horror from his hair.
And that didn’t matter either, because before the lights went on the next morning, he was filthy once again.
Neal blinked in the bright lights of the bathroom. He splashed a handful of cold water on his face, and then stripped off his t-shirt and pyjama bottoms before stepping into the shower and turning it on as hot as it would go.
He forced himself out after a while, not acknowledging he’d been in there almost forty-five minutes.
Ten minutes later, he had to take another shower.
He’d just finished his fourth shower when Peter’s call came through, his voice impatient. Neal forced himself to put on his suit and hurry downstairs to the car.
As he buckled his seatbelt, Neal tried not to think about the filth on his skin, how he was probably getting it on Peter’s clean seats. As Peter weaved through the city traffic, Neal breathed through the urge to run back home and shower.
********************
Wednesday ended up being a long and uneventful day, for which Neal was grateful. There were meetings where he could distract himself with distracting others, there was paperwork he could lose himself in, there were witnesses to observe and interview. By the time evening fell, he was dead tired. He couldn’t, however, bring himself to actually go home when Peter ordered him out of the office--even though he loved his loft. Not with the postcard in the bottom drawer of his nightstand (he didn’t know why he’d kept it) and the bars of soap he’d thrown a hand towel over to hide from view but hadn’t been able to bring himself to touch, not even to get rid of them. So he went out. He wandered the city--his city, the city that never slept, the city he loved. He walked all over the city. He stayed out all night. He forced himself not to sleep.
Watching the sun rise as he walked along the river, imagining he was on the crest of the Brooklyn Bridge, Neal finally forced himself to turn towards home. He had no reason to call in sick--he didn’t want to make Peter even more suspicious than he already was--and so he needed a shower and a change of clothes before Peter came by to pick him up in the morning. By the time Neal walked back, it was well after six. His feet hurt--Italian leather was not meant for hard walking, and he could feel the blisters as he trudged up the stairs. Reaching for the door knob, intuition made him pause. He stopped dead outside his door.
The door--the door he’d locked yesterday morning--that door was slightly ajar. Neal caught his breath. He should’ve--he knew there was a chance--there was a gun inside, but he hadn’t--
He could hear movement from the inside, and then, “Neal?” called out a voice, and he froze, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t--
Neal took a breath. He recognized the voice. It was Elizabeth. He felt suddenly shaky, and forced himself to get a grip. Quickly. He pushed open the door and stumbled inside clumsily, blinking against the brightness.
The lights were on, the sun was glowing through his canvasses (streaked in shades of blacks and grays and midnight blue splashed over with vermillion, and his heart sank, because he hadn’t really thought about what he’d been painting, hadn’t thought how it would look to someone who’d cared to see), and there was breakfast laid out on the table. Elizabeth and Peter were sitting down at his little table, and they had clearly been sipping coffee together, although they both turned when they saw him. He felt like an intruder in his own home.
He plastered a wide grin on his face, not allowing his discomfort to show. “Peter. Elizabeth!” he greeted cheerfully. “Good morning! How’d you get in? What’s the occasion?”
***********
It was Elizabeth who first noticed the shadow under the door, as they waited. When Peter had gotten home sans Neal, despite their plan--well, after that neither of them had been able to sleep. They hadn’t seen Neal for weeks, and it was no longer something they could convince themselves was a passing phase, or Neal’s eccentricities. Neal’s behaviour--his lying, his stuttering, his weight loss--none of it could be dismissed any longer. By five, they’d made breakfast and were piling into the car to drive into the city to June’s home--Elizabeth’s plan, because Peter would just as soon have brought Neal to them (after a brief suggestion that maybe Elizabeth could just take Neal out for lunch, because she was better with these things than him, but El’s withering look had quickly put paid to that idea)--but they were both on the same page. They needed to confront Neal. Whatever was going on with him, they needed to sort it--and them--out, because clearly they couldn’t go on as they were.
The shadow paused, and nothing happened. “Neal?” called out Elizabeth, questioningly.
Another beat, and then Neal was throwing open the door and smiling his trademark blinding grin at them, wishing them a good morning as if there was nothing unusual about them showing up at this hour on a weekday morning. As if they both unexpectedly came over to Neal’s rooms in June’s home at odd hours all the time.
Well, sometimes Peter did, he acknowledged, come over when Neal wasn’t exactly expecting him. But not at a quarter to six. Thank goodness for June’s efficient and discreet staff.
“You are. June’s housekeeper gave us a key, and we’ve been waiting for you since six. Where have you been?” demanded Peter, standing up.
“Relax, Peter, I’ve stayed within my radius--” Neal began placatingly.
“That’s not what I meant, Neal!” yelled Peter. “It’s almost six thirty in the morning, you’re wearing yesterday’s suit, and you clearly haven’t slept--”
Elizabeth shot a warning glance at Peter, putting a hand on his, and pulling him back down to the table. Peter let himself be tugged, making a visible effort to calm down, but not entirely succeeding.
“We’re just worried about you, sweetie,” Elizabeth said more calmly, her voice coloured by concern, still looking a warning at Peter.
“Aww, don’t be,” Neal smiled, his face conveying affection and good humour. As if he had no idea why they’d be concerned, as if the whole thing was entirely silly. “How come?”
Tired and frustrated and worried out of his mind, wanting to fix things if only Neal would bloody let him, Peter saw red. “Cut the crap, Caffrey. You’re not eating, you’re avoiding us, and the few times I’ve stayed over because we were working late--well, I’ve seen children who’ve seen horror movies sleep better than you did.” As he spoke, the words tumbling from him in uncontrollable anger, he watched as Neal’s face became paler and paler. It wasn’t the effect he intended.
Peter sharply regretted coming. He was terrible at these kinds of things, but El--El had insisted. He didn’t know what to do and now--now he’d just made things worse. He felt in over his head, and more scared than he’d ever remembered being.
“I--didn’t sleep?” Neal asked in a broken voice, his normally smooth tenor almost a full octave higher.
“No, sweetie. Last time, Peter told me you were restless all night, and kept saying ‘No’. You didn’t wake up, but you weren’t exactly peaceful.” Elizabeth, thank God, her voice soothing and concerned, her words tactful and leaving out anything that would spook Neal further--exactly how Peter was supposed to have said it but hadn’t.
Peter couldn’t stop himself from adding awkwardly, hesitantly, in the heavy silence that followed, “And when I touch you--Neal, you never used to jump four feet in the air before.”
“I--” stammered Neal. “I’m sorry, you just--” He was clearly shaken, and looked pale as a ghost. Peter couldn’t help himself. He moved forward, putting a hand under Neal’s elbow, all but pushing him into a chair.
“You don’t get startled, Neal,” he said gently, kneeling at his feet so Neal had to look down at him. “Not like that. Talk to us; we love you, and we want to help.”
“I can’t--” began Neal, shaking his head.
“You can,” interrupted Peter. “This is exactly how it works. You get to tell us, and we get to help you. It’s easy.”
Neal looked between them for a moment, blue eyes wide, poised on the edge of--
“No!” Neal stood up and went and stood on the balcony, breathing hard. Elizabeth and Peter exchanged looks, at a loss, before Peter got up and went outside.
“Neal.” He stood just behind Neal, close enough to touch but not touching. “Come on, buddy, it’s just me. Just you and me. Talk to me.” Neal’s back was to him, the wind playing riot in his soft curls.
When Neal spoke, it was barely a whisper, and had Peter been standing any further away, he would not have heard the words above the wind. “I know--I know you think that--” Neal was shivering, and he could barely get the words out.
It was a beautiful day, and Neal was shivering.
Peter couldn’t stand it. He pulled Neal close, and wrapped him in his arms, before saying softly, “I don’t think anything, Neal, except how much I hate to see you hurting. Let me fix it. Let me at least try.”
Neal was like marble in his arms, stiff and cold and unyielding. But Neal stood still; he didn’t make any effort to break free from the hold.
Peter held his breath, and held on to Neal, and just waited.
“He’s out.” Peter felt Neal relax, just a fraction, at the admission.
The very confusing admission. “Who’s out?” Peter had no clue.
“Lionel.” Of course. This was beyond cryptic. He could maybe ask Diana--
“I don’t follow.” Treat it like an interrogation.
“Lionel--Lionel liked me. In prison.” Peter’s blood ran cold.
Sanchez.
Sanchez, according to the records he’d had, had been released from the last maximum security facility he’d been transferred to in upstate New York almost six months ago. Sanchez’s probation had expired two months after that.
“You were in protective custody, Neal. I knew it would be harder on you, but I insisted because I knew the risks otherwise, so how did he get to know you at all?” Knowing Neal, he’d probably found a way to--
“I don’t know,” said Neal quietly. “They just put him in with me one day. Said they were short of space.”
Peter wanted, in that moment, to kill something. To smash, to break, to destroy. They’d put Sanchez--Sanchez, with his record, with his almost two hundred and fifty pounds, together in an eight by six foot cell with Neal--
“What do you mean, he liked you?” Neal could charm the birds from the trees, if he wanted; maybe he’d meant--
“You know what I mean,” said Neal.
Peter almost couldn’t stand to think it, not without being violently ill, but he forced the words out anyway. “Neal--has he, did he--”
“It’s not important, Peter,” murmured Neal, and he would have waved his hand dismissively, Peter was sure, if Peter hadn’t been holding him so tightly. Peter wanted to protest, to argue-- because it did matter, it was important--but he bit his tongue in favour of allowing Neal to continue. “But he told me, the day I left, that he’d find me, one day. And he has. He knows what I like, and he’s been sending me gifts.” Neal was relaxing by fractions, leaning into the warmth and comfort of Peter’s arms, but he still hadn’t stopped shivering. Peter wrapped him up even more tightly, supporting that slender frame.
“He’s what?” Peter burst out unthinkingly. Now was not the time to yell at Neal, he reminded himself. He took a breath, trying to think logically. Like an investigator. “When did this start?”
“About three months ago,” murmured Neal, tensing slightly at Peter’s expected reaction.
Peter almost gave it to him. Three months? Three months? Peter bit down on his yell. Shouting at Neal wouldn’t help, not when Neal was shaking like a leaf in his arms, shouting would lose the precious ground he’d gained. But he had to ask.
“Neal ... Neal, why didn’t you tell me?”
“You said--” and Peter could hear the tremor in Neal’s voice he was trying so hard to hide, “I know you think I deserved--”
“God, Neal,” Peter said, cutting him off. “Not that,” Peter said with anger and disgust. Never that. He took another breath. Think like an investigator. He forced his voice to sound cool and professional. “So tell me--what’s special about this guy?”
“What?” Neal sounded startled, and--there was a note of something else in it, but Peter tried not to focus on it. Figure this out, Peter, he told himself.
“You charm everyone else. Big, small--I’ve never seen anyone you couldn’t charm. What’s different?”
“I c-couldn’t. I tr-tried--” Neal was stuttering, now, and the trembling was getting worse. Peter shut down the line of questioning, mentally kicking himself. Clearly, Neal was terrified, not thinking clearly and misconstruing his words. Asking him these kinds of questions right now wouldn’t help.
He tugged Neal closer, tucked his cold hands between their bodies to warm them. “Okay, listen. You’re in June’s house, you’re safe, you got that?”
“No,” said Neal wildly, “No, he knows I’m here--he’s been in here--”
“He’s what?” Peter kept his voice calm with effort, but he knew he sounded cold and dangerously angry. He wasn’t sure that was far from the truth. “Neal, Neal, baby, talk to me. How do you know?”
“He’s--left me things--near, near my bed--came in while I was sleeping--”
Peter closed his eyes, fighting for patience, for calm, for reason. Why the hell hadn’t Neal come to him? “All right. Okay. We’re getting you out of here, then, we’ll take you to -- “
“No! You can’t take me to your home! Elizabeth, and--” Panic was making Neal babble, and Peter stopped him with a kiss. Neal was freaking out, and he needed him to calm down. He wasn’t sure it helped, wasn’t sure about anything, but it did shut Neal up.
“Okay, okay, not home. We’ll find you a safe house. We have them, you know, we can--”
“No!” and Neal was frantic now, pulling away from Peter’s hold and struggling desperately against it when he couldn’t, “I can’t, because then Hughes will--”
“Neal!” Peter half-shouted, giving Neal a shake. “You need to trust me. I’m going to keep you safe, I am, and I promise to honour your privacy, but you need to trust me. You need to listen to me. You’ve told me I’m the only one you trust; I need you to make good on that now, and do what I tell you for once. Got it?”
“I--Peter, I--”
Peter was feeling sick. Neal was a traumatized wreck--how had he missed it? For days and weeks, this man, this Sanchez, had been destroying their Neal, silently, methodically, and Neal had come to work and come to dinner and come to their bed without a word, and yet, underneath, he had been slowly disintegrating. This wasn’t the confident, cock-sure Neal who had sent champagne to a surveillance van, reveling in his invulnerability. No, this Neal was --
--victimized. And whatever else he might have once had--whoever else he had, he had clearly been dealing, or trying to deal, with this alone.
Well, screw that shit. He had Peter now--and Elizabeth. And all of the White Collar Division. Hell, with the way Caffrey had charmed everyone--and assisted half their departments--he probably had the whole damn FBI behind him.
No way was that scumbag going to hurt a hair on Neal’s head. Ever again.
Mind made up, Peter felt much calmer, and more at peace. He pulled Neal closer still, kissing the fine hair on his temple, repeatedly. He felt Neal relax again by fractions. “Let’s go inside, hmm?”
“Peter--Peter, don’t, don’t tell Elizabeth--don’t--” Damn, Neal still had the shakes.
“Okay, okay, are you sure? She would want to know. She can help, Neal.” Probably better than him. He was crap at knowing what to say, crap at trying to be comforting. And Neal really, really needed to be soothed right now.
“No. No one. No one should know, please--” He couldn’t resist the plea in Neal’s voice, so he avoided it.
“Does Mozzie know?”
A quick shake of the head.
“Shit, Neal, he’s your lawyer, he could have--” Peter was trying not to be angry with Neal, he really was--he knew all about misdirected anger, but--
“NO! No one! You can’t tell him. Promise me, please.”
“Shh, shh, all right, all right, no one will know.” Neal was shaking again. Peter, at this point, would have promised Neal the moon if it would have gotten him to calm down. “Come inside, all right?” Peter tugged a little, and thankfully, Neal didn’t resist. Elizabeth, sitting at the table fiddling with her phone, looked up at them as they came in. Peter shook his head slightly, and she didn’t ask. Peter closed his eyes for a second, gathering strength.
What a mess.
“El,” asked Peter, steeling himself, “did you have any plans today?”
*************************************************
Part 2 is up here.
**********************************
Title: Rarely Pure
Author: Ivorysilk
Rating: R
Summary: Mozzie had once quoted Oscar Wilde at him, stating, “The truth is rarely pure and never simple.” He hadn’t believed Moz then--he'd been young, and foolish, and had still believed that truth was like art--simple and pure. He'd really believed that somehow, both would eventually set him free. But that had been before Kate, before Peter, before prison. That had been a long, long time ago.
(Originally written for the anonymous kink meme, for for my own prompt, as well as for the "blackmail" square on my h/c bingo card.) Peter/Eizabeth/Neal trio-ing.
Spoilers: Not really. All the canon is vague, and the characterization is bendy to fit my own nefarious schemes.
Warnings (highlight to read): Language. References to past physical and sexual assault, prison nastiness, and stalking behaviour. Adult themes and suchlike.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, or this universe. I am writing this for my own self-indulgent fun, and because, like Neal, I clearly covet other people's things.
Many thanks to TeaOtter, for her patience and encouragement and her insightful assistance without which, I'd never have finished. Thanks to rabidchild67, for the quick and thorough beta, and for gracefully and graciously tolerating my last-minute demands and deadline. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own.
Comments, positive or negative, are treasured. Thanks for reading.
Part One / Part Two / Part Three
*************************************************
Neal had just returned from a coffee run--latte for himself, double shot espresso for Jones, mocca chino for Diana and regular plain coffee with double cream and sugar (don’t tell Elizabeth) for Peter--when he found an unmarked plain brown paper package on his desk. Not thinking anything of it--his birthday was coming up and he’d been dropping hints all week--he tore into it with delight.
Inside was an origami rose. Made of stiff red paper, and barely recognizable--but definitely a red paper rose. Neal recognized it instantly.
“Hey, what are you doing?” [He could feel his eyes on him, the sour smell of his breath and the sharpness of stale sweat as he moved closer.]
“Folding paper.” [Making a wish.]
“Hey, that’s that ori-whatever thingy, right? I’ve seen you, you keep leaving bits of paper everywhere? Usually birds, right?” [Eager and stupid, as if Neal had wanted to be noticed.]
“Cranes.” [He’d done it for the legend. For the memory. For the hope. One thousand cranes.]
“Right. Whatever. What difference does it make?” [None. None at all. No one is coming, and no one will hear.]
“There’s an ancient Japanese legend about cranes.” [She’d taught him that summer, patient and kind; the arts of a geisha being lost to time and convenience, to modernism and mechanization.]
“Don’t talk to me as if I’m stupid, you pansy-ass. You’re mine, now. You do as I tell you. Where’d you learn to do that, anyway?” [Impatient, and cruel; he had to be careful, careful, there was no escape, and no help here.]
“In Japan.” [In Osaka, with its towering sky-scrapers and noisy streets and quiet temples far, far from New York, from Manhattan, from home.]
“Teach me how.” [He can’t, not him; he has no poetry in his soul, he has no eye for art. He remembers teaching others: Mozzie in a dingy apartment, lying low one long winter, making vivid paper gardens while discussing wine and world peace; Alex, in the afterglow, her skin warm and her hair soft, naked but precise while Neal traced the patterns on her skin and breathed the instructions in her ear; Kate, who had laughed at him and told him she didn’t care about ancient Japanese arts when she had all of Europe to explore, but whose delicate fingers had made perfect folds anyway--]
“I don’t--” [He said it without thinking, before he could check himself.]
“Are you saying no to me, baby? You know what happens when you say no to me.” [No, no, no, he had, had to be more careful.]
“I’ll teach you if you want.” [Smiling and subservient, had to look the part, had to make him believe--]
“That’s better. I knew you’d be more fun than Josh, baby.”
Neal shuddered at the feeling of a hard, restraining hand gripping his shoulder, shuddered at the feel of clumsy, grimy fingers carding through his hair, running over his scalp. He stared at the rose, the paper petals mangled and sloppily formed, but he had to praise it anyway, tell him how brilliant--.
He blinked hard.
The White Collar offices faded back into his vision, with the accompanying sound of typing, rapid-fire telephone conversations, doors opening and files being shuffled. He hadn’t been paying attention. He had to--
Neal crumpled the rose in one hand, and crossed over the floor to the kitchen area, across the bullpen from his desk, to drop the wad of paper in the garbage can there. He emptied the coffee filter over it, obscuring it from sight with the damp coffee grinds. He forced his breathing to even out, forced a smile back into place. He desperately wanted a shower.
”I’ll find you, baby. When I’m out, when I'm free; don’t you worry. I’ll find you.”
***
He’d been careless. He’d been stupid. He knew that complacency killed; Mozzie had drummed it into him and before Mozzie, life had taught him the same. He should have been following, he should have known when he’d been released. He should have have known, even if he hadn’t received the postcard. It had been almost five years, though, and his life now--his life now was so far from the horror it had been for those months that he’d all but forgotten.
Correction. A good con artist didn’t lie to himself. He hadn’t forgotten, he’d actively tried to block it out.
So he’d become careless, and that was--that was dangerous. He needed to make sure--the first rule was, you have to make sure to protect yourself. Because no one else will.
It wasn’t so entirely true, anymore. Peter would protect him, when he could. Moz too. Jones, Diana, Elizabeth--he now had a whole contingent of people who would protect him.
But he couldn’t let that make him complacent either. Because while he knew they would protect him--he also knew that went only so far. Only so far. Everyone had their limit and he--he wasn’t sure where this would fall. Or if it would be a deal-breaker for them--if, having heard what he’d been and what he’d done, if once he’d confessed, they’d just let him fall. They knew of many things they thought he’d done; this was so beyond anything they could have imagined of him, he couldn’t predict how they’d react. And he wouldn’t risk it. Besides, he couldn’t--he just couldn’t imagine having that conversation. He was Neal Caffrey. He was not--that--that--
He wasn’t. And if he never told anyone, and if he was careful, no one would ever need to know what he had become for a few short months a long, long time ago.
********************
That evening, he was due at Elizabeth’s and Peter’s house for dinner. He had thought about begging off, but then Peter would ask questions, and Elizabeth would call and be disappointed, and not going was more trouble than simply going. Besides, he did want to see them, and he didn’t want--didn’t want him to be able to encroach on his life. Not now. Not ever again.
He could do this, he told himself. And he knew, once he arrived and had kissed Elizabeth and been kissed by her and then by Peter, he knew it had been the right choice. Satchmo was soft and warm at his knee, Elizabeth was laughing in his ear, and Peter was looking at him with that combination of exasperation and affection that never failed to make Neal feel wanted and warm and cared about.
And right then, he needed to feel wanted and warm and cared about. Neal relaxed, he focussed on the sense of coziness and acceptance and affection (he tried not to think of words like home and belonging and love), and he almost forgot about the origami rose.
This, this was what he needed, he told himself, one souffle and two servings of creme caramel and three Keep looking at/stop looking at my wife like that and I’ll toss you into prison and suchlike jokes later, he was kissing Peter fiercely while El dropped gentle kisses at the nape of his neck. This was who he was now, he told himself, as Peter’s hands spanned his hips and El’s fingers deftly undid his tie, while he leaned forward and back to help them as they carefully but urgently tugged and pushed. He was fine, and he was safe, and he was whole.
Afterwards, at night, curled up next to Peter, his head on Peter’s chest while Peter sleepily played with his hair, he forced himself to let his muscles go lax, his breathing to even out. Everything was fine, he told his idiot head. You’re safe and he’s far, far away. A stupid piece of paper can’t touch you, can’t hurt you, can’t--.
Elizabeth, on Peter’s other side, had already dropped off to sleep.
It was too quiet. It was too dark. Even the presence of Elizabeth and Peter near at hand didn’t--
“Neal,” said Peter, his quiet voice breaking the silence like a knife, “you know, if you tell me what’s wrong, I might be able to help.”
Neal stiffened instantly. “What makes you think--” he began, raising his head and conjuring up a smile he was far away from feeling. He thought he’d done so well, acting normally while distracting Peter and El from any closer examination (not that there had been anything to examine, he’d done a good job, he had), Peter shouldn’t have suspected--
“Neal.” And Peter’s voice was disappointed and rebuking, all at the same time. Neal hated him a little for it. He ignored the little pang his heart gave at the thought that Peter knew him that well, cared enough to know him that well, cared so much unlike --
“It’s ridiculous,” said Neal aloud. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.” It would be worse if you knew.
He knew telling Peter wouldn’t help, would just--complicate things, had the potential to backfire, and was a risk Neal wasn’t willing to take. But he was tempted, he was so tempted--
“Clearly, it’s not that ridiculous, not if it’s upsetting you,” said Peter seriously, his voice still quiet. “Maybe I can help, Neal.” It’s too late now, there’s nothing you can do, nothing--
“Do I get immunity?” asked Neal, slightly teasing.
“Do you need immunity?” asked Peter, not.
Neal sighed. Didn’t hurt to let Peter think what he wanted. “Thanks, Peter,” he answered, deliberately misleading. “It’s nothing. I’ll deal with it; don’t worry.” You don’t need to know this. He can’t touch me now. He *can’t*.
“Okay, but Neal--” and the tone implied that Peter wasn’t fooled, wasn’t distracted, and how had he lost his touch so badly?--”whatever it is, the offer is always open, okay. I love you. You know that.”
And Neal wanted to believe him. So badly. But he knew better. You say you love me, but it’s not the same, not like El. You say you love me, but you don’t trust me, and I know what that means, you’ll think I deserved it, you’ll tell me I--
He stopped thinking about it. He couldn’t. He appreciated the thought, though. He kissed Peter, lightly, and settled back down. “Yes, Peter,” he said. “I know.”
* *
The next morning, he found a white paper swan in a package on his desk. There was no postmark yet again, but the handwriting on the paper was distinctive.
Neal reminded himself that he was in a federal building. He reminded himself that he was surrounded by F.B.I. agents who could and would shoot a gun to protect him. He rationalized that the fact that he was being sent packages meant that he hadn’t been able to get inside, past security, the security of a federal building.
He told himself he was safe.
Then he went up to the rooftop and burned the heavy white paper with a lighter filched from Jones. Then he ran back inside, found an empty bathroom, and threw up the plain eggs and exotic fruit he’d eaten at the Burkes’ table that morning. By the time he emerged, sauntering back to his desk while chewing gum and smiling, his tie still perfectly knotted in a double Windsor, the swan was simply ash and memory.
He ignored the strange look Diana gave him.
He told himself he was safe.
* *
He knew he should’ve kept up--it was easier than starting from scratch--but still, he made some inquiries, discreetly. It would have been easier to ask Moz, or even Peter--but he couldn’t, and so he was forced to do it on his own. He reminded himself that this was what he’d done, back before there had been a Mozzie or a Peter or an F.B.I office as his almost-ally.
But he wasn’t successful. No one had heard of him, no one knew if he was in or out or anywhere. He was a ghost. He couldn’t find anything.
It was more likely, he knew, that none of his contacts were talking. He knew that Mozzie would have been able to find out. Knew Moz was way more thorough, had more sources, more connections, more leverage.
He couldn’t ask.
He knew that he could just ask someone to run the name--take the chance, even if Peter found out. Knew that then he would know for sure, would know the official records and whatever address was on file. Would know the terms of any sentence, what the charges were, what the suspicions were, how dangerous he was thought to be.
He wouldn’t ask. Instead, he burned the papers and tried to forget.
Over the next few days and weeks, however, it became harder to forget. There was more origami--a tulip, a rabbit, a diamond, a frog. Then there were cards--sappy, ridiculous greeting cards of sunsets and flowers and butterflies, with ridiculous sentiments--I miss you, I long for you, I love you.
At first, they were simply mailed to the office, in plain packages with no postmark or return address. And then--and then they were left in front of June’s front door, without packaging, just addressed, in that same broad loopy writing, to “Neal”.
It kept like that for a while. Cards, notes, letters. Fine paper, fine ink. He started avoiding Elizabeth and Peter’s home, worried that he would find them, terrified that he already had. Then, once he received confirmation of that, he began avoiding Elizabeth and Peter after work altogether. Most of the time, it was easy--Peter kept asking him to come to lunch or dinner, and he usually wasn’t hungry. He thought about inviting them over to June’s, but that seemed like a selfish, risky idea, exposing them for the sake of his need for comfort. Peter stayed over once or twice anyway, because Neal couldn’t bring himself to kick him out properly, rationalizing his behavior in a thousand ways. On those nights, Neal actually slept well. But he could never bring himself to ask.
As it was, he worried about June’s staff. He worried about Cindy. He worried about June. He wanted to warn them, but had no idea what to say. Instead, he convinced himself that they were safe. That he didn’t want them. They were safe.
He wasn’t sure they were.
He knew he wasn’t eating enough, lately. With everything else, however, forcing himself to eat when he didn’t want to just seemed like more effort than it was worth. He was dealing with the situation, and he’d find a balance. He just needed a little time.
But then--then there were the notes. On thick vellum, expensive and decorated, handwritten and inserted into art-house cards--Monet and Degas and Rembrandt. Notes that spoke of longing, of love, of forever. Notes that made promises and talked of plans.
It freaked him out. He had trouble sleeping, remembering. He longed for Peter and Elizabeth--just one night, safe in their bed. Maybe then he could sleep. He wondered if it would be too risky, just once. Peter was a federal agent. Surely he wouldn’t attack a federal agent. Surely he wouldn’t invade his home. Surely even he wasn’t so crazy.
But he knew that such things had happened before. He knew that Peter had decided on White Collar so he wouldn’t have to look over his shoulder at home. Knew that Peter went home to relax, and let down his guard, and not be a federal agent for a while. And so it was too risky. Because Neal knew that he couldn’t rely on him, not for reason, not for logic. Not for anything.
And then the notes began to be left in his room. He locked the door--even got Mozzie to change the locks, invented some excuse that Moz didn’t entirely buy--but it didn’t help. There were notes left on his doorknob, stuck outside the French doors, left with his mail on the table. He told himself that the staff had been bribed, had brought them up. It was careless, but Neal didn’t ask to make sure. Didn’t question, didn’t confirm. It was careless, and he knew that men had died for less.
He didn’t ask.
He knew that this was a courtship. Back in prison, there hadn’t been this level of kindness, of courtesy, of care. Probably, probably there were terms of probation, something that couldn’t be violated. Maybe even a tracking anklet. This was harmless, he wasn’t even infatuated, he was just playing around because he could, because Neal was letting him, because he’d promised and it didn’t do, in the criminal world, to be known for empty threats. Neal told himself this would be over soon.
But it didn’t feel like a courtship. It felt like he was being stalked. It felt like he was being hunted.
Peter made another joke about prison, and Neal couldn’t hide the revulsion on his face. Couldn’t hide how he went stiff and panicky at the thought of being back in that room and--
“I’m sorry, Neal. It never used to bother you, not like this.”
“It always bothered me, Peter.”
“I just need you to be careful. To remember the consequences. You do that, I stop with the reminders.”
“I promise you, Peter--I never forget.”
And then finally, there was the postcard left on his nightstand. Cowper’s painting of the four queens finding the sleeping Lancelot.
The postcard, left on his nightstand, in his loft, in his locked room. The postcard which he found when he woke up in the morning. The postcard which had most definitely not been there the night before.
Neal started to shake. He felt cold, and nauseous, and all the rationalizations in the world of how he was safe and how this was crazy and how this would all soon be over didn’t help.
Neal reached for the card with a trembling hand, turning it over. The words, in that same loopy writing, blurred. But the words didn’t matter.
Because this note was signed.
Signed with his name, in liquid ink, the name that Neal had tried so hard to forget.
Love, Lionel.
* *
Lionel had been transferred on a Tuesday. He remembered that.
They’d put him in a cell with Neal that Tuesday afternoon, after processing, because they’d been short for space--it was Christmas time, and crime always went up at Christmas, for all the obvious reasons. Christmas was always harder in prison, though. When they’d told him about the temporary cellmate, Neal had swallowed his slight trepidation and looked forward to the company. Lionel was chatting with the guards when he’d arrived, and when the guards left, he’d sat on Neal’s bunk and smiled.
Neal was good at reading people. Sometimes, though--sometimes he made mistakes.
The first night had been the worst. Neal had eventually passed out. He really didn’t remember much of it aside from that anyway, except in dreams, and for that he was grateful.
He worked at forgetting the rest.
* *
Neal checked every corner of the apartment. There was nothing there. Just the apartment, with its hidden rooms and small but modern bathroom and kitchenette. He could hear, faintly, the household bustling downstairs along with the call of the few pigeons that had made their way to the terrace.
He didn’t know when Lionel had gotten in. He didn’t know when Lionel had gotten out. It frightened him more than he could say that he’d slept through his “visit”. It worried him that Lionel had--had come and gone, had had Neal at his mercy, but had then left without apparently touching him.
There had been days, in those weeks and months, that Lionel hadn’t touched him. Had Neal frightened and on edge, but had left Neal entirely alone. Those days had almost been the worst--Lionel knew all about anticipation and heightening fear. Except the culmination of that fear had not been anti-climactic, because Lionel always made sure it was worth it for him. Despite the fear and the anxiety and the nausea--the wait was definitely better than what came after.
Neal tried not to think about what Lionel was planning now. Tried to tell himself that he hadn’t done anything, because he couldn’t, anymore. Not without repercussions. Not without consequence.
But who knew if that were true? It’s not like Neal was going to go to the police. It’s not like they would believe him and, even if they did--what were they going to do? Women were harassed and stalked all the time in broad daylight, and no one did much about it.
He wouldn’t go to Moz--Moz would just tell Neal to run, although where and how were questionable, and Peter? He just--he couldn’t. Peter apparently had no problem with Neal going back to prison, and as for the details ... Peter already thought Neal had enough sexual hangups and Neal couldn’t imagine telling Peter there was some other guy for whom he did anything asked of him without question or hesitation. He didn’t want to have that conversation. He just--he couldn’t.
He reassured himself that he didn’t have to, because the mere thought sent him into a panic. He needed this life safe. He needed this life to be untainted by everything that had come before. Adler had always encouraged him to remake himself--and he was trying. He was trying.
A breeze ruffled his hair and Neal looked up. The French doors were slightly ajar. Neal caught his breath. Here, at June’s, he never usually locked his doors, not until recently--and he still hadn’t thought to lock the terrace doors. The doors were exposed glass, and not covered in any way. It had never mattered. He’d always felt safe enough before.
He looked back at the postcard, lying on the floor beside the bed where he’d dropped it. He knew what had happened to Lancelot, when he’d been found sleeping. Somehow, though, Neal didn’t think he could count on a random princess to rescue him from this situation.
He looked at the time. 6:45 a.m. Peter was expecting him in by 9. It was grey and drizzly outside, a bleak Wednesday morning.
It had begun on Wednesday.
* * *
When Neal went into the office that morning, he didn’t try to put it off any longer. He found a probie, and asked. He didn’t take Peter’s name, and the probie--young, eager, not cautious enough, not for this line of work, not yet--didn’t ask.
He knew Peter would find out. He’d wanted to ask Jones or Diana, discreetly, because they’d probably keep his secret if he could spin it right, could just smile properly--but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Couldn’t, and didn’t think too hard or long about why.
He had expected to have a little while before Peter confronted him, but as it turned out all he got were fifty-three minutes.
“Neal,” said Peter, low beside his desk, and how had he not noticed Peter coming up? He didn’t visibly startle only because he’d spent years training himself out of such reflexes. “Why do you have Chen running names for you?”
“I--it was just a favour, Peter. I--I needed some information.” Get a grip, Caffrey! he bellowed at himself. He really hadn’t expected--
“Since when do the resources of the Federal Bureau of Investigation get to be your personal research center?” Peter’s voice was low and borderline angry.
Neal swallowed, raising pleading blue eyes, hoping against hope that for just this once, Peter would just let it go. “Please, Peter. It was important.”
“Then you should have come to me,” said Peter implacably. “Not Chen. I’ve told him he has to double-check everything you ask him to do with me or Jones or Diana first from now on. Do you know how inefficient that is?” Peter looked deeply annoyed. Neal understood. Peter liked his department to be efficient.
“I’m sorry, Peter. I won’t do it again. I promise.” Neal tried to pour sincerity into his voice while containing the panic in a little box. He’d figure something else out. He had to.
“I’ve told you--I need to be able to trust you, Neal. And that includes not going behind my back to my probie. Now, what did you need him to do?” Peter’s tone had changed into brisk problem-solving mode, and that ratcheted up Neal’s panic. He scrambled to figure out a way to contain this--
“Just--it’s not important. It doesn’t matter, Peter. I’ll--” Shit, he had to get it together--
“What is it, Neal? Is it illegal? Were you really trying to get Chen to-” Peter’s brows had drawn together suspiciously, and he was frowning at Neal.
“No!” Neal’s protest was immediate and heartfelt. “No, Peter, I promise. I--I mean my friend--wasn’t going to use the information for anything illegal. It was just--just a favour.” It had been a dumb idea, anyway--Lionel knew that Neal worked here, would find out his name had been run--
“What did you need, Neal?” Peter’s voice was inexorable.
“I--”
“The names, Neal.”
“Peter, really--it was just one, and I can--”
“Why didn’t you ask Moz? Or did you, already? No, I can see from your face that you didn’t. Listen, Neal, I can get the name from Chen, or you can just tell me. Easy or hard, Neal. Up to you.”
And the thing was, Neal knew Peter would. Peter’s voice was still calm and low, despite the scolding note; no one else in the office even raised their head. Neal resisted the urge to close his eyes, resisted the churning of bile in his gut. He hadn’t eaten anything to bring up he told himself. Telling Peter wouldn’t mean--”Lionel Sanchez.”
“I’ll need to know why, Neal.” Peter’s voice was still calm, calm like he didn’t know, didn’t realize, didn’t understand--when everything inside Neal was screaming.
“I--I can’t tell you, but I p-promise, it’s nothing illegal.” Neal smiled, wide and convincing, hoping Peter had missed the stutter.
Peter was still a minute, looking at Neal. Then he stood up straight and said loudly. “Neal--we’re taking a break. Walk with me.”
“What?” Neal blinked.
“Right now.” Peter smiled, but his smile was--there was-- “We’re getting coffee. Walk with me.”
“A-all right.” Neal was confused, and nothing, not even Peter’s odd smile, made sense.
“Neal,” said Peter, once they were well out of the building, walking down the block and away from the coffee shop they usually went to, “you need to talk to me. Right now.”
“Okay, Peter, about what?” Neal grinned, kept the tone light and teasing. It was more effort than it should have been, all things being equal, but he needed to step up his game if he was going to salvage anything at all here.
Peter’s expression remained dead serious. “About what’s going on with you. It’s been over three weeks, and I let it go, but--” Peter stopped, and turned towards Neal. He looked upset. “Look, if you just want to break up with us--”
Neal was horrified. He couldn’t lose them--they were the only thing keeping him sane, and--“I don’t! No, Peter. I swear. It’s not that. I just--I have some stuff I need to work through.” He finished weakly, knowing it sounded lame.
“Neal, you know,” Peter sounded awkward but determined, “--you know that I’m here for you. You know that. But I --”
“I can’t tell you Peter,” interrupted Neal, almost gently, willing Peter to believe him. “It’s not illegal. It’s just--not your problem.” God, how could anyone not love Peter?
“You’re losing weight.” Peter’s voice was blunt.
“What?” asked Neal, startled by the sudden change in topic.
“You. You’re not eating. You look tired. Neal--we’re worried. Me and El. We’re worried about you.” Peter had stopped, turned to Neal, was looking him straight in the eye. Neal could see his concern, his--it wasn’t love, he didn’t deserve that, didn’t hope for the impossible, wouldn’t dare (after Kate, his mind whispered mockingly) wish for what couldn’t be, but Peter liked him, at least, Neal knew that Peter liked him--
“Oh, that’s sweet!” Neal said, teasingly, even though he knew Peter was absolutely serious. “But don’t be. You know I can take care of myself, and there’s nothing to worry about anyway; I’m completely fine, Peter.” Neal smiled broadly, made it confident and reassuring.
Peter’s face didn’t change except to look sadder and more worried. “That’s just it, Neal. You can’t. You are the most--” Peter closed his eyes, took a breath. “I miss you, Neal. Please.”
Neal didn’t know what to say. He almost always knew what to say, but words were failing him, so he fell back on what he’d said before. “I’m sorry, Peter. It’s--it’s for a friend. I can’t.”
************************
Neal was subdued as they walked back to the office, coffee in hand. Despite his blithe words, he seemed shaken after their conversation, and Peter tried not to let his satisfaction show. Good. He wanted Neal to consider whatever he was doing, to stop this. The thing with the treasure had been bad enough--Peter couldn’t stand it if Neal was trying to pull something like that again.
He’d run the name Neal had given him when he got back. If Neal was involved with something, the name would probably provide a good clue.
Unfortunately, when Peter got back, a couple of junior agents accosted him about a small statue missing from the MoMA, and then he had to attend the monthly meeting of department heads, and then Jones wanted to run something by him regarding a mortgage fraud scam case he was working on--and so it wasn’t until after lunch that he finally got a chance to sit down, close his office door, and run the name.
He was shocked at what he found.
He stared at the screen for a second, scrolling down, and down, and down. The information made his blood run cold. Neal was--if Neal, or even if someone Neal knew well was involved with this guy, it spelled trouble. Or worse.
He looked down at the bullpen, where Neal was hunched diligently over his desk, working away. Peter frowned. Diligently working at paperwork was always a sign that Neal was deeply upset. If this Sanchez character was connected to or worse, threatening someone Neal knew, Peter could understand why. He’d be upset too.
“Neal!” he rose from his desk to call out his window, pointing beckoningly. He watched as Neal rose obediently and sauntered up the short stairs to his door.
“You bellowed?” asked Neal drawlingly, lounging against the door frame with a fair measure of all his old insouciant charm.
“Close the door,” said Peter, not smiling. “Neal, I ran the name. If you do have a friend involved with Sanchez--I think you should come clean now.”
“I told you Peter,” Neal began, the expression on his face shifting slightly from the calculated nonchalance, “It’s for an old friend, and I can’t--”
“Neal! Neal, your friend is in some deep shit, if he’s involved with this Sanchez character. If you want to help him, if you want me to help him, you have to tell me everything now. Come on, Neal. Is it Alex?
“No!” said Neal, clearly alarmed. “No, Alex has nothing to do with this. Don’t get her involved, Peter.”
“Well, then, what?” asked Peter impatiently. “Moz? Kate? Neal, this guy doesn’t play games. He’s a killer and worse. And, from what I can tell, he’s got pull. He’s out a full five years earlier than he ought to be, allegedly for good behaviour, but the prison records--he probably should have been in a supermax, but he was in a medium security facility which makes no sense and whatever I can access, whatever hasn’t mysteriously disappeared, don’t back early release up at all. He shouldn’t be out, and yet he is. Neal, this guy is dangerous, and any connection with him isn’t safe. For anyone. Let me help. We can bring him in, and everyone wins.”
“What did he do?” asked Neal instead.
Peter sighed, but told him anyway. Maybe telling Neal what he’d found would scare him into confessing. “What hasn’t he done? He’s got mafia connections; he’s been implicated in murder, in human trafficking, in arms dealing. He’s bad news. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t, Peter,” repeated Neal, sounding almost desperate. “I told you. It’s not my business to tell. Listen,” he said suddenly, “why don’t we go out somewhere tonight? Just the three of us. Somewhere--somewhere far away, Peter.”
“Neal, you have a radius.” Peter’s voice was sobering. He wished, not for the first time, that the stakes were lower--for him, for Neal. That they didn’t need to be so careful. That they could just be.
“Please, Peter?” Neal begged outright. “Anywhere you want, It doesn’t even need to be fancy. Just somewhere not here.” It startled Peter. Neal rarely asked for anything, let alone begged.
“I can’t do that Neal, not without a reason,” said Peter, and he made his voice hard, forced himself to be hard. Sometimes, he hated who he’d become to Neal. “You know that.”
Neal looked away. “Okay. All right.” Neal was clearly trying to keep the defeat out of his tone. There was an awkward silence for a minute, as each man digested the stalemate neither of them wanted to be at.
“Neal,” said Peter, “why don’t you come over tonight instead? You haven’t done that for a really long time. El misses cooking for you--I just don’t have the same appreciation, she says. What do you say?” He let himself show his hope, and pleading, and everything he wanted to say but couldn’t.
But Neal looked right at Peter, his voice flat. “I’m sorry, Peter, I’d promised Moz--”
Peter’s couldn’t help but show his hurt, his disappointed. “Sure, Neal. Sure. You never used to lie to me before, either.”
*********************************
That was the first time he’d ever absolutely lied to Peter, and it wasn’t even a good lie. Neal left Peter’s office, and sat at his desk, ignoring how shaky he felt, how his hands trembled. He told himself that Peter might be upset, but it would all work out. He hid his hands under the desk. He had things under control.
He just wished his stupid hands would stop trembling.
Days went by. Neal went to work and went home and kept his personal interactions with everyone, even Mozzie, at a minimum. He locked his doors; he jammed shut the windows; he painted large canvasses to hang in front of the glass. June made a couple of comments about the covered windows, but while she was obviously curious, she never asked. He spent as much time as he could at the office--he’d have tried to spend some nights there, but he knew that Peter was closely scrutinizing everything he did, and so he forced himself to go home to avoid further suspicion. He slept, when he had to, on a chair, like he’d done in detention, making sure he woke every half hour. He hoped that Lionel had forgotten, he worried that he was just planning something, he wondered if he would ever be able to let his guard down.
He stopped that train of thought in its tracks. This would end. He had to believe that this would end.
Days went by.
Days became a blur.
Peter came over to go over cold cases on a Tuesday night, while El had the girls over. He wanted to go through them quickly, but five hours and a six pack later, Peter was yawning and Neal was slurring. By the time Peter had started packing up to go home, Neal had fallen into bed without thinking. Peter ran his large hand over his hair, kissed his head, and told him to get some sleep.
He wasn’t sure what had woken him, but the clock read just a little after four and he was wide awake. He ignored the tears on his face and how his hands shook. He looked around. The apartment was still and familiar, moonlight streaming in through the clear glass doors. Despite that, despite the comfort of his own space and his own stuff, he wished sharply that he hadn’t told Peter to go home, that he had asked Peter to stay.
He hadn’t let Peter stay often, in the last few weeks. But sometimes--sometimes it would be too hard to force him to go. Sometimes--sometimes he told himself it made sense, that it wouldn’t help to let Peter get all suspicious. But sometimes--sometimes he knew it was because he was foolish, like he’d been with Kate, like he’d been when he’d gotten caught, so foolish that he just couldn’t help himself. He would have let Peter stay tonight, except Peter had really wanted to go home. What Peter had really wanted, all night, was for Neal to go with him.
After the last time, when he’d come home to the greeting card covered in pictures of cute golden lab puppies, simply a street name inside, he’d understood and promised aloud (because Lionel was probably listening, he knew everything, nowhere was safe) that he wouldn’t set foot in the Burkes’ home again. (Not until Lionel had gotten bored, had forgotten Neal, had moved on, had gone.)
It would happen, Neal knew. Until then, he just had to be careful. Careful and patient.
He crossed to the bathroom and used the toilet. Turning towards the sink to wash up, he turned on the tap, washed his hands and splashed water over his face. He reached out to grab a towel, and froze.
On the gleaming marble vanity, in June’s cut-glass crystal bowl beside the sink, was a pile of tiny bars of embossed French-milled lavender-scented soaps. A little note, still on vellum, said “For you. I know how you like to be clean.”
Neal clenched his hands into fists but it didn’t help. He leaned over the sink and spat the bile out, forced himself to take small sips of water between the gagging and the spasms until it stopped. He knew it would subside, eventually. It always had before.
Peter had once told him that often people that witnessed traumatic things forgot details, which was why working in Violent Crimes was an exercise in fits and starts and false leads. Neal didn’t remember that first night, and for that he was grateful--but even years later, his memory of what happened after was clear and sharp.
When he came to, he was--he hurt, and he didn’t care to think too hard about how and why and where. There were unnamable things in his hair, sticking to his skin, and that was worst of all. He tensed to rise--
“Where you going, baby?” Heavy arm across his body.
He went instantly still. Struggling would only make him angry. “Nowhere. Just--the sink. I want--”
“You’re not going anywhere. I like you like this. Covered in me.” Possessive and dangerous, Neal recognized that dark tone. He’d just never expected anyone to direct it at him.
“Please.” He had to, he needed to--
“Don’t argue. You know how I hate that. If you’re good, I’ll let you have a shower tomorrow morning, maybe.”
Oh God oh God he had to be allowed a shower tomorrow, he couldn’t--he couldn’t go through the day like this--
He subsided instantly. “Okay. I’m sorry.” Made his voice as small and contrite as he could.
That’s okay, baby,” and his voice was full of smugness. “You’ll learn. Don’t worry.”
And so he’d tried. He remembered trying so hard, harder than he’d ever tried (than he’d ever had to try) for Peter. And he was good, very good, all the rest of that night and all morning. It didn’t matter. It would be three days before Neal, the bruises not yet faded from his pale skin, dark and vivid and colourful for all the other inmates to see and mock (grateful that Kate wasn’t due for a visit, she couldn’t see him like this, he wouldn’t see her like this no matter how badly he needed those few minutes of her laugh and her smile and her beauty eclipsing the gray of his existence), was permitted to finally wash the horror from his hair.
And that didn’t matter either, because before the lights went on the next morning, he was filthy once again.
Neal blinked in the bright lights of the bathroom. He splashed a handful of cold water on his face, and then stripped off his t-shirt and pyjama bottoms before stepping into the shower and turning it on as hot as it would go.
He forced himself out after a while, not acknowledging he’d been in there almost forty-five minutes.
Ten minutes later, he had to take another shower.
He’d just finished his fourth shower when Peter’s call came through, his voice impatient. Neal forced himself to put on his suit and hurry downstairs to the car.
As he buckled his seatbelt, Neal tried not to think about the filth on his skin, how he was probably getting it on Peter’s clean seats. As Peter weaved through the city traffic, Neal breathed through the urge to run back home and shower.
********************
Wednesday ended up being a long and uneventful day, for which Neal was grateful. There were meetings where he could distract himself with distracting others, there was paperwork he could lose himself in, there were witnesses to observe and interview. By the time evening fell, he was dead tired. He couldn’t, however, bring himself to actually go home when Peter ordered him out of the office--even though he loved his loft. Not with the postcard in the bottom drawer of his nightstand (he didn’t know why he’d kept it) and the bars of soap he’d thrown a hand towel over to hide from view but hadn’t been able to bring himself to touch, not even to get rid of them. So he went out. He wandered the city--his city, the city that never slept, the city he loved. He walked all over the city. He stayed out all night. He forced himself not to sleep.
Watching the sun rise as he walked along the river, imagining he was on the crest of the Brooklyn Bridge, Neal finally forced himself to turn towards home. He had no reason to call in sick--he didn’t want to make Peter even more suspicious than he already was--and so he needed a shower and a change of clothes before Peter came by to pick him up in the morning. By the time Neal walked back, it was well after six. His feet hurt--Italian leather was not meant for hard walking, and he could feel the blisters as he trudged up the stairs. Reaching for the door knob, intuition made him pause. He stopped dead outside his door.
The door--the door he’d locked yesterday morning--that door was slightly ajar. Neal caught his breath. He should’ve--he knew there was a chance--there was a gun inside, but he hadn’t--
He could hear movement from the inside, and then, “Neal?” called out a voice, and he froze, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t--
Neal took a breath. He recognized the voice. It was Elizabeth. He felt suddenly shaky, and forced himself to get a grip. Quickly. He pushed open the door and stumbled inside clumsily, blinking against the brightness.
The lights were on, the sun was glowing through his canvasses (streaked in shades of blacks and grays and midnight blue splashed over with vermillion, and his heart sank, because he hadn’t really thought about what he’d been painting, hadn’t thought how it would look to someone who’d cared to see), and there was breakfast laid out on the table. Elizabeth and Peter were sitting down at his little table, and they had clearly been sipping coffee together, although they both turned when they saw him. He felt like an intruder in his own home.
He plastered a wide grin on his face, not allowing his discomfort to show. “Peter. Elizabeth!” he greeted cheerfully. “Good morning! How’d you get in? What’s the occasion?”
***********
It was Elizabeth who first noticed the shadow under the door, as they waited. When Peter had gotten home sans Neal, despite their plan--well, after that neither of them had been able to sleep. They hadn’t seen Neal for weeks, and it was no longer something they could convince themselves was a passing phase, or Neal’s eccentricities. Neal’s behaviour--his lying, his stuttering, his weight loss--none of it could be dismissed any longer. By five, they’d made breakfast and were piling into the car to drive into the city to June’s home--Elizabeth’s plan, because Peter would just as soon have brought Neal to them (after a brief suggestion that maybe Elizabeth could just take Neal out for lunch, because she was better with these things than him, but El’s withering look had quickly put paid to that idea)--but they were both on the same page. They needed to confront Neal. Whatever was going on with him, they needed to sort it--and them--out, because clearly they couldn’t go on as they were.
The shadow paused, and nothing happened. “Neal?” called out Elizabeth, questioningly.
Another beat, and then Neal was throwing open the door and smiling his trademark blinding grin at them, wishing them a good morning as if there was nothing unusual about them showing up at this hour on a weekday morning. As if they both unexpectedly came over to Neal’s rooms in June’s home at odd hours all the time.
Well, sometimes Peter did, he acknowledged, come over when Neal wasn’t exactly expecting him. But not at a quarter to six. Thank goodness for June’s efficient and discreet staff.
“You are. June’s housekeeper gave us a key, and we’ve been waiting for you since six. Where have you been?” demanded Peter, standing up.
“Relax, Peter, I’ve stayed within my radius--” Neal began placatingly.
“That’s not what I meant, Neal!” yelled Peter. “It’s almost six thirty in the morning, you’re wearing yesterday’s suit, and you clearly haven’t slept--”
Elizabeth shot a warning glance at Peter, putting a hand on his, and pulling him back down to the table. Peter let himself be tugged, making a visible effort to calm down, but not entirely succeeding.
“We’re just worried about you, sweetie,” Elizabeth said more calmly, her voice coloured by concern, still looking a warning at Peter.
“Aww, don’t be,” Neal smiled, his face conveying affection and good humour. As if he had no idea why they’d be concerned, as if the whole thing was entirely silly. “How come?”
Tired and frustrated and worried out of his mind, wanting to fix things if only Neal would bloody let him, Peter saw red. “Cut the crap, Caffrey. You’re not eating, you’re avoiding us, and the few times I’ve stayed over because we were working late--well, I’ve seen children who’ve seen horror movies sleep better than you did.” As he spoke, the words tumbling from him in uncontrollable anger, he watched as Neal’s face became paler and paler. It wasn’t the effect he intended.
Peter sharply regretted coming. He was terrible at these kinds of things, but El--El had insisted. He didn’t know what to do and now--now he’d just made things worse. He felt in over his head, and more scared than he’d ever remembered being.
“I--didn’t sleep?” Neal asked in a broken voice, his normally smooth tenor almost a full octave higher.
“No, sweetie. Last time, Peter told me you were restless all night, and kept saying ‘No’. You didn’t wake up, but you weren’t exactly peaceful.” Elizabeth, thank God, her voice soothing and concerned, her words tactful and leaving out anything that would spook Neal further--exactly how Peter was supposed to have said it but hadn’t.
Peter couldn’t stop himself from adding awkwardly, hesitantly, in the heavy silence that followed, “And when I touch you--Neal, you never used to jump four feet in the air before.”
“I--” stammered Neal. “I’m sorry, you just--” He was clearly shaken, and looked pale as a ghost. Peter couldn’t help himself. He moved forward, putting a hand under Neal’s elbow, all but pushing him into a chair.
“You don’t get startled, Neal,” he said gently, kneeling at his feet so Neal had to look down at him. “Not like that. Talk to us; we love you, and we want to help.”
“I can’t--” began Neal, shaking his head.
“You can,” interrupted Peter. “This is exactly how it works. You get to tell us, and we get to help you. It’s easy.”
Neal looked between them for a moment, blue eyes wide, poised on the edge of--
“No!” Neal stood up and went and stood on the balcony, breathing hard. Elizabeth and Peter exchanged looks, at a loss, before Peter got up and went outside.
“Neal.” He stood just behind Neal, close enough to touch but not touching. “Come on, buddy, it’s just me. Just you and me. Talk to me.” Neal’s back was to him, the wind playing riot in his soft curls.
When Neal spoke, it was barely a whisper, and had Peter been standing any further away, he would not have heard the words above the wind. “I know--I know you think that--” Neal was shivering, and he could barely get the words out.
It was a beautiful day, and Neal was shivering.
Peter couldn’t stand it. He pulled Neal close, and wrapped him in his arms, before saying softly, “I don’t think anything, Neal, except how much I hate to see you hurting. Let me fix it. Let me at least try.”
Neal was like marble in his arms, stiff and cold and unyielding. But Neal stood still; he didn’t make any effort to break free from the hold.
Peter held his breath, and held on to Neal, and just waited.
“He’s out.” Peter felt Neal relax, just a fraction, at the admission.
The very confusing admission. “Who’s out?” Peter had no clue.
“Lionel.” Of course. This was beyond cryptic. He could maybe ask Diana--
“I don’t follow.” Treat it like an interrogation.
“Lionel--Lionel liked me. In prison.” Peter’s blood ran cold.
Sanchez.
Sanchez, according to the records he’d had, had been released from the last maximum security facility he’d been transferred to in upstate New York almost six months ago. Sanchez’s probation had expired two months after that.
“You were in protective custody, Neal. I knew it would be harder on you, but I insisted because I knew the risks otherwise, so how did he get to know you at all?” Knowing Neal, he’d probably found a way to--
“I don’t know,” said Neal quietly. “They just put him in with me one day. Said they were short of space.”
Peter wanted, in that moment, to kill something. To smash, to break, to destroy. They’d put Sanchez--Sanchez, with his record, with his almost two hundred and fifty pounds, together in an eight by six foot cell with Neal--
“What do you mean, he liked you?” Neal could charm the birds from the trees, if he wanted; maybe he’d meant--
“You know what I mean,” said Neal.
Peter almost couldn’t stand to think it, not without being violently ill, but he forced the words out anyway. “Neal--has he, did he--”
“It’s not important, Peter,” murmured Neal, and he would have waved his hand dismissively, Peter was sure, if Peter hadn’t been holding him so tightly. Peter wanted to protest, to argue-- because it did matter, it was important--but he bit his tongue in favour of allowing Neal to continue. “But he told me, the day I left, that he’d find me, one day. And he has. He knows what I like, and he’s been sending me gifts.” Neal was relaxing by fractions, leaning into the warmth and comfort of Peter’s arms, but he still hadn’t stopped shivering. Peter wrapped him up even more tightly, supporting that slender frame.
“He’s what?” Peter burst out unthinkingly. Now was not the time to yell at Neal, he reminded himself. He took a breath, trying to think logically. Like an investigator. “When did this start?”
“About three months ago,” murmured Neal, tensing slightly at Peter’s expected reaction.
Peter almost gave it to him. Three months? Three months? Peter bit down on his yell. Shouting at Neal wouldn’t help, not when Neal was shaking like a leaf in his arms, shouting would lose the precious ground he’d gained. But he had to ask.
“Neal ... Neal, why didn’t you tell me?”
“You said--” and Peter could hear the tremor in Neal’s voice he was trying so hard to hide, “I know you think I deserved--”
“God, Neal,” Peter said, cutting him off. “Not that,” Peter said with anger and disgust. Never that. He took another breath. Think like an investigator. He forced his voice to sound cool and professional. “So tell me--what’s special about this guy?”
“What?” Neal sounded startled, and--there was a note of something else in it, but Peter tried not to focus on it. Figure this out, Peter, he told himself.
“You charm everyone else. Big, small--I’ve never seen anyone you couldn’t charm. What’s different?”
“I c-couldn’t. I tr-tried--” Neal was stuttering, now, and the trembling was getting worse. Peter shut down the line of questioning, mentally kicking himself. Clearly, Neal was terrified, not thinking clearly and misconstruing his words. Asking him these kinds of questions right now wouldn’t help.
He tugged Neal closer, tucked his cold hands between their bodies to warm them. “Okay, listen. You’re in June’s house, you’re safe, you got that?”
“No,” said Neal wildly, “No, he knows I’m here--he’s been in here--”
“He’s what?” Peter kept his voice calm with effort, but he knew he sounded cold and dangerously angry. He wasn’t sure that was far from the truth. “Neal, Neal, baby, talk to me. How do you know?”
“He’s--left me things--near, near my bed--came in while I was sleeping--”
Peter closed his eyes, fighting for patience, for calm, for reason. Why the hell hadn’t Neal come to him? “All right. Okay. We’re getting you out of here, then, we’ll take you to -- “
“No! You can’t take me to your home! Elizabeth, and--” Panic was making Neal babble, and Peter stopped him with a kiss. Neal was freaking out, and he needed him to calm down. He wasn’t sure it helped, wasn’t sure about anything, but it did shut Neal up.
“Okay, okay, not home. We’ll find you a safe house. We have them, you know, we can--”
“No!” and Neal was frantic now, pulling away from Peter’s hold and struggling desperately against it when he couldn’t, “I can’t, because then Hughes will--”
“Neal!” Peter half-shouted, giving Neal a shake. “You need to trust me. I’m going to keep you safe, I am, and I promise to honour your privacy, but you need to trust me. You need to listen to me. You’ve told me I’m the only one you trust; I need you to make good on that now, and do what I tell you for once. Got it?”
“I--Peter, I--”
Peter was feeling sick. Neal was a traumatized wreck--how had he missed it? For days and weeks, this man, this Sanchez, had been destroying their Neal, silently, methodically, and Neal had come to work and come to dinner and come to their bed without a word, and yet, underneath, he had been slowly disintegrating. This wasn’t the confident, cock-sure Neal who had sent champagne to a surveillance van, reveling in his invulnerability. No, this Neal was --
--victimized. And whatever else he might have once had--whoever else he had, he had clearly been dealing, or trying to deal, with this alone.
Well, screw that shit. He had Peter now--and Elizabeth. And all of the White Collar Division. Hell, with the way Caffrey had charmed everyone--and assisted half their departments--he probably had the whole damn FBI behind him.
No way was that scumbag going to hurt a hair on Neal’s head. Ever again.
Mind made up, Peter felt much calmer, and more at peace. He pulled Neal closer still, kissing the fine hair on his temple, repeatedly. He felt Neal relax again by fractions. “Let’s go inside, hmm?”
“Peter--Peter, don’t, don’t tell Elizabeth--don’t--” Damn, Neal still had the shakes.
“Okay, okay, are you sure? She would want to know. She can help, Neal.” Probably better than him. He was crap at knowing what to say, crap at trying to be comforting. And Neal really, really needed to be soothed right now.
“No. No one. No one should know, please--” He couldn’t resist the plea in Neal’s voice, so he avoided it.
“Does Mozzie know?”
A quick shake of the head.
“Shit, Neal, he’s your lawyer, he could have--” Peter was trying not to be angry with Neal, he really was--he knew all about misdirected anger, but--
“NO! No one! You can’t tell him. Promise me, please.”
“Shh, shh, all right, all right, no one will know.” Neal was shaking again. Peter, at this point, would have promised Neal the moon if it would have gotten him to calm down. “Come inside, all right?” Peter tugged a little, and thankfully, Neal didn’t resist. Elizabeth, sitting at the table fiddling with her phone, looked up at them as they came in. Peter shook his head slightly, and she didn’t ask. Peter closed his eyes for a second, gathering strength.
What a mess.
“El,” asked Peter, steeling himself, “did you have any plans today?”
*************************************************
Part 2 is up here.
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