Title: Of Love and Hunger (1/5)
Author: Amory Puck (pucktheperv on LJ & Tumblr)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: h/c, angst, slash, explicit sex
Pairings: Peter/Neal, implied Peter/El/Neal

Summary: When chance crosses the paths of Neal Caffrey, a hungry but determined man struggling to survive on parole after 8 years in prison, and Peter Burke, the still somewhat infatuated agent who put him in jail to begin with, will they accept it as fate or will they go their separate ways? (AU where Neal served the extra four years in prison rather than become a CI.)

Author's Notes: Written for the Hunger/Starvation square on my H/C Bingo Card for hc_bingo on LJ. Also written for the anonymous reviewer of my fic 'Origami Soul' who asked for some h/c without the non-con. Here you go, hun, hope you enjoy! (See, I listen to my reviewers! ;P)

o o o

Chapter 1: Of Tests and Trials

Neal had expected prison to make a mark on his soul, but he hadn't expected it to burn a hole in his resume.

By the time Neal left the testing center it was dark outside, but the orangey glow from the street lamps was enough to put the dirty strip center in harsh relief. Cutting through the muddy lighting was a bright, florescent path leading from where he stood to the door of the Subway sandwich shop a few feet away. It was like a golden road to heaven, but Neal forced himself to turn away, ignoring the rumble of his stomach. If he wanted to eat, he needed to go to McD's. Thanks to Ronald's generous dollar menu, his money went five times as far there as it did with Weight Loss Jared. Besides, the last thing Neal needed was to lose weight.

Neal popped his fingers, trying to relieve the cramp in his hand. Three straight hours of pencil pushing had taken its toll on his slim fingers. Once it might have worried him—forgers needed delicate hands to make delicate strokes—but now it was the least thing on his mind. He was much more worried about whether or not the damn Algebra II section had fouled him up again. When x equals the square root of a, what is the sum of a and x? Neal had learned the correct answer was *not* 'I don't give a shit.' He was pretty sure that's what he'd put on his tests back in high school, though.

The test results would be mailed out in a week, and Neal sincerely hoped that he passed this time. Adult education wasn't cheap, and he had hardly eaten anything for two weeks to save up for the testing fee. He didn't know if he could stand to go through the process of skimping on everything from soap to soup and using what few hours he had for sleeping as study time. But didn't they say third time was the charm? Neal would know in a week. Not that the results would actually be mailed to him, you needed a permanent address for that, but he could drop by and find out straight from the horse's mouth like every other drifter and deadbeat trying for their GED.

Study, study, study had been the sage advice given to him by Lucy at the unemployment office. He really had tried to abide by her wisdom, though he spent most of their meeting time contemplating possible scenarios for why she smelled like pickles and motor oil. Most references to the GED tended to be either part of a snide remark about laziness or the punchline to a racist joke, but it honestly was *not* an easy test. Not when you hadn't been a high schooler in almost two decades, anyway.

The problem lay in the fact that the test was everything no one needs to know in the real world and that no sane person in their mid-thirties bothered to remember. Revolutionary War battles, the Pythagorean theorem, Shakespearian sonnets, all the elements on the Periodic Table, how to diagram a complex sentence. Oh, and Neal's favorite, the fact that there are over 120,000 species of flies. Because that was going to come in *real* useful someday.

Neal had never expected to regret dropping out of school, especially back in his days of conning CEOs and outsmarting Feds right and left. Now? He would have given his stolen Raphael for a chance to go back and finish up that last semester, don an ugly robe, and collect his degree. Maybe if he had, he wouldn't be so damn hungry right now.

Neal pulled his zipper up higher against the crisp winter air, his breath coming out in a frosted puff. He had exactly two dollars in his pocket which meant he had to decide if he wanted to get a burger to soothe the growls in his belly of catch a bus for the two mile walk back to his motel. A true 'either, or' situation, poverty style. Catching the bus would be the smart thing to do. He had houses to clean and lawns to mow in the morning and he needed some sleep. On the other hand, there was nothing he hated more than trying to sleep with absolutely nothing in his stomach. The rumbling itself could keep him awake.

Screw it. Being tired sucked, but nothing, *nothing* was as bad as the hunger. Neal had learned that quickly enough. His family hadn't been rich, but he'd never gone without food, not until he was released from prison. Eight years Neal had served, and he knew life on the outside would be tough after that, but he hadn't realized it would be bad enough that sometimes he'd actually miss the bars on his windows. At least in prison he'd been fed.

Neal was determined to make it on the outside, but God, he hated the deep ache that started in his stomach and worked its way outward until it was all that he could think about. He despised the way his head would lighten and the world would start to tip, leaving him feeling slow and defenseless. Most of all he hated how the hunger had him stooping to new lows, things he'd never considered before, like digging through trashcans for leftovers and begging couples walking their lapdogs through Central Park for spare change. It was like someone else had taken up residence in his body, dulling his once brilliant mind and muffling his creativity, replacing it with one word: HUNGER.

Neal glanced at his cheap watch, a Hello Kitty monstrosity that a little girl in the park had given him out of her Happy meal. It was almost nine o'clock. The hot dog stands would be closing soon. If he played his cards right, maybe he could eat and *still* afford a bus.

"Hey, con, you fail the loser test again?"

Neal flinched at the words, turning slowly to glare at the security guard who'd snuck up behind him. The security guard working overtime at the state run test center who spent his daytime hours with a fancier sounding job. Correctional Officer, from Neal's prison, no less. Talk about a sick twist of fate.

"Hey, boss," Neal said as mildly as he could manage, dropping his eyes. Miller was an ass, but he wasn't violent unless you provoked him, and, considering that one little fight was all it would take for Neal's parole officer to send his ass straight back to the pen, that was the last thing he wanted to do.

The CO leaned against the wall of the center, reaching in his pocket to pull out a box of Marlboros. "Y'know, my ten year old daughter could pass that fucking test," he said as he tapped out a cigarette.

That would be because his ten year old daughter still had grade school fresh on her mind, unlike thirty five year old men on probation who hadn't seen a classroom in half a lifetime and who had absolutely no use for knowing what happened in 'The Scarlet Letter' or what elements make up the atmosphere.

"Yeah, well, I don't got a lot of time to study between work and job hunting, boss," Neal said truthfully. "I can't even get food stamps 'til I get this thing off my ankle," he lifted up his sweatpants to reveal the tracking anklet beneath. "So it's kind of tough, y'know, boss?."

Miller flicked his lighter to life, cupping a hand around it as he held it up to his cigarette. "Yeah, well, that's your own fault, Caffrey. You broke the law."

"Yeah, I know, boss," Neal said, not interested in arguing with some redneck bastard over what rights released prisoners should or shouldn't have. "That's why I'm trying to get another job. Hopefully getting my GED will help flesh out my resume." His resume. That was a laugh. Neal had never even had a real job. With no school and no experience and his only character reference doubling as his parole officer, his "resume" was a sheet of paper with his goddamn name on it.

"Hm. Well, good luck with that, boy," the CO said, blowing out a cloud of smoke in his face. Asshole.

Neal stomach chose that moment to growl and Miller raised an eyebrow at him, a brief hint of pity coming over his face before it was swept away, replaced by the man's usual smug look.

"Hey, Caffrey, you know my open offer to pretty ladies like you in the pen?" Miller asked casually, continuing on before Neal had a chance to confirm or deny. "Well, that offer still stands out here, too, if you're interested. You know, the good ole' you do something for me, I do something for you bit. Mutual beneficiaries. I know it wasn't your thing behind bars, but…" He gave a little shrug, lip curling up into a cruel smirk. "You weren't half starved behind bars."

Neal's face burned as Miller's eyes trailing his body up and down in an assessing way that made it very clear what kind of beneficiaries he wanted to be.

"No thanks, boss," Neal said tightly, hands clenching at his sides the heat in his face growing every second. "I'm not that desperate."

Not yet, anyway.

Neal struck the thought down violently, angry at himself for even letting it enter his mind. He had worked hard, so hard, to survive behind the fence without having to sell his body to dirty COs or oversexed inmates. He wasn't going to cheapen that by giving himself away to the first bastard who offered him a warm meal on the outside.

Of course, he had never been this hungry in prison.

No. No, no, no. He was *not* going to let him mind go there. He would survive, somehow. He would.

Neal glanced at his watch again. Nine-oh-five. He needed to go if he was going to catch the hot dog stand. All he'd had to eat today was a handful of salted peanuts and a little cookie he'd nicked from the plate of samples at a bakery over on 43rd Street.

"Well," Miller said, still eyeing Neal like he was candy, "when you do get that desperate, you know where to find me."

"Yes, sir," Neal said quietly, though what he really wanted to do was punch the fucker in the face. Maybe once he was off probation. Nah. He might as well be honest with himself. He didn't have the balls to take his fist to Miller. If there was one thing prison instilled in you, it was a hearty respect for what a CO could do to you if you messed with him. A lesson that hard learned was tough to let go, even once you were free.

Neal made a point to turn his back to the other man and walked off without another word, weaving through the parked cars toward the hotdog stand he knew was around the corner. Neal was glad he'd managed to escape Miller's blabbing, because the Indian guy who owned the stand was just starting to close up as he approached.

"Hey, Ahsan," Neal called out. "Got any leftovers?"

The man looked up, a friendly, open smile blooming on his face. Smiles like that were rare in New York City. "Oh, hello Caffrey! How you are? Did test you took go well?"

Neal smiled back, nodding. "It went good, 'San. Thanks for asking."

Ahsan was a good guy, the sort that really gave a shit about other people. Being basically homeless gave you a new appreciated for people who showed a little kindness now and then. Neal's Goodwill clothes had most people crossing the street as fast as possible to avoid having to look him in the eye. It kind of hurt, though Neal probably would have done the same thing if he'd seen the Neal of today back when he'd been the Neal of eight years ago. Oversized clothes, hair buzz cut short, and duct tape holding his right sneaker together… It wasn't exactly a tailored suit. Ahsan was pretty much the closest thing Neal had to a friend anymore.

When he was first out of prison, Neal had considered delving into his old contacts and seeing which ones were still good, but his parole officer had made it very clear that if he thought for an instant that Neal was trying to get back in the game, it would be back to prison for him. Not that a warning had been enough to keep Neal from at least contacting the people he was closest to. He wasn't sure how his PO had been able to tag the excessively paranoid Mozzie as anything but the University of the Phoenix professor he was pretending to be, but just one week after his release Neal had found himself back inside for another month with a note that if they saw him consorting with "criminal elements" again—also known as pretty much everyone he considered a friend—he'd find himself in for another year, at least.

It was no empty threat, either. Neal had been released into an intensive reform program recently created by the state called Convict Rewind. It pretty much gave his PO total control over whether or not he went back to jail, stating that any 'act that could be considered less than desirable in a good citizen' was a violation of his probation.

The program required Neal to hold a job, so he'd been forced to accept a below minimum wage salary from a company who'd signed up for the program stating they would take on convicts as employees in exchange for only having to pay four dollars an hour, because who else would want a criminal with no work experience and no schooling working for them? Because Convict Rewind required that you tell all possible employers that you were a felon and give them your PO's phone number, even if they didn't do background checks themselves, so there was no way to pretend you weren't a criminal.

Neal was also required to check in daily with his PO, and in person at least twice a week, and meet with a social worker every Thursday night. On top of that, he had ten hours of required community service a week as well. No housing or food was provided under the claim that Convict Rewind "guaranteed work" and, therefore, you should be able to pay your own bills. Because living in Manhattan making four bucks an hour was a *breeze*. And it wasn't like he could live outside the metropolitan area or move somewhere cheaper. Neal wasn't allowed a driver's license and he couldn't leave the city anyway, thanks to his tracking anklet. Violate any of the rules, and he lost his Get Out of Jail free card.

When Neal's month in the slammer for talking to Mozzie was over, he had made a point not to contact anyone from what he thought of as his old life. Truth was, he didn't want any of them so see how far he'd fallen, not even Moz. Here he was, the supposedly brilliant Neal Caffrey, and he couldn't manage to pull off a scam that most people lived every day: Making a comfortable life for himself without committing crimes. When he'd been conning and thieving he'd always had money, though Kate had never thought they were rich enough. They never went hungry, though. In fact they'd guzzled wine and ate sushi like the hipsters they were.

Now Neal was on and off the streets, living in a room that smelled like sex and vomit, and begging for food. He knew that any of his old acquaintances would want him to get back in the game. Hell, that had been the first thing Moz had said to him. 'Neal, my man, it's time to get back in the game!' But Neal didn't want to play the game any more.

From the very beginning, crime had been fucking up his life. As a youth he'd thought he was so good, so clever that he was above the average man's journey and he'd ditched four years of schooling just a few months from a degree because he wanted to be the bad boy. Then had come the Vincent fiasco when, once again, his big head had fucked up his life and left him with nothing. Then he'd gone crazy, forging and stealing right and left, taunting not just the FBI but the agent assigned to run his case. He'd made it personal, sending Burke letters and puzzles, sure he would always be able to outsmart the man, and he'd gotten caught. Then after serving almost his entire sentence, a few months shy of freedom, he'd walked out the front door of the prison because he was upset his girlfriend left him. Neal had tried to use his clever mind to salvage his life once again, offering the same agent he had taunted and teased the opportunity to take Neal on as a CI, to use his criminal brilliance for good, but after his great escape the idea had been vetoed by the head of the department. A severe flight risk, they'd called him.

Eight years of his life, *prime* years of his life, had been lost because he'd played the game, run the scams, pulled the jobs. It had been exciting, living large and making a name for himself as if he was a character in a fucking crime novel but, in the end, it all collapsed like a house of cards. Hell, he was finally out of prison for his stupid antics, almost *thirty-five* years old, and he was still paying for being a cocky bastard. Neal was through with the damn game, whatever Mozzie might have wanted. Maybe going to college and getting some middle class job wouldn't have been exciting, but he would have spent his birthdays under the open sky with people he cared about. Instead he'd been locked away in the cryogenic chamber they called his cell as 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, and 33 all passed him by. Neal Caffrey had been on this planet thirty-four years now and he had absolutely nothing to show for it.

Neal wasn't interested in any more excuses, which was all people like Mozzie and Alex and Kate would hand him. It wasn't the cops, it wasn't the Feds, it wasn't Interpol or Adler or Ellis or Agent Peter-fucking-Burke who'd stolen his life away. There was only one crook here, and his name was Neal George Caffrey. Once upon a time he had been angry to find out his much adored father was a criminal, had claimed that was why he chose a life of crime, but that was blaming someone else, too. Neal had never even known the man, for God's sake. Neal had lost half his life already to his bad choices, and he wasn't going to let the rest of it go the same way. Because it would, eventually, end the same way. Overall, it had been the best choice to let Mozzie think that Neal's one month warning stay in prison had been extended to two years. If Neal wanted to make a life for himself, a life he could keep, then he was going to have to do it the old-fashioned way, just like everybody else.

Neal shifted from foot to foot in an attempt to warm up. There was a light snow beginning to fall over head and he pulled his skullcap down over his ears.

"Here go, Caffrey," Ahsan said finally, holding up a paper bag soaked with grease. "There three in there. No buns left today, sorry."

"That's okay," Neal said, mouth watering at the smell of cooked pork. He dug into his pocket, pulling out his hand full of coins. All his wages went to the cost of his room, so any cash he had on hand was usually change he'd begged off of New York's fine, upstanding citizens. Neal glanced up. "Is a dollar okay?"

Ahsan nodded, smiling kindly at Neal. "Whatever can afford is okay."

"Thanks, man," Neal murmured, carefully counting out a dollar in nickels and dimes. "Here you go." He dropped the coins in Ahsan's hand, taking the greasy bag from him.

"You have good night, Caffrey," Ahsan said as he walked around the booth to close up the windows.

"Ooo too, 'Shan," Neal replied around a mouthful of hot dog. Cold, greasy, overcooked meat had never tasted so good.