Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. I make no profit from this piece of fiction, nor do I own the rights to White Collar, or its characters.
Notes:
1) SORRY ABOUT THE WAIT! You guys have all been so incredible and patient and your constant encouragement is what pushed me to get this fic written. So, as a reward, here it is!
2) Sorry about all the confusion with the accounts. Ugh.
3) Sorry the first chapter's so short. The next one will be longer, I promise!
Warning; Whump, angst, violence, language, torture and sexual themes probable in this fic.
It was dark when Neal was taken. He has fallen asleep at the table while working on a forgery for a case when three men came and stole him away.
They hacked his anklet. It was disabled and left on the ground in a small pool of blood. Neal's blood.
When he woke up his head was pounding. He sat up and pain ignited down his spine. A groan left his lips and he clutched his aching head, feeling the hard mattress beneath him with his other hand and taking a silent moment to wonder where the hell he was.
He stood and then sat down again, pushed back by a sudden attack of dizziness brought on by standing up too fast. That, and the gash on his forehead.
The room was small, concrete and dark. Like a prison cell, but worse. Prison's have safety regulations, health standards. This place followed no such rules. The floor was dirty and cold, the walls were stained and crumbling and the cot in which he sat was harder than a brick wall.
Panic set in, digging claws into Neal's flesh and sending him flying to the door.
"Hey!" he shouted, launching his fist at the door. "What's going on? Let me out!"
He shouted for five minutes until the door opened and he fell to the ground in surprise. A burly, boulder of a man with a black mask over his face stepped in and edged to the side of the doorway, allowing a much smaller man with no mask to enter.
"Good morning, Neal. How are you?" His voice is soft like butter and his face is kind with deep brown eyes and laugh lines set gently into his flawless tanned skin.
But appearances can be deceiving, that Neal was very sure of, and he would not be tricked by a pretty face.
"Where am I?" He demanded. "Who are you?"
The man's expression deflated and he shook his head. "You have not earned my name yet. You will be punished for assuming your privilege."
He nodded to the much larger man who descended upon Neal like a lion after it's prey, pulling him up to his feet before beginning his attack.
He punched Neal in the stomach, again and again until he was on the ground and then he threw his boot into the con man's sternum, listening for a crack as a rib snapped in half.
"That's enough." The buttery voice broke through the violence and the attack came to an end, much to Neal's relief.
And suddenly he was alone again, cold, bleeding and breathless on the ground.
He wanted to cry.
He wanted to call out.
But he wouldn't hear his cries.
Peter.
Help me.
"I cannot believe this!" Peter paced angrily across his kitchen floor.
"I'm sorry, hun." Elizabeth sighed, wanting to reach out to her enraged husband but knowing that she could do nothing to comfort him right now.
Neal was gone.
He cut his anklet and ran.
He betrayed Peter.
And now Peter was angry.
"I thought we had made progress." He stopped pacing and faced his wife, pain in his eyes. "I thought he trusted me—I thought I could trust him!"
El could say nothing. Because what would she say?
I'm sorry? Peter doesn't need that again.
He was a con man, you should have known better. Just because it was true didn't mean he needed to hear that either.
"I thought he was my friend." Peter's voice shook.
She rushed to him, wrapping her arms around him because words would do him no good. But she could hold him.
Peter was shaking with rage and hurt. How could he do this? After all they've been through.
He would find Neal.
He would find him and send him back to prison.
Because that's what a federal agent does.
And Neal ran
That's what a con man does.