Title: Lesser of Two Evils
Author: Ursula
Rating: rating: NC-17
Genre and/or Pairing: Peter/Elizabeth/Neal
Spoilers: None
Notes: Written for a request on Collar Kink ".Neal had a protector in prison (it was either that or be passed around like a sex toy, lesser of two evils). The guy either escapes or does his time. He comes after Neal, only it's 'romantic', or as far as Peter and the team can tell, stalking. Something happens (author's choice) and Peter and Elizabeth end up with a traumatised Neal to take care of. Gentle threesome sex ensues with Elizabeth initiating. "
Warnings: Het and slash sex with my favorite threesome. Also dub con in prison.
Word Count:
Summary: Peter tried to make sure that Neal was safe in prison, but he had work to do and things didn't go as Peter planned. Neal had few choices and took what he thought was the lesser of two evils.
1. Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
OooOooO
"Neal," Peter said.
Peter Burke was not looking at him when he spoke to Neal, which Neal understood. Neal hung his head, his hair fell into his eyes, and he couldn't get it out. He tossed his head, the hair fell back. He needed product to manage his mane. Neal was in the back seat with his favorite stalker, Peter Burke, an FBI agent. They were in a state prison's system vehicle with a deputy driving.
Trying again, Neal hissed with annoyance. Peter reached over, pushed the hair back, and said, "You should probably have it cut."
In his mind, Neal pleaded with Peter. 'Please don't say anything. Please don't.'
Words were magic and words would make it real if Peter said something.
"The problem is," Peter said, "Please don't take this the wrong way, Neal, but it's the way you look."
"Afraid to give me a compliment?" Neal said.
"Neal, don't. Just don't," Peter said.
"I know how I look," Neal said. "What can I do about it? You think even a buzz cut would make a difference?"
"Not honestly," Peter said. "Look, super max is hard to escape which is one reason I made arrangements to send you there, but I also have done my research and it's relatively a safe prison."
"Relatively," Neal repeated. He shifted uneasily. The cuffs were too tight. "Isn't it unusual for you to take someone to prison personally?"
"Yes," Peter said. "You know it is. You know why."
"You think I'm going to escape," Neal said, shaking his head. His hands were going numb. He tried to get the circulation back but he couldn't. "Peter, my hands are going to fall off. The deputy put these on too tightly." At Peter's distrustful look, Neal added, "Don't look at me that way. I am not trying to con you."
"Lean forward," Peter said with that dreadful gentleness.
Obedient, Neal bent downward, allowing Peter to take the cuffs off and refasten them in front of him. For the moment, he concentrated on the pins and needles of returning circulation.
"You could have said something sooner," Peter said.
"The phrase 'cowboy up' is not my favorite," Neal explained.
"Like I said, you are very bright and you knew it could only lead to this," Peter said, as if they were having another conversation entirely.
"If I hadn't been stupid enough to do what I did," Neal replied. "You might be dead and I would be free." Which was not the gentlemanly thing to say, but Peter had earned it with his lecture.
Peter's mouth tightened. He winced and shook his head back and forth in negation. He stopped looking at Neal again and shut up. Mission accomplished for Neal.
His side still hurt. Neal closed his eyes. He had been foolish. He had done the gallant, romantic thing and where had it gotten him? Here, on his way to a four year prison sentence.
OooOooO Three months ago OooOooO
"Federal Agent, stop or I'll shoot," Peter Burke said.
"Really, Peter?" Neal teased, but did stop. Peter had chased him up to this roof after spotting him on his way to meet Kate and Moz. It was a familiar building. Moz had lived in this tenement for a while when the three of them first arrived in Baltimore.
For several moments, Neal thought he had lost his pursuit. He had lost most of them. It was divine comedy that the only one he could not throw of his trail was Peter Burke.
Now they faced each other across the tar paper, the litter of condoms, needles, and debris left by denizens of this building.
Neal was fairly sure this was not the end of the game. He could escape. He could see his next five moves and three ways to start his gambit. Peter was smart too, but he didn't quite get how well trained Neal's body was. Gymnastics is more than a skill. It is survival mode for a second story man. The next building was not that far away for someone who had once executed a triple back salto that scored nine and a half in his state meet. Once Neal made the leap to that ledge, Peter would be a fool to follow.
OooOooO
Peter Burke was an adrenaline junkie and a chess master. He was hooked on the rush of using his intelligence to identify, track, and capture criminals. He much preferred the brainy intellectual thieves that were his prey in the white collar crime division. Neal Caffrey was the pinnacle of his desire.
The young thief was a compendium of crimes. He had dabbled or was suspected to have dabbled at confidence games, at bonds forgery, the crime for which Peter was most certain that he could gain a conviction.
On this occasion, Peter was well aware that he was isolated from his team and had no back up. He was not worried in particular. He had been chasing Caffrey for three years, during which time, Caffrey had not resorted to guns nor to violence of any kind. Peter had caught up with him four times and been outwitted three times. The man was a fucking comic book hero or villain as the case might be.
The fourth time had resulted in Peter jailing Caffrey, but some idiot let him change places with another prisoner. Caffrey had walked and had the nerve to send him a beautiful hand drawn sympathy card!
This time, Peter would not let Caffrey out of his sight without drilling his jailors on how deceptive, elusive, and cunning the man could be.
Peter heard his borrowed Taurus complain and glanced back to see a thug in gang regalia leaning against it. "Get away from the car."
"I wasn't doing anything. Who you to be lording it up here? This is my place. My territory."
Flashing his badge, Peter said, "Don't make me run you in. I'm sure I can find something to hang on you."
The kid slunk off but not without showing Peter a fierce, feral face. Suddenly, backup sounded like more like a necessity than a luxury. Peter called Janovitch, his favorite subordinate at the moment and redirected him back to the tenement where he had seen Caffrey go. Peter shoved in the door when a tiny old black woman left it open. She glared at him, but said nothing. He said, "Sorry," but she still shot him another dirty look.
Thundering up the stairs, Peter felt sure that Caffrey was headed for the roof. Caffrey liked second story work. He was athletic and lively. He would not hole up if he could run and Peter didn't hesitate to follow his hunch.
OooOooO
Neal edged nearer the roof edge, already calculating the distance and how much muscle he would have to put into the leap.
Who the hell was that coming up the fire escape? That was not one of Burke's men. They had outrun Peter's agents a few blocks back. Neal realized by the clothing and attitude that this was a local gangster. Neal saw the big grin and the broad shush like this was some kind of surprise. The kid had a gun, a big one, aimed at Peter Burke's back.
All Neal had to do was let it happen. No more Peter Burke who studied him in the most flattering way and who probably was going to catch him one of these days. Phil Gerard, but with charm.
Never having been good at keeping his mouth shut, Neal said, "Peter, there's someone behind you with a gun."
"Neal, that was beneath you," Peter said, all good natured charm as if this was nothing more than a game.
"I..." Neal started, but the kid was aiming. Neal lunged and he would always remember the way Peter's eyes widened, not expecting it, looking betrayed. He would also remember forever the double blast. He was hit twice. Peter's bullet sliced a gash in his arm and the gangster's bullet deflected off his rib, but still caused him to bleed profusely.
Neal thought about trying to escape, but he was concentrating on breathing. It wasn't that his lungs were involved. It was shock. He lay sprawled on his back with his leg bent underneath him. He heard a shot, a horrible grunting screech of pain that ended in a choking sound, and then Peter Burke was kneeling by him, taking of that truly awful jacket, ripping off his shirt, and using it to staunch the blood flooding from Neal's side. Neal listened to Peter call 911, feeling sick, woozy, and put out by the total indignity of being shot by both the man he was trying to rescue and the guy he was trying to rescue said man from.
"I'm dying," Neal did not mean to say that aloud.
Peter said, "No, you're not. Neither wound was fatal."
"I told you that he was coming," Neal insisted. He turned his face to gaze at his arm to see if it was possibly on fire. It wasn't. Felt like it though. "You should have listened." The wound in his side suddenly was speaking and Neal did not care for what it had to say. He could feel a groan fighting its way out and tried to keep it back.
"I'm sorry, Neal, I assumed that you were trying to distract me," Peter said.
"I am not that kind of classless moron," Neal snapped. His leg hurt almost worse than his side and his arm. He tried to free it from the weight of his body.
"Hold still," Peter said, hands hovering over Neal.
"Get my leg out from underneath me and I will," Neal said.
"Okay, okay," Peter said. "I don't want to hurt you."
It did hurt and Neal lay there, having the example of all those movie tough guys who made jokes when they were shot. He was doing his best not to cry. It hurt. It was awful and it was even more terrible that he was caught. He was like a broken winged bird.
And, oh, oh, man, a sob emerged against his will.
Now Peter Burke looked as if he wanted to run. He patted Neal. Wrong arm. The hurt one.
A strangled sound directed Peter to stop patting. He said, "Sorry. Sorry."
Neal finally heard sirens. He arched his head up to check on the gangster who was not moving. He was crumpled up in a way no one, even unconscious, would lie.
"Peter, did you? Is this guy dead?"
Peter looked guilty and upset. He nodded.
Neal passed out right then.
OooOooO
Waking up, Neal looked through his lashes at Peter Burke who was sitting in a chair next to him, staring straight ahead. His expression was miserable and Neal, Neal, who was handcuffed to a hospital bed and hurting astoundingly badly, felt sorry for him.
"He was going to shoot you," Neal said. His voice sounded as if he had been speaking Klingon for two weeks straight while standing in a blizzard.
"I shot you too and you were trying to help me," Peter said.
"You..." Neal coughed and that made his eyes go wide. "Ahhhhhh!"
His side felt as if Hannibal Lector was taking melon balls of flesh out of it. Neal looked for one of those buttons for pain medications. There were none. He looked at Peter and said, "Whatever they are giving me for pain, it isn't enough."
"Okay, okay," Peter said. "I'll get someone."
Nurse Ratched came into the room. Not into the classics? She was the monstrous nurse from 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" That was the ultimate horror picture for Neal. Jack Nicholson's character ended up getting a lobotomy in it and to lose one's mind was to lose one's self.
"How do you know he's not a junkie, jonesing for a fix?" the blond nurse asked. She was wearing a bra that sent her considerable cleavage straight out in front of her like the prow of a ship. Neal could see a fat roll beneath the undergarment bulging in the starched white dress. She looked at Neal as if he was a turd in the bed.
"Because I know everything about Neal Caffrey and he does not use drugs," Peter roared. "Get him some pain medication now."
A little while later, Neal was numb where needed and sort of floating above his fear and pain. "Peter?" Neal said.
"Yeah, Neal," Peter said. "What?"
"I saved your life, right?" Neal replied.
"Oh, don't, please, don't," Peter said. "Even if I could let you go, you're not in shape to escape."
"Peter, I know better," Neal said. "I just want you to hold my hand. Just hold my hand and tell me I'll be all better and pretend you're my friend."
"Don't do this to me," Peter said, but he took Neal's hand, held it, brushed the sweat soaked curls off his forehead, and said, "You'll be fine. I'm right here. I'll take care of you. Oh how the hell am I going to take care of you?"
Neal let the medication take him away although he clung to Peter's hand until he fell asleep.
OooOooO
Sitting in the plane, Neal seemed to be constantly moving. Peter was grateful that Neal had not fought extradition. Now that he had his man, Peter wanted to move on to the trial and he wanted to go home to his wife's rich body, her sweet nature, and her considerable charm.
Scowling at Neal, Peter said, "Stop moving around so much. I'm trying to read this file."
"I don't feel well," Neal said.
The hospital said he was well enough to be transported back to New York so Peter assumed that this was a ploy for sympathy.
"Cowboy up," Peter directed.
"Yee ha," Neal said, "Do I look like a cowboy?"
"It's an expression," Peter explained unnecessarily. "It means man up."
"Oh, so now you question my masculinity?" Neal said. "Is it because I like to catch as well as pitch?"
Peter groaned and said, "Neal, I like baseball. You're muddling my mind with your metaphors."
"Then stop telling me to cowboy up," Neal said. "I loathe that expression and the entire culture of ulcer making repression that gave birth to it."
"There's something wrong with a guy who doesn't like cowboys," Peter said darkly before concentrating on his file. He was preparing his testimony for Neal's case. He wasn't happy about the situation. He had put together a deal with the prosecutor to shave Neal's time to the bone, but Neal wasn't helping. He seemed to think he had the upper hand and that he would be found not guilty. It was a solid case. Peter had refined it down to the one case he was sure would stick.
Neal moved again and Peter jerked the handcuff chain in retaliation. Neal yelped causing several of the other passengers to look at them.
"That didn't hurt," Peter said. "Quit milking your injuries for sympathy."
"Because you obviously have none," Neal said.
"I didn't mean to shoot you; the safety was off when you plowed into me. It was an accident," Peter said.
"I feel sick," Neal said. "Peter, get up. Let me up."
The green pasty look on Neal's face persuaded Peter that Neal was not remotely joking. He unlocked the handcuffs and helped Neal up, careful to avoid the sore arm. He kept a supportive and restraining arm around Neal, not especially caring what it looked like.
The airplane restroom was not nearly big enough for the two of them, but Peter was taking no chances so he wedged in to the room. Neal hung over the toilet and vomited everything he had eaten, which was not much. Peter held him up until he flushed the toilet and staggered to the sink, rinsing his mouth repeatedly.
Neal washed his face and Peter said, "Okay now?"
Shaking his head, Neal held his wrist up with the cuff dangling. Peter locked them both together, feeling as much a prisoner as Neal was.
After he booked Neal into holding, leaving Neal in custody, puppy dog eyes following him, Peter felt like shit. He almost wished that Neal had let him be shot. It would have better than the moral ambiguity of being saved by a man you vowed to put in jail.
When Peter told Elizabeth all the details, she looked at him as if she didn't like her husband very much. She said, "Oh, Peter, you could have been killed. What am I going to do with you when you have to be saved by fleeing felons? Can't you do something for poor Neal? You always say he is harmless."
"I'm trying to offer him a deal, but he is stubborn, El," Peter explained. He turned toward his wife and said, "I'm doing all that I can do. I didn't ask him to save my life."
El slugged him. Hard. Peter rubbed his shoulder and complained, "Hey, what did I do?"
"Don't you dare think it would have been better to be shot," El said, dissolving into tears. El was not pretty when she cried. Her nose went red instantly. Her mouth became cherry red. She snuffled, sniffled, and choked. Peter never could deal with her like this.
The phone rang. It was the jail. Neal was really ill, not faking it on the plane. He was running a high fever. He was being transported to the emergency room. Peter was dressing before the call was even finished.
No longer crying, El said, "What is it?"
"Caffrey is running a high fever and they are bringing him to emergency. I have to go."
"I'm going too," El said. She had this look like she would get when there was going to be no way to talk her out of one of her plans. Peter knew it was no use arguing.
Neal was very sick, out of his mind with fever, which was running so high, he had a convulsion. Peter was sick with fear, worried that the seizure would damage that brilliant mind. What a waste, what a horrible waste it all was.
El can only look at Neal and say, "But Peter, he's so beautiful. You can't send him to prison. Oh, Peter, do something."
There was nothing Peter was able to do. He sent El home.
Neal's fever subsided and. with a different antibiotic, he was soon back in jail.
OooOooO
Neal didn't accept the deal to plead guilty. He was too much of a gambler to throw down his hand early in the game. Peter went to bat for him on the sentence anyway, admitting that Neal had saved his life. The prosecutor was over worked and a friend of Peter's. She went along with the recommendation and Neal was only going to have to do four years, not bad for a major felony.
Not bad, but Neal had never been in jail, not really, he was held as a runaway once or twice as a kid, but since then, he had never served more than a day in jail. Peter had caught him once before, but Neal walked out in disguise as another inmate the same night. It wasn't even a plan, just an opportunity Neal did not miss.
Peter felt regret, but it was over. He had other cases piling up and some of them were dangerous men and women, not a kid who was addicted to dangerous schemes and quixotic dreams.
OooOooO
Neal was off game, during the trial. Neal still did not feel like himself. It was not like those TV shows where you were shot and by the end of the episode, were hale, hearty, and making bad jokes. There were times during his trial where honestly Neal just wanted to get it over with and sleep.
Once or twice, Neal spotted Moz in the distance looking heart broken. Moz was his best friend. Moz was his rock, but a slippery one with lots of weird shit growing on it.
Kate, his girl friend, the love of his life, as much as Neal could love a woman, if he was honest, which he hardly ever was, came to the trial most days. She visited him in jail and asked him repeatedly about where he kept his dragon's hoard of goods. Neal gave her a story. When Moz managed to disguise himself as Neal's priest, Neal gave him another one. It was not so much that he distrusted either one, but someone betrayed him to Peter Burke.
Peter was smart, but Neal had left no paper trail on those bonds. He had intended to destroy the evidence of their manufacture, but the satchel which contained the residue of ink, the paper, and debris disappeared from his hotel room. Then after Neal had checked out, Peter Burke arrived hot on his trail and found everything. The satchel was in the bathroom under the sink where it had not been when Neal had checked a third time before leaving.
OooOooO Present OooOooO
"Are you in pain again?" Peter asked.
"No," Neal said. "I'm scared. What do you expect?"
"There's isolation," Peter said.
"I would go mad," Neal said. "I really would, Peter."
"I want to protect you," Peter said, "But I don't know how. I just don't know how."
Nodding, Neal said, "I know, Peter. Just don't forget about me. Remember me."
"How the hell could I ever forgot you? You crazy beautiful son of a bitch, how could I forget you?" Peter whispered.
Ah ha. Yes, Peter, Neal knew it beyond a doubt. Peter Burke had fallen for him bad.
Too bad that Neal had fallen harder.
OooOooO
The first few weeks weren't too bad. You were evaluated, psychological, vocational, and physical. Neal liked the psychologist who was plump, kind, and interested in him as a person. Her name was Elaine Durkins and she was genuinely here because she wanted to help the cons. It was sweet and amazing.
"Neal, you are wonderful," Ms. Durkins said, as the pen she had forgotten in her hair started to slip lower.
"Say more," Neal said, leaning on one elbow.
"No, really," the psychologist said. She turned her back on him to make tea, preparing a cup for Neal also. She had cookies too. Really. She served cookies to the men she tested and counseled.
Ms. Durkins was well-beloved. A few years back there had been a riot and in all the chaos, she had been safe in her dumpy, institutional office, guarded by a shifting group of volunteer inmate muscle. In her career, she single handedly had arranged parole for dozens of inmates found them jobs, housing, reconnected them with family and friends if they had any that were not involved in crime. She was, if not a saint, a den mother to a den of thieves.
"The way you are, dear," Ms. Durkins said. "You need to deal with things. Yes, you have a sad history, but you had a bright future. You still have one."
No. He didn't. Neal said, "Thank you for the pep talk, but I know that going straight after this will be impossible."
"It is never impossible, Neal," Ms. Durkins said. "Never say 'no'.
OooOooO
He wished he could say 'no'.
In general population, Peter's theories of a well ordered prison were proven just that, theories, not reality.
An orderly prison did not mean that there was not more than one layer of power. Think of it as an aquarium with the keepers on the outside and the fish inside setting layers of the self contained eco system. There are sharks in the water and minnows. There are all the fish in between who have to constantly realign as some of the fish are eaten, some turn predatory.
Neal could have gone the route of being a predator. He was physically in good shape or would be when he recovered from his injuries. He was a natural born actor and he could fake what he could not feel. However, bluffing won't work long in here. He would have to hurt people and not just the sharks. The sharks show who they are by eating the minnows.
It was Hobson's choice. Become a shark or be eaten as a minnow. Use violence, become a bully and Neal abhorred bullies or end up as prey.
The first few times someone came after Neal, he was clever enough to avoid the traps. He spent the three years without being anyone's fuck toy.
There were two kinds of sexual situations here. One was grab and force. Sometimes it was with the trappings of rough justice such as when a child molester was put in general population. They were considered lowest of the low and it was almost a matter of honor to brutalize them. There were enough of them in population now that they tended to move in schools, defense in numbers so it was harder for inmates to pick on them.
If you didn't belong to a gang, you were prey. Neal had no interest in even a temporary affiliation with organized crime of various sorts, Aryans, bikers, Bloods, Crips, or any of the groups strong enough to protect their members.
If you told once they got you, Neal knew that made you prey for everyone. That was the first rule Neal was told by Mitch, a con who was old enough to be grandfather to most of the guys inside. Mitch was seventy years old and had been in prison for thirty years off and on. He was serving a life sentence now with no hope or wish to go home. He was home.
Mitch was Neal's ally here, but he only wielded enough power to make himself comfortable. He was up front and let Neal know that he could not protect him. He stressed that no matter what happened you didn't betray the other cons, not even if they raped you or assaulted you. You could get your name back if you could somehow beat down or kill the guys who fucked you, but you could not go to the guards and Neal knew he could not go to Peter. Neal could not cry for help to the man who had put him here, the man whose life he saved nearly at the cost of his own.
The other choice was less brutal than becoming prey for the population. You could swim in the shadow of the shark. You could, if you were as pretty as Neal admitted he was, let yourself become a pet. You became someone's prison bitch which was so cliche, not that it was any less real for being so cartoon-like and outlandish. Neal found the idea dreadful not only in that it was physically repugnant but in that he hated to be so stereotypical.
Neal was bi. He was as inclined to men as women before he caught himself up in the idea of loving Kate. That might be somewhat of a stereotype too, the sensitive artist who was gay or bi. However, sometimes the classics are classics for a reason.
None of that helped him deal with prison. None of it helped him deal with being raped.
The storage shed was never supposed to be unlocked, but it was. The two men who dragged Neal inside were not even on the same shift as him. Neal fought until one of the men just used a two handed punch to knock him out. He woke up with one of the men inside him and the other holding him down. The one he could see grinned at him and whispered, "My turn next, Nealie. My turn."
It felt like Neal was in there for days rather than the four hours they said he was missing.
Tommy found Neal clawing at the shed door. Tommy usually worked night shift, but had taken an extra shift to earn a special present for his grand daughter. He was near retirement, easy going, kind, and mostly counted the days until he was free of the life sentence of work. He opened the door, saw Neal, dropped to his knees, and picked Neal up in his arms. That was not regulation, but it was kind, so kind that Neal tried to burrow into Tommy's chunky body.
"Oh, no, kid, oh, no," Tommy mourned. "I am so sorry. Come on. Can you walk?"
Neal spent a week in the infirmary. Tommy came to see him every day and so did Ms. Durkins. He knew he was supposed to talk to the latter about the assault, but he couldn't. He didn't let her call Peter Burke either. Peter did not need to know about this.
As soon as Neal was back in general, Serge Marley put a companionable arm around him and said, "Let's talk."
Serge Marley was an interesting man. He was a contract killer, not Mafia, not organized crime. He worked for anyone who had the money and would not work for anyone who wanted to own him. Serge was no one Neal wanted to know. Rumor had it that he ate one of his victims. Not because he was hungry. Just to see what human flesh tasted like. He told his hangers on that it tasted like shit and not to bother.
Marley was an older man, which if Neal had been attracted was no problem. He liked younger women usually and older men. It was not that Marley was awful looking. He was forty-six, thick with muscle, as tall as Peter Burke, a good six foot and three inches. He was not a body builder to the point of deformation like some of the weight lifters here. He was strong however. When he handled Neal, there was no doubt that he could force his will on him.
Marley had large brown eyes, soulless eyes which were set in slightly pouched eye sockets. His eyebrows were thick and looked like question marks; they shaded his eyes and made them seem nearly coal dark. His forehead was broad, marked with two deep lines, which could have been pain and trouble, but Neal couldn't imagine him feeling those things. His eyes were lined at the sides from squinting along gun barrels.
Marley's hair was stark black, his best feature in reality, thick, wavy, and lustrous. A tendril always curled down toward his left eye. Marley had a hawk nose, a long slope of cheekbones, square chin, the mouth of a libertine. He looked like a Renaissance prince or like a young Orson Wells playing Cesar Borgia.
Marley was in prison for tax evasion. They could not pin one homicide on him. Marley lived comfortably here as inmates go. He had a double cell all to himself. He wore expensive underwear and shoes. For his sexual need, he chose a pet from time to time, but was usually quickly bored of them. While he had them, no one would touch them. If he was still fond of them when he was bored with them, they still were safe from any lesser men.
Neal had said 'no' to Marley three months ago when Marley was transferred to super max. Marley had given him the once over and said, "You know where I live when you change your mind."
When. Not, if...
All those coincidences did not add up to the assault being random. Marley was used to getting what he wanted.
Sad and sick, Neal complied. As soon as he was well and his looks were back, he presented himself at Marley's cell. The man was allowed to cover his barred door with a blanket. He has an expensive rug on his floor.
Neal's cell was full of art, mostly self created. He had books, his own sheets, and art supplies. His cell was nothing compared to Marley who didn't even have a regulation mattress. Marley had a twin bed mattress made with the finest materials. He had his own TV.
"I'll keep you safe," Marley said. "Take your clothes off. Show me."
Neal obeyed. He dropped his gaze, hung his head in silent misery and let himself be guided down. The rape in the shed was terror. This was horror in another way. Marley was like a lover in his gentleness in preparing Neal. His touch was educated and sensitive. Neal could not help reacting although he still shuddered in horror as Marley mounted him and thrust his cock into Neal's body, into his soul.
The men in the shed ravaged Neal's body. Marley took him so deep that it eroded Neal's mind.
OooOooO
Ms. Durkins doubled her efforts to help Neal after Tommy betrayed him to her about Marley. Marley was one con she did not think she could help.
As Neal sat in her office, drinking good tea out of nice china, a linen napkin on his knee and a plate full of cookies at hand, Ms. Durkins said, "Neal, dear, he is a psychopath. There's no getting around it. There's nothing for me to work with there."
"He's a psychopath, but he protects me," Neal said. "I have another year to serve, Elaine."
"Neal, don't you think that what happened is suspicious? Do you think he didn't have the power to arrange that?" Ms. Durkin said, showing she knew more about the workings of the shark pool than she lets on.
"I know that he has the power to arrange my rape," Neal said. "I know I can't take it. I can't let that happen to me again. Understand me, Elaine. I'm not...the nice boy you seem to think I am. My life has been one that was full of experiences. I've had many lovers and not all of them female."
"That doesn't matter," Elaine said. "You can't tell me you're attracted to Marley."
"I can't tell you anything," Neal said, dipping a chocolate covered biscuit in his tea. "Marley owns me until I get out."
OooOooO
Neal's plans did not include Marley falling in love with him or what passed for love in Marley's fragmented mind.
It did not include Marley making comments about Kate. About Peter Burke whom he had no business knowing anything about... as if there was anything to know about. It was just unresolved sexual attraction, perhaps a relic of the three year old game of chase that they had played. Neal didn't know why Marley assumed that Peter had made his capture complete and had taken him sexually in the course of it. Perhaps it was because Marley would have done it. But Peter Burke was not that kind of man even if Neal wished that Peter had taken the attraction to the next step.
The arrangement did not include Marley telling Neal that he was going to keep him after they got out of prison. That terrified Neal and he wanted to escape, change his name, flee to where Marley could never touch him again.
A year of the man owning him was hell. What Neal saw Marley do, the men he killed, the games he liked to play to break men. That was not something Neal would ever forget.
OooOooO
Kate was the only thing that Neal had to hold onto. He knew her. He cared about her. He wanted to be in love with her. She was his lifeline to the old Neal, who was free to make choices. Who did not lay under a man he loathed most nights and let him fuck him. Who did not face the looks of men who knew what he did to keep from their hands.
When Kate said she was going. When she said 'it's been real"; something in Neal spiraled out of control. Most of his crimes he did for Kate. Kate was the promise of life outside. Kate was proof that he was not just a fuck toy for Marley. Without Kate, Neal felt empty, adrift, so grieved that he could no longer envision his life. He only had four months to serve, but that was four months of Kate disappearing without an explanation.
Lying under Marley, Neal felt as if he was dying. The man had satisfied himself once already and was now just playing with Neal, running his hands through his hair, kissing his neck. "You don't need that bitch. You have me. A guy like you needs someone to take care of him."
Neal could not breathe. He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw Marley off him and hit him until the smile was beaten from his face.
Honestly, the beard came before the plan. Neal had stopped shaving because when his depression floored him, he had not even feel like tending to himself. Marley complained about the scruff so Neal retaliated by continuing to avoid the razor even though he hated his beard.
Elaine Durkins hated the beard also. Neal had the feeling she enjoyed looking at him usually. Not that she would do anything inappropriate, but she might be old but she was not dead. She said, "Neal, have you thought about an antidepressant? I could talk to Doctor Mansfield about a prescription."
"I don't want to be drugged," Neal said. "Elaine, please don't go there. I can get over this on my own."
"I almost don't recognize you with all that hair," Elaine said mournfully.
Neal stroked the rough hairs of his beard and the glimmer of an idea sparkled though his head and made him grin.
Elaine smiled back, offered a plate, and said, "Have another cookie and brush the crumbs from that beard."
OooOooO
The escape went off perfectly, but time had been of the essence. Time was not his friend. Kate was gone when Neal arrived at their old apartment. She had taken everything but his old bike, a lamp, and the wine bottle which was a symbol of their relationship. The empty bottle was all too well a symbol.
The rest was a play by Shakespeare, half farce and half tragedy.
And instead of belonging to Marley, Neal was now the personal possession of Peter Burke which was more than a step up. Okay, perhaps he belonged to the FBI, but Peter was the one who made the arrangement at Neal's request. Peter was the one who made the rules and enforced them.
Neal was happy enough. Yes, he wanted to find Kate, but he was increasingly content to spend time with Moz, with June, and more than content to spend time with Peter and with his delightful wife, Elizabeth.
OooOooO
Peter liked to watch Neal; he admitted it. He also admitted that more frequently now his gaze was not because he was wondering what Neal was up to. He did not look long at Neal because of suspicion. He looked because he could not take his eyes away. He looked because Neal was the ever changing beauty of a storm-tossed ocean whereas El was the calm, sweet welcoming blue of a Mediterranean sea.
Look but don't touch was a good axiom. Good, but good for whom?
They were working at Neal's guest room at June's, which was much more like an artist's loft, allowing him all the luxuries of home in one big room.
Neal was dressed in soft, old denim jeans and a red shirt which Peter was reasonably sure was made of silk. His feet were bare. Peter noticed after getting to know Neal in more comfortable settings that Neal liked to go bare foot at home. He had beautiful feet too, of course, he did.
"So El is in a book club now?" Neal asked. "That sounds like fun."
"It's hell," Peter said.
"Peter, do you know the definition of curmudgeon?"
"Uh, is my picture underneath it?" Peter self-diagnosed.
"Possibly," Neal said. "How did you ever court El? Thump on the head and dragged to your cave?"
"I managed to open my mouth to talk to her and she did the rest," Peter said. "El's like the paint by numbers for relationships. She is good at giving me direction."
"I should try that," Neal said, peering at him from over a file folder.
"Could be," Peter said steadily.
Neal laughed softly and went back to reading.
Peter's work laptop was open on Neal's table. He walked over to check for the report that he was expecting from Jones. It wasn't there. He grunted impatiently and hit Jones' cell phone. Jones said, "Don't shoot me. I'm sending it right now."
"Peter, it is a Saturday," Neal said.
"And he has Monday off on the condition that I had that report by five PM last night," Peter said. "Don't play jail house lawyer for Jones. You are a bad influence on him."
"Why can't you admit you like the guy?" Neal said. "God knows if I didn't know how many girl friends the guy has, I would be jealous of you and him."
"Isn't that El's right? Being jealous?"
"She said I could share," Neal said.
Peter eyed Neal. Unfortunately, he feared that Neal's statement was true. El was his wild child when they first fell in love. She had this close friend and the both of them had got him into bed early in his relationship with El. She still had fantasies about another three way. El had a kink that Peter heard was not uncommon in strongly sexed women. El had a thing for guy on guy sex. So far, she hadn't persuaded Peter to try it, but now there was Neal and El had a yen for Neal. Peter did too. El was scheming. Peter was sure that Neal was dreaming and Peter was running out of resistance and wasn't much sorry about the death of his will power. He would send flowers when it died.
Neal's phone rang. He picked it up, glanced at it, and said, "Excuse me for a minute."
Peter folded his arms and glared. He was good at that. Neal sighed and said, "It is my place. I give you privacy at your place."
Peter followed Neal out on the terrace. Neal rolled his eyes and finally said, "Hi, Elaine, how was your vacation? Good? You're what? You're coming here? Uh? Peter is here. You want Peter here? What's up? Yes, I do trust you. Yes, we'll be here. See you in a few minutes."
"Peter," Neal said.
Neal?" Peter returned. Neal was leaning on the rail, gazing out at the city. Peter put a hand on his shoulder to make him turn and Neal swung at him. Peter caught his fist, contained the force, and was not hurt, but it was shocking. Neal never fought back, not even when he captured him the first time.
"Oh, god, I'm sorry," Neal said.
His face had gone pale and he reached for Peter ineffectually, his hand caught in the distance between them.
"Shh, calm down," Peter said. "I think you better start telling me what is going on?"
Letting himself be led inside, Neal hugged himself, pacing. Peter said, "Neal, tell me."
"I can't," Neal said. "Wait for Elaine. She'll tell you."
"Elaine who?" Peter asked, although he suspected he knew.
"Elaine Durkins," Neal admitted.
"The prison psychologist," Peter said. "A member of your fan club."
"My friend," Neal said. "She became my friend. I see her. She comes here because her private practice office is out of my range."
"I didn't know you were seeing a therapist," Peter said.
"It's kind of a mixed thing," Neal said. "We're friends."
"With benefits?" Peter teased.
"Really, Peter," Neal reproved.
"Okay, just teasing," Peter said. "At least I got a reaction."
"Not all my friendships are sexual," Neal said.
"Yeah?" Peter questioned.
"Some of them aren't," Neal replied.
"Couldn't prove it by me," Peter said.
That made Neal smile. It was a ghost of his usual spotlight of glowing happiness, but it was better than looking as if he was about to be eaten alive.
A firm rapping at the door interrupted them. Neal went over and let a stout woman with a welter of black hair shot through with gray, piled messily upon her head. She was tall, dressed in a cloud of soft wool knit and sensible shoes. She held herself royally despite the weight and had kind eyes. That was all Peter saw before Neal was in her arms, burying his face in her hair.
A moment later, they were walking through the door. Neal sat with the psychologist on the couch. Peter was uneasy. When had words ever failed Neal? Why did he think he needed Elaine Durkin here in order to tell Peter why he was so upset?
The woman had Neal signing something. Peter walked over to have a look. It was a fucking information release, a long complicated document with a ton of language about HIPAA, which was Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act for people who don't speak bureaucrat. Peter knew more than he wanted to know about HIPAA. He had to attend a day long class about it, coming to the conclusion that the training department consisted of sadistic morons.
"Isn't this a little formal for friends?" Peter said
"Better safe than sued," Ms. Durkins said. She stared at Peter through heavily scratched and thick lenses. She said, "And so you are Peter Burke. I expected someone more god like in nature."
"Elaine, don't embarrass me," Neal said.
"What is this all about?" Peter said.
"Serge Marley," Ms. Durkins said. "He's being released."
"Contract killer, They couldn't catch him for his crimes so they hung him on tax evasion. Classic," Peter said. "What about him?"
Neal was up, away from Ms. Durkins and headed back for that terrace. Peter looked at Neal and then back at the psychologist. He asked, "Do I let him go or bring him back here to finish this conversation."
"I think he wants me to tell you," Ms. Durkins said. "He feels you will be angry with him or that you will feel guilty once you know."
Peter was no slouch at solving mysteries. "He was raped." He could say it but the words were a cold heavy thing that felt like rocks in his stomach, that made a red rage flare in his heart.
"Yes," Ms. Durkins said. "I worried about him, but for three years it appeared he was everyone's little brother. He did magic tricks. He helped tutor the young thugs. He drew cards for the other inmates."
Peter felt sick. Neal was correct. This was something he could not deal with easily. Peter had told himself that he could handle it. Warned himself that it could happen despite his precautions. Peter shook his head. No, the images were still there. He could not exorcise them.
"Marley did it?" Peter asked. His hand twitched for his gun.
"I was pretty sure he set it up," Neal's voice said. Neal leaned against the doorway, blue eyes like wounds in his beautiful face. "There were two guys. Their names don't matter."
"They matter to me," Peter said. He always knew that he had to maintain control. From some forgotten Nordic ancestor, there was a hidden berserker, shrieking to be out. That needed to physically beat the memory of touching Neal from the brutes who raped him.
"They're both dead," Elaine Durkins said. "No one could pin the deaths on Marley, of course."
"I was crossing the yard to go to the library. The shed was supposed to be locked. I didn't look. I knew better than that. You never let down your guard. I should have been wary. I should have fought harder. I should..."
"It was not your fault," Peter and Elaine said together, but it was surprisingly Peter who hugged him. Who held him with their two hearts beating fast and furious together. Who knew you should ask permission to touch victims, but this was not a victim. This was Neal who stood too close to him, who touched him a dozen times a day, who leaned into him, reached into his space, and expressed in every way that he wanted from Peter more than it was safe to give.
Breaking away, Neal couldn't look at Peter as he said, "They hurt me, Peter."
And if he sounded like an abused child, it was an echo of the pain of one.
"I can't stand feeling helpless," Neal said. "I hate violence especially when it's aimed at me. I am strong. You know I'm not weak, Peter, but it was so quick. They hit my head and I went down. I woke up and one of them was already inside me. Nothing would have prepared me. It doesn't have to hurt. It shouldn't hurt."
"I knew he set me up for it," Neal added. "I still went to him. I had no choice. None at all. Or maybe I did, but what happened to me was so terrible that I couldn't handle it. So I went to Marley and I was his prison bitch for a year, Peter. I thought it was the lesser of two evils. It wasn't."
"Excuse me," Peter said. He walked into Neal's bathroom and threw up as quietly as he could. He did it as if this was a normal, every day thing he did. Losing his lunch and dinner trying to vomit up the memories of what he just learned. Peter felt as if his arms and legs were lead. He realized that he was very nearly in shock.
When Peter returned, Neal was pacing again, looking trapped and wild, more beautiful than ever.
Running a hand through his hair, Neal destroyed the carefully won order over the length and thickness of his hair. He said, "I didn't tell you to gain your sympathy. It's not how I want you to see me."
"I know," Peter replied, standing there, hands in pockets, watching Neal try to flee in place.
Finally, Elaine Durkin rose from the couch, intercepted and offered her hand. Neal took her hand, let himself be gentled back to the couch and sat down, at first upright, but gradually his strength left him and he leaned into the psychologist. She stroked Neal's hair and said nothing, letting him rest and rebuild himself.
"Marley is a classic sociopath," Ms. Durkin said.
"You don't need a disclosure from him?" Peter asked.
"I never did a psychological on him," Ms. Durkin said. "He was a transfer and all his work was done before he arrived at Super Max."
"Is he coming after Neal," Peter asked.
"I think he may," Ms. Durkin replied. "The problem is that the man is obsessive about Neal. He is jealous."
"If he can find Kate, he's a genius," Peter said.
"He is a very intelligent man," Ms. Durkin replied. She got up and said, "I need tea. Neal, dear, you need to talk to Peter about the rest."
"What's the rest?" Peter asked.
"I never talked to him about you. I would never talk to him about you," Neal said.
That was Nealize for something. Peter let it process and gingerly, because now he had to say it aloud, "He knows how you feel about me."
"Yes," Neal said. "Yes, he does. Peter, he thinks he loves me. I don't know how it happened. I didn't try to soften my devil's bargain. I had to give him my body. I did not try to sugar coat it by pretending I was willing. I know he is jealous of Kate and you. I don't think he can find Kate, but you are easy to find. I'm frightened for you and for El. What if El gets caught in the middle?"
"I'll protect El and you," Peter promised. "You just need to be careful. No haring off after Kate."
"I wouldn't want to find her now if I could," Neal said.
"When is Marley being released?" Peter asked.
"Next week," Elaine Durkins said. "I'm sorry. I had to take my leave and the paperwork moved so quickly that I missed it."
Peter sighed and said, "Listen, Neal, I'm going to go to the office and see what I can find out about Marley."
"Do you mind if I stay home and talk to Elaine?" Neal asked. "We haven't had a good visit for weeks."
"Talk to her," Peter said. He felt a familiar stab of grief. He said, "I didn't even know you needed counseling. You should have told me, Neal. Come to me when it happened. I would have made the time to see you and I would have found a way to protect you."
Neal shook his head and said, "You are a very bright guy, Peter, but no one knows what it is really like until you're inside."
"I'm sorry," Peter said. He found himself hunching in as if the pain in his heart was real and physical. Somehow it felt as if it was.
OooOooO
The world might have spun on its heel, but there was always work, Neal found. He settled down as the days went on. There were some minor changes. Neal never even went on a coffee run without someone with him. Mostly it was Peter, but Lauren and Jones were frequently drafted to accompany him. Peter checked on him twice a night, sometimes by phone, but frequently he dropped by to see Neal.
It was comforting. Neal tried not to think about what he knew about Marley, but it struck him that Marley had gotten away with killing an unknown number or people. He was good at his job, Marley was.
The frightening part was that Marley was probably not going to try to kill Neal. He didn't get it. He didn't understand that Neal loathed him. That he could command submission, but every touch had been hell. Neal contemplated that as horrible the forceful rape had been that having to submit his body to Marley was worse in its way.
Marley had been gentle most of the time, tried to get a response from Neal other than passivity. Sometimes he succeeded because Neal's body responded to what it knew. It wasn't being fucked that was the problem. It was Marley.
Not only was it a more subtle rape, it was the idea of who Marley was. That he was a killer. It made Neal feel that he being fucked by death. Like the hand that caressed him was covered with blood that cried out for justice. Neal would like to see Marley brought to justice for his real crimes. For murder, not tax evasion. Marley would have offended his sense of justice even if Neal was not the target for his covetousness.
OooOooO
Two weeks had gone by and there was no word from Marley, who was not on probation. He had completed every day of his sentence. He walked out that door a free man. Neal hoped that was enough for him.
On the outside world, Marley kept women, not men. Neal even had the feeling the other pets he had flaunted in prison were about status and power, not so much about sex. Just as certainly, Neal was sure that Marley felt differently about him. Marley liked to have the best objects in his life. He knew art, literature, clothing, good food, and drink. Marley may have collected him in prison because there were few choices even with his power, but he ended up finding Neal something he wanted regardless of setting.
Neal knew that heads turned when he walked by. He also knew that he had been graced with intelligence and that he had inherited charm from his dear father, now many years dead. Marley had admired his looks, but he also enjoyed showing Neal off. He liked to see him paint or draw. He made him talk about books or heists. He wanted his fellow prisoners know that his pet was smart and skilled as well as good looking.
That same proud look that Peter sometimes wore when he gazed at Neal when Neal has helped solve a case, when Neal had executed some clever ploy, or when he had demonstrated his artistic skills, was often on Marley's face.
Neal loved to catch Peter looking at him like that. He loathed the same expression on Marley's face.
OooOooO
Coming home, Neal often thought of June as a mother to him. She was always traveling but when she was home, she was a dear. She brought him cookies and fudge. She made sure her kitchen was stocked whether she would be home or not. She instructed her staff to keep him in good linen. She shared her wonderful wine cellar with him.
June sometimes took Neal on jaunts to the museum or to performances that were in his range. She brought him souvenirs from the jazz recitals, art exhibits, and plays to which he could not go because they were out of his range. She made his captivity a gilded cage few would desire to escape.
Today, when Peter dropped him off, June greeted him with a smile and said, "Now which admirer sent you that lovely bunch of roses?"
A decadently large bunch of roses stood on the entry way table. A dozen red roses surrounded one white rose. Neal's first thought was Kate. She knew about his love for this particular arrangement. Camille was his favorite opera.
The card said,
"So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground;
And for the peace of you I hold such strife
As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found;
Now proud as an enjoyer and anon
Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure,
Now counting best to be with you alone,
Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure;
Sometime all full with feasting on your sight
And by and by clean starved for a look;
Possessing or pursuing no delight,
Save what is had or must from you be took.
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,
Or gluttoning on all, or all away."
Neal was hitting Peter's auto call button before he finished reading. His chest was tight. Adrenaline surged through his body, making it hard not to just run out the door and keep running and running. His body shook with stress hormones that did no good when the danger was not in the room, but out there someplace watching.
Peter arrived promptly. He asked, "Did you touch anything?"
"Just the card. I thought it might be someone else who knew I liked the Camille bouquet," Neal said.
"Kate," Peter said. "That's another story. What makes you think that it's Marley?"
"Kate doesn't like the sonnets," Neal admitted. Kate did not like reminders that Neal was sometimes the one admired, desired by men.
"Marley does?" Peter asked.
"Yes, he enjoyed having me read them to him before..."
"Oh," Peter said. "I'm going to call a team to look at the bouquet. You want to go with me to the florist to see who sent these?"
"Yes," Neal said. He turned to June and said, "June, I think I had better move out of here until this is over."
"Dear, it won't be the first time I was in the middle of danger. You don't have to leave," June said.
"You have your granddaughter to think about," Neal reminded her.
Now June had to nod and accept Neal was right.
Visions of that horrible hotel boiled through Neal's mind. He hated roaches. He hated flies. He hated that old urine smell.
"I could take you home with me," Peter said instantly and Neal wanted to kiss him.
"I can't put El in danger either," Neal said mournfully. He moped. "Peter, I don't want to go to the roach motel."
"Look, that was a bad joke," Peter said. "I wouldn't do that to you."
Peter grinned and said, "Jones."
"Jones?" Neal repeated doubtfully.
"You can bunk with Jones. He has a two bedroom apartment," Peter said. "Jones can take care of himself. Okay?"
Neal liked Jones and the idea was better than the alternatives. He would rather have Peter take him home. Elizabeth comforted him and coddled him as long as he was not making Peter's life difficult.
"Are you going to tell El about me? About Marley?" Neal said.
"I would prefer to," Peter admitted. "You know how she gets around me."
"I admire how she gets around you," Neal said fervently. "I want to learn how she does it."
"You are dangerous enough without El's tutoring," Peter replied. He smiled at Neal, taking any sting from the words.
"I really need to say something," Peter said. "I can't lie to her."
"Just don't give her details," Neal said. "El doesn't need to worry about me."
"But you know she does," Peter said. "El loves you."
"I know," said Neal. He sighed. If he had met El instead of Kate, he had a feeling that he would be having major shows all over town and would never have gone to prison and never ended up as Marley's fuck toy. But what would have happened to Peter?
This was the world with which Neal needed to live. He accepted it.
Peter said, "Jones said to bring you over and pick up some dumplings on the way."
"I am sure this will be great fun" Neal said. "I guess you're never too old for sleepovers."
"Just don't teach Jones anything I don't want him to know. I've spent years training him just the way I want him," Peter said.
"You are so dom," Neal remarked.
"Yes, I am," Peter said happily.
Neal shook his head. He felt better now. Peter knew what to do. He eventually would catch Marley and prove that he was after Neal. It would be all right. Neal had faith in Peter. In Burke, we trust was Neal's new motto.
OooOooO
The florist was a bust. The order had been emailed in and the credit card was registered to Stew Smith, who had money, but did not exist aside from that. Peter was tracing the financial trail, but Neal already knew that would lead no where. Marley was too smart to leave that kind of trace.
Marley was very pissed at being hung up on income tax. He spent most of his prison term taking accounting and gaining a master's degree in business. When he got out, he would find a way to clean his dirty money, pay tax on it, and continue his life of ill gotten gain.
Neal took a deep breath. He had the feeling that the only way he would ever be safe from Marley was to offer himself as bait and hope that Peter could bail him out before Marley hurt him.
OooOooO
Jones' place was a lot like him, no pretense, comfortable, functional without any frills. Neal lowered himself down onto the pillow soft couch and relaxed. Jones handed him a plate of Chinese food, not only dumplings, but almond chicken and steamed vegetables. To his surprise, Neal found himself hungry. Perhaps it was a sort of odd relief that he did not have to worry that he was afraid of shadows. Now Marley had announced himself. He was a real danger.
"So this guy is nuts about you?" Jones said.
"Or just nuts," Neal said. "You seem to be taking the situation calmly."
"What do you mean? You asking if I'm afraid of Marley?" Jones said.
"No, I'm asking if knowing what happened to me makes a difference to you?" Neal said.
"No, man, you're the same guy I work with. I'm sorry it happened, but you're my friend, Neal. Don't you know that?"
Feeling the smile warm his face, Neal said, "I didn't know how good a friend you were."
"Not good enough to share the last dumpling," Jones said easily. "You like TV? I was going to watch the Black Dahlia. Not the remake, the original one."
"Sounds great," Neal said. So far so good. Film Noire, good Chinese, no sports shows, all was well.
OooOooO
Embroiled in a new case, Neal was happy enough. He complained to Moz, but he really enjoyed working with Peter. It had never entirely been about money to Neal. It had been about the intellectual joy of analyzing the safeguards, coming up with a plan to beat them, executing it perfectly, and getting away with it.
What Neal did with Peter was different, but it was also satisfying. Honestly, most of the people he put in jail were nothing like Neal. Looking from his position beside Peter, the heists, the gambits, the long and short cons lost their glittery fun.
Not that Neal regretted most of his work. He had picked targets (he refused to call them victims) who were morally or ethically reprehensible. Marley would have been the type of person he would have loved to have fleeced. It would have been the worst mistake of his life, but he would have enjoyed trying.
The current case involved of all things an adoption scheme. Neal was under cover with Lauren. They were posing as a childless couple. Neal had a criminal history which closed the door to adoption through regular channels. The people who were running the scam used bait and switch. They met the prospective mother, who looked dazed and strung out. Her offspring would eventually end up with some unlucky couple who would deal with what she had done to her body and the fetus for the rest of their lives. Meanwhile, Neal and Lauren were among a dozen couples who were sure they were adopting the child.
Neal played his role beautifully. He was the fond husband, indulgent of the yearning wife, yet skeptical of the offer of a child. He coaxed more and more information from the broker, a shady attorney. By the time they paid the deposit for medical costs and housing for the mother, an amount which could have provided medical care and luxury for a bevy of pregnant ladies, Neal was certain that Peter would have more than enough information to nail Julian Schwartz and his associates. He hoped that the unborn child would end up with someone who would adopt the baby boy, knowing what it would be like to raise a drug affected child.
OooOooO
There was a great deal of satisfaction in closing this case. Neal kept Lauren's hand as they walked out of the building. She said, sotto voice, "You can let go of me now."
"Now, now," Neal teased. "They could still be watching."
"Neal!" Lauren said, but did not let go of his hand until he had seen her into the Pagana Zonda they had been given from the FBI stable of confiscated goods.
Once in the car, Lauren allowed Neal to get to the next light before slugging him in the arm. "I'm going to tell Peter."
"What that I held your hand?" Neal said. He liked teasing Lauren. The woman was so full of herself that she reminded him of a female, FBI issue of himself.
"That you whispered inappropriate things in my ear when you were playing that sickening husband," Lauren said.
"You are adorable when you pout," Neal said.
"You are adorable when you go all weak at the knees when Peter is proud of you," Lauren shot back.
"Ouch," Neal said.
"Why did you risk your life for Peter when he was just another cop chasing you?" Lauren asked.
"Peter Burke was never just another cop," Neal said. "You know that."
Lauren had that hmmm look. She said, "I hope you apologize to Elizabeth Burke every time you see her."
"I worship El," Neal said.
Neal's phone buzzed and Neal answered. Lauren may as well have not been in the car for all it mattered after Neal saw it was Peter, wanting to follow up on the case.
OooOooO
After all the excitement of the last several days with the case, Neal would have been happy enough to spend the evening relaxing at Jones' apartment. He barely got his shoes off when his phone sang out again. This time it was not a familiar number. Neal had a queasy feeling that it might but Marley, but he took the call anyway.
The voice on the other end was bitter sweetly familiar. His Kate who had not called him for weeks and whom he had not seen since that glimpse of her from afar.
"Neal, I'm in trouble. This man has me," Kate said.
It was all too familiar and non-romantic Neal, who sounded a lot like Moz in his head when he did not sound like Peter, commented that this was probably going to be another wild hare chase.
It was classic enough to make it necessary to play it out.
Jones was making dinner, which involved clattering pans, sauteed onions and melodious whistling. Neal hesitated one moment and then he slipped out the door after Kate.