A/N: Hello lovelies. Welcome to the first chapter of Danse Macabre. This story has been bouncing around in my head for quite a while, and I was finally able to bring it to life. This is gonna be a good one, so get ready for the ride. If you enjoy, let me know. I would love to hear what you all think. Love to all.

Chapter 1

Normalcy makes Peter Burke anxious. When things go right for just a little too long, suspicion starts to bubble up within him, growing closer to boiling the longer the disconcerting lack of things continues.

It reminds him of when he and El first got Satchmo all those years ago. The young pup was constantly bothering Peter to be taken outside so he could relieve himself. While it did get on Peter's nerves a bit, it was much better than not hearing the whining for a while, only to later find Satchmo sitting next to a mess in the living room, tail between his legs in guilty shame.

Here, now, as Peter sits at his desk, tapping a pen on the surface as he looks over files, he's reminded why silence worries him.

Neal isn't looming over his shoulder, incessantly chattering on about that weird silent French film that he saw this weekend. The one about the mime who lives his life backwards. It was genius, Peter absolutely has to see it.

He isn't causing trouble in the hallway, flipping cards back and forth as he performs tricks in attempts to prove to the rest of the team that he can outsmart any agent in the building.

He isn't even at the coffee maker, exchanging hushed conversation with various women around the office, leaning in just enough to make them want more, but never getting too close.

Neal isn't doing any of those things, because Neal isn't here.

After waiting 20 minutes to see if he'll show, then calling him once, twice, three times and getting nothing but voicemail, Peter pounds a fist on the table once in his frustration, calling out to Diana.

"Get Neal's tracking info, he's not answering."

They find him at a warehouse, supposedly abandoned. What the hell was he doing in a warehouse? The location alone is enough to worry them, and they're out the door in a matter of moments, preparing for the worst.

++++++++++++++++

The teddy bear perched upon a sole chair in the middle of the vast expanse of the warehouse sends chills down Peter's spine. It's not the bear itself; the bear is innocent enough, but it's the fact that the bear is there. And Neal is not.

The green blinking light on the tracking anklet strapped around the bear's neck makes his stomach flip over, and he freezes as the terror begins to grip him. Diana picks up the postcard in the bear's lap, flipping it over to read it aloud.
"Don't bother looking. Just borrowing him. I'll bring him back safe and sound when done. I promise. -V." She glances up. "Who's V?"

Peter doesn't look up at Diana when he slowly shakes his head. He doesn't know who V is, but he does know that when he finds him, he's gonna kill him.

+++++++++++++

Neal couldn't help but admire the gorgeous quill his captor held in his deft fingers. If Neal shut his eyes, and shuts out the damp basement made of stone, so broad in size it was intimidating, misleading (a space this large, being used in complete confidence by his captor, Neal knew no one would find him anytime soon) in its vastness… if he shut his eyes and just listened to his own steady breathing and the gentle, soothing scratch of the quill on paper, he could pretend he wasn't here.

The scratching suddenly stops, and Neal's eyes crack open again. The man who has dared take Neal, the small, thin and wiry man with the giant air of confidence, was glancing over at him. "What are you thinking about right now, Pet?"

Neal winced at the name. He didn't want to be considered Peter's pet, his sniffer dog on a tight leash. He liked to think of himself as an asset to the team, but more than that, a friend to Peter, but at the end of the day, he knows his place. He shrugs. "Just thinking about how good it's going to feel when Peter slaps cuffs on you and locks you up."

The man smirks. "The way I've done to you?"

Neal rolls his eyes, looking back down at the cracks in the cement, then glancing to the cuffs daring to pierce and mar his skin. He's sitting in the corner of the room, knees up, still wearing the suit he had on when he was taken. The jacket is crumpled on the floor by his feet, and his sleeves are rolled up, but everything else is the same. He's even still wearing his hat. It's a piece of him he's not ready to give up, it would be a demonstration of abandoning self, and Neal wasn't about to abandon himself. Not yet. He still had hope. Four days. Four dances with the Girl with Golden Eyes. At first, She wasn't his type. But She was an acquired taste. Over time, he could feel himself falling in love with Her. Was this love? Was any of it real?

Is he in a dream?

The rawness on the inside of his elbow where the needle pricked his skin is itching uncontrollably, but the cuffs pinning his hands to the wall prevent him from relieving the itch.

"How are you feeling now?" the man casually murmurs when he looks back down at his paper. The desk he sits at is ornate, made of deep, cherry wood and carved with a meticulous renaissance hand. It looks out of place here.

Neal's eyes shift up towards the ceiling, as he searches the heavens through the cement barrier blocking him. He can't connect with God when he's fifty feet underground. He's feeling a lot of things. All at once. The rush hit him like a punch in the gut, the most glorious display of physical violence he had ever experienced. The torture was orgasmic. The pain was fleeting.

It was so wrong, but all so right. He had soared. The substance turned to sweet gold as soon as it entered his veins, and carefully painted the liquid throughout him, coating him with 50 karats of protection from pain, harm, hate, sadness, wrongness, regret, memory.

He never wanted to do it again. It was perfect.

Time slowly melted the feeling away, but it stayed with him for hours. Pulsing through him, free of pain, free of need. Just need for the feeling, that's all there was. Once it had faded away, it took every bit of Neal's soul with it, just leaving emptiness, cold, and terror. Terror that gripped him as his physical self betrayed his mind, crying out for the feeling to return.

"You need your medicine, Neal. You don't look well." The care in the man's voice was just a layer of flesh. A cunning sculpture that could convince one of its truth, but held nothing inside. The man didn't mean these words.

"I'm fine. Just get back to your work."

"Now, now, of course not. What kind of man would I be if I didn't provide for my hostage in his time of need?"

"I don't need anything."

"My doctor will be right in."

Neal squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't want this.

When the man called The Doctor floats in from a dark corner of the room, Neal begins to shake. He doesn't want this.

He tilts his head back, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his jaw as the tourniquet begins to choke his veins. He doesn't want this.

Please.

Don't.

The needle pricks his skin. He hisses at the pain.

Suddenly, the pain is gone. It never existed. It's a myth. His head drops forward, and his hat drops to the floor by his feet. Neal Caffrey has left the building. The Girl with Golden Eyes appears in front of him. She wants to dance.