White Collar


Splintered

A/N: - Adult themes and words


Part Two (Peter)

Present...

The silence fractured around him as the quiet darkness shattered into pieces. Inescapable and almost predestined as reality splintered like glass. They were on him quickly and viciously, tearing at him like a pack of hyenas. There were hands on him, pitiless and brutal, as they hauled him off his bunk onto the concrete. He lashed out and someone wrenched hold of his arms, but not before the punch had connected. Retaliation was swift and painful and he reeled when they broke his jaw.

Twisting and scuffling, he tried scooting away from them, but a boot thudded into his midriff. He jack-knifed, retching in agony, as the blows and kicks started again.

The attack was not unexpected. He had always known they were coming, even though he was technically in solitary, segregated away in his cell. He'd made enemies, some of them influential, people with power and money. Locks could be broken and doors left opened and prison guards could look the other way.

Time… it had just been a matter of time before they eventually came for him. He'd been aware of the build-up of tension as the unrelenting hours slipped by. Maybe there had always been something, a bizarre sense of predestination. From the day he'd first opened the oversized file and started looking into Neal Caffrey's past…


It was done. It was over and done with. In the end he'd lost almost everything. His career and even his freedom. The only thing left was his wife. In a way, it was almost funny, filled with irony and bittersweet humour. The universe had spun off its axis and come crashing down around his ears.

Cowboy up and do the right thing

He had tried and where had it got him? An orange jump-suit and a pair of slip-ons. His innocence was no consolation and the words seemed to jeer in his face. All his life he had been so damned certain. He believed in the power of justice. That dishonesty would prove to be vanquished and integrity would always win the day. The Power of justice? The concept was broken. It had been tarnished and even perverted. The ideal had been taken and twisted into The Justice of Power instead. Big bucks could open doors for you. They bought people and position and influence. Apparently no one was untouchable and no institution immune.

Maybe he'd been arrogant and possibly naïve to believe he could stay invulnerable. The last few years had tested his slant on the truth… ever since he'd been working with Neal.

Reality was jagged fragments and he was no longer sure of anything. His thoughts had been smashed like an eggshell which lay in the dust at his feet. Had he turned into a well-meaning tyrant who was guilty of projecting his principles? Perhaps he'd failed to see what was under his nose in his quest to rehabilitate Neal? Like doctors who tried to help addicts. The analogy had to be similar. In the end, what he wanted didn't matter. The need to change had to come from Neal.

A fool, in truth, he was more likely a fool, who'd refused to read all the signals, but if everything stopped and time was reversed, then he would do it all over again. For now, though, the hurt was exposed and raw. Even worse, was the sense of betrayal. He'd done everything, risked everything to help Neal lay his ghosts. He was the one who had paid in the end.

His rational side told him not to lose hope. Neal and his team would bust a gut to prove his innocence. As for El, she would never give up. She would fight for him, tooth and nail. There were other times when rational wasn't easy. When he lay on his bunk in the darkness. Harder then to ignore the cold clutch of fear and ward off the insidious despair.

James had taken the trick and Neal had let him. Perhaps blood was thicker than friendship. Even knowing his father was a murderer, Neal had stood and watched him walk away. Childhood demons and daddy issues. All too twisted and complicated. It was tortuous and horribly Freudian. An amateur psychologist's wet dream.

He and El had been sucked right into it, or maybe the word was suckered. They'd done all that was humanly possible in a misguided bid to help Neal. It made him feel sick to his stomach. James had shared food at his table. He'd invited a killer to break bread in his home and even introduced him to his wife.

God, Elizabeth… he did not want to go there. Just thinking of her was agony. He couldn't begin to imagine her fear. She must be going through her own private hell. She had people to help and support her. It was a meagre but real source of comfort. Whichever way this nightmare played out, in the end, she would not be alone.

As for Neal?

He was filled with emptiness. A sense of almost impossible wistfulness. He could guess how Neal was feeling right now and knew how much James must have hurt him. He wondered if anyone else had a clue. Neal was adept at concealing the brittleness. Peter had sighed. It was okay, Neal was strong. He would find a way to survive this. He would probably come up smelling of roses. He had a way of manipulating fortune. The knock-back might hurt and even damage him, but in the end, he would deal with the pain.

It was all about the thrill and the moment and hiding scars where no one else could see them - about building a hard shell of gloss and insouciance like so many layers of skin.

And yet… there was something so bright and true. Something buried deep beneath the surface. There was more – could be more – than just smoke and mirrors. He had seen it shining through the façade. It was easy to give up and grow bitter. To tell yourself the world owed you. Far harder to believe in the greater good and keep trying to do the right thing.

James had brought fire and the flames had been hot. The betrayal had undoubtedly burned him. Another reason for Neal to say 'the hell with it' and stick his middle finger up at the world. In an uncomfortable twist of 'like father, like son,' Neal was nothing if not resilient. James might have damaged him a second time but he would never fool him again.

It was all horribly unravelled. The whole thing had the makings of a tragedy. The burden pressed down on his shoulders and he was broken-hearted under the weight. His wife was alone and devastated, left reeling with shock and anger. He couldn't save Neal… he hadn't saved him.

Who the hell was going to help him?


Present...

He fought back, bucking under their hands, struggling desperately to gain some kind of purchase. The world exploded with a flash of white lightening as his head was smashed against the stone floor. Thrashing weakly, he gagged as they wrenched him back up, his stomach heaving in a hard knot of nausea. Somebody grabbed tight hold of his hair and a fist thudded into his face.

After that the assault was relentless. Two men held him and other men hit him. They did their job thoroughly and cruelly, laughing in relish at his obvious pain.

"Who…" he managed a single word before an arm pressed against his windpipe. Before he could conclude the question, the hold tightened and cut off his air.

A voice swore at him; "Shut your mouth. Shut your fucking mouth. A friend sent us to welcome you in person. We wanted a little fun with you first. When we're done, you're a dead man, Fed."

They stuffed a rag between his teeth, forcing his broken jaw with their fingers. One of them made a lewd comment which made the blood freeze in his veins.

Smell of sweat and cigarettes and blood. Smell of cruelty and male excitement. He pushed back in sudden panic and head-butted the man in the face. As gestures went, it was futile and he suffered horribly for it. Another barrage of blows to his kidneys and then a knife-like pain in his ribs.

The room reeled and spun like a nightmare. A kaleidoscope of savagery and colours. He was fading now, slipping sideways, as his body sagged in their grip.

Don't fall… if he fell, he was done for. He was overwhelmed with agony and terror. The beating seemed almost secondary to the shattering threat of being raped. Bracing his knees, he fought harder, his movements frantic as he lashed out against them. Couldn't breathe… he was heaving and retching, body choking on the gag in his mouth. His involuntary muscles contracted and several broken ribs grated in protest. The gag was expelled with the contents of his stomach as he vomited over the floor.

Not just the floor.

Over somebody's feet. A man cursed and then backhanded him. His stomach spasmed in protest and he was violently sick once again. Too late… they manhandled him back to the bunk. Someone slipped in the pool of vomit. He was lost now, he sensed he was dying. He took a deep breath and cried out…


No pain, no blood and no horror. The sounds of fear vanished abruptly. He was disembodied and weightless, floating gently in a limbic state. The hands had fallen away from him and he knew they could no longer hurt him. It was as though he was suspended in a loving and gentle embrace.

Don't struggle, don't think, don't fight it…

He was afraid of slipping back into the darkness. The prism had shattered and splintered and he couldn't go back there again. Couldn't figure out how to fix things or gather up the broken pieces. It was easier to lie here and drift with the tide, far simpler to admit defeat.

He was free once more and it was over. All the hurt and bitter harm of betrayal. No dishonour or the arid shame of disgrace when he was forced to admit he had failed.

Being moral, being good, it just wasn't enough. Not in a world where power meant everything. All his concepts of justice had withered and died, and maybe in the end, Neal was right. Better by far to skate over the ice, to avoid looking under the surface. The dark water waited below like a trap and it was easy to fall through and drown.

Take what you want, look out for yourself… don't ever let anyone hurt you. Be quicker and smarter than they are. In the end, it's all one big game.

It was quiet here, calm and peaceful. A warm breeze lifted white linen curtains. Outside the sun was shining and a subtle floral scent filled the air. He looked down and saw he was naked. For some reason, it didn't surprise him. His body was smooth and unblemished. He was healthy and whole once again.

He was quite safe. There was everything he wanted. He wasn't worried, or frightened or hungry. He leaned over to the person beside him and looked deeply into her eyes.

They were filled with profound and abiding love, a real impression of warmth and understanding. She reached out and pulled him towards her and their bodies came together, skin to skin. For awhile he was content to hold her, just to savour the feeling of closeness. Then much later he moved softly against her and made tender love to his wife.

TBC


Lisa Paris - 2013