Title: Of Love and Hunger (3/5)
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 3: Of Menus and Mishaps

Neal stared at the strange man reflected in the window of a silver car parked by the street. It was his own reflection, but it looked like someone else. It definitely wasn't the man he expected to see, and he took a moment to consider painting it, the man with someone else's reflection, before reminding himself that paint was a luxury he would probably never be able to afford again. The reflection did bear *some* similarities to Neal Caffrey. A cut jawline. High cheekbones. Big eyes in a shocking blue shade. But it was a passing resemblance. The reflection had a jawline, all right, but it was as sharp as a knife, and its cheek so hollow it looked as if someone had used paint to shadow beneath them. Its big eyes were *too* big for this skinny face, sort of like a Japanese cartoon and its skin was so pale that its lips looked as though it was wearing lipstick. It was Neal Caffrey repainted in a stark Impressionist style.

Neal turned away from the glass and straightened his jacket, not that straightening the bulky brown monstrosity would make it look any better, but it was warm and that's what counted. Neal was wearing his best shirt, had actually left work a half an hour early so that he could dash back to his room and get it. It was a light pink shade and buttoned down the front. Neal liked it because it gave his skin a little of its old color back. He'd even traded in his usual sweatpants for a pair of baggy jeans. He'd had to use twine in place of a belt, but leaving the shirt untucked hid that.

Not that it really mattered what he looked like. Peter had already seen him in his Mrs. Smiles' frocks, and in prison orange, too. Jumpsuits of every shape and color. You couldn't get much worse than that.

Peter. It felt strange to call him that, even in his head. Oh, he'd thought of him as 'Peter' now and then throughout the years, even called him that to his face, wrote it in his brass letters. But that was the old Neal Caffrey, the cocky criminal with nothing to lose. He wasn't so proud anymore. He was a more careful Neal now, doing his best to be polite and respectful of other people. He'd found that was the best way to stay off people's radars, and staying off their radars was the best way to stay off their hit lists.

Yeah, the old proud Neal was definitely gone. Neal wasn't proud at all anymore, not even proud enough to assume that Peter's intentions for tonight were necessarily good. Once upon a time he might have felt that anybody would take time out of their day for the chance to trade stories with the intelligent, talented Neal Caffrey. Now he wondered what, exactly, Peter wanted from him that was worth wasting his evening hanging out with a poor ex-con who cleaned houses for a living.

Sex was the first thing that came to mind, which was embarrassing in itself. Your everyday guy definitely wouldn't go there. But Neal had spent eight years in prison surrounded by men who had little use for anything but packs of cigarettes, extra toilet paper, and cheap ass. He'd never lowered himself to trading his body for favors or protection, but he had been traded without his permission once or twice. Saying 'no' to a CO was like begging to be put in the hole for a month, so Neal had suffered through it, and he'd been a lot better off than some of the other slim white boys. His talent with a pack of cards had won him a lot of friends, and his smarts had been appreciated. But prison was a rough scene and eight years was a long time. Bigger, tougher men than Neal Caffrey had found themselves in situations where their bodies weren't their own anymore.

Peter didn't seem like the type, though, which made it that much more embarrassing that sex was the first thing that came to Neal's mind when he considered what the agent could want from him. The man had never been anything but one hundred percent pure blood upstanding citizen, and Neal had never even heard a whiff of dirt about him. He couldn't totally set the possibility aside though, especially with Peter's comment about his wife being out and their little get together being 'a date.'

Neal wasn't sure, exactly, what he would do if Peter wanted that from him. The man had his parole officer's number and the authority to send Neal back to jail if he didn't get what he wanted, but Neal had a set of morals that he had stuck to pretty much through hell and high water. Now would be a hell of a time to give that up. It was weird, though. He'd always felt a strange connection with Peter. The man had been able to get into Neal's head from the very start, and that's how he'd eventually caught him. But that was no reason to give into pressure, right? That wasn't the sort of man Neal was. Was it?

God, this was ridiculous. He was wasting his time worrying over this. Peter wasn't exactly his friend, but from what he knew of the man, putting him in the same column as the dirty officers who worked at the prison was like putting Jesus Christ in the same column with the Klu Klux Klan. Peter had said he wanted to catch up, and that was probably exactly what he wanted to do. Why he would care to catch up with a criminal he'd caught years ago was beyond Neal, but he didn't need to know the why as long as the what didn't involve removing his clothes or returning to prison.

Neal took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his mouth, watching as it frosted in the air. Enough standing around looking at himself. It was time to go in. He shoved his hands in his pockets, the holes in his gloves not exactly keeping his fingers toasty, and made his way up the stairs of the Burke's adorable little house. Talk about a picket fence kind of life.

He steeled himself as he slowly lifted a hand to knock to knock on the door. Before he had the chance, however, it swung open, making him stumble back in surprise.

"Hey, Neal, there you are!" Peter said, grinning widely at him like he was an old friend. All the anger and suspicion of earlier seemed to have been wiped away. The bigger man was already wearing a jacket over his sweater, and was apparently ready to go because he stepped out of the house and shut the door behind him.

"I'm starving, how about you?" Peter asked as he started carefully down his snow-dusted front steps, waving for Neal to follow him. "C'mon, let's get in the car before I freeze to death."

It turned out that the Ford Taurus Neal had been staring into was actually Peter's car. It was nice inside, obviously top of the line, and Neal carefully folded his hands in his lap, almost afraid to touch the clean interior with his somewhat grimy gloves.

"So, where are we going?" Neal asked quietly as Peter started the car, praying silently that it was someplace cheap. He only had seven dollars, and he'd borrowed that from a co-worker with promises to pay him back ten next week. If Neal got up at three-thirty instead of five in the mornings then he could walk to work next week and skip bus fares. That would be enough to pay back his co-worker. Hopefully.

"Sport's grill a few blocks away. Joey Downer's, it's called."

Neal 'hm'd' in acknowledgment, staring out the window out onto the darkened streets.

"How was work?" Peter questioned after a moment of silence, his voice a little overly casual. Apparently Neal wasn't the only one nervous about this little get together.

Neal glanced over at the man, giving him a strained smile. "Okay. Just work. Cleaned some floors. Trimmed some hedges. You know how it goes." Actually, he'd spent six hours mostly on his hands knees cleaning two houses and three floors of an office building, then spent five hours using heavy shears to hack at some hugely overgrown shrubs in a small park on the west side. He was bone tired, but there was no point in complaining. Nobody liked a whiner and, Neal realized suddenly, he wanted Peter to like him. God knew why, but he did. He guessed that just went to show how badly he wanted a friend if he had a mind to try and impress the man who'd arrested him, twice for that matter.

"Well, it's good that you're working hard. My father always said that hard work makes the man."

"I'm trying," Neal said quietly. "I don't know how much of a man it makes me, but I get by."

Peter glanced over at that, a doubtful sort of look on his face. Neal supposed he didn't blame the guy. It was probably hard to believe that someone who'd wasted their entire youth pulling scams and running from the law was actually trying to make an honest living now.

"Not getting by very well from what I can see," Peter said quietly, and Neal shrugged.

"Blame it on the economy." Neal gave a short laugh. "Or the fact that I'm a felon. Believe it or not, that's not what people are really looking for in a new hire."

Peter chuckled. "I can imagine. But you're so smart, Neal. I mean, I don't like to brag on people's crimes since I don't think crime is something to brag about, but I meant what I said earlier. You're a goddamn genius, Caffrey."

Neal just stared out the window at the snowy sidewalks. "Obviously not the kind of genius that gets you anywhere in life." The car slowed as they approached a squat little building with a neon football flashing on its awning.

"Maybe you just haven't found your place in life yet," Peter said as he pulled the Taurus up to a curb, shifting it into park. "Keep trying, and I bet you will."

o o o

Peter hadn't seen someone study something as hard as Neal was studying the menu since his exams at Quantico. You'd have thought he was memorizing the thing, the way his eyes would dance across it then move back to the top and start again. Every once and awhile he would start chewing on his lip in a nervous sort of way, then stop abruptly and shoot Peter an embarrassed looking glance. Nervous habit, maybe? He was sure prison could give a man a few of those.

It was almost surreal, this scene. Neal with his shaved head and clothes that were… Well, *definitely* not up to what Peter thought of as the younger man's 'normal' style. But then, this was a man who'd spent a quarter of his life dressed in prison garb. Compared to orange scrubs, his pink button down shirt and worn out jeans were the epitome of nice. Though, to be blunt about it, Peter was pretty sure that the shoes back in prison were better than the ones Neal was wearing. One of them had duct tape on it, for God's sake.

"Find anything you like?" Peter questioned as he took a sip of his beer. Neal had looked at him like he was nuts when Peter had asked if the other man wanted one too. At first Peter had assumed it was because Neal Caffrey was too uppity for beer—he remembered the man as being quite the wine connoisseur—but when all he'd ordered was water, Peter had started to wonder if maybe he was an alcoholic who'd gone sober and thought Peter knew. He couldn't figure out what else would make the man look at Peter like he'd sprouted another head when asked if he wanted a Bud Light.

"Uh…" Neal's eyes danced across the menu again, tongue flicking out to lick nervously at his lips.

Peter found it rather adorable—and more than a little attractive—which was surprising considering that he didn't tend to notice things like that about other men. But then Neal Caffrey had always had a strange sort of power over him. He remembered the days when he'd been chasing the man—God, had it really been eight years?—and how he'd spill everything he learned about Neal to El like the man was his secret high school crush. She had thought it was cute, and they had actually spent a few nights role playing 'Peter and Neal.' No one could say that his wife wasn't open minded. It had certainly made for some hilarious nights. Sexy, too. Peter hid a smile at the memory, having a feeling that Neal would probably find it less amusing than Peter did. Neal had never shown any affinity for men at all, as far as Peter could tell, and he would probably be more than a little embarrassed to find out that Peter and his wife played sex games using his name.

"You know, I think I'll just get an appetizer. The potato slices sound good. I haven't had sour cream in awhile." Neal let the menu drop to the table with a thump then reached out and grabbed his glass, draining the last of the water from it. It was his third glass in the half an hour they'd been there.

Peter's good humor faded away as he watched the way Neal's elbows seemed to jut from his too thin arms. Now that he was no longer dressed in coveralls, Peter could see that the once muscular body was pretty much gone, leaving a scarecrow behind. It was obvious that Neal was not eating well, in fact, if he didn't know better, Peter would say he was on the edge of starving.

This was the richest country in the fucking world. Americans threw away twice as much food as they ate. The idea that *anyone* living in this nation could go hungry made Peter feel sick to his stomach. And the idea that *Neal* was going hungry… Well, that just made him want to shake down some asshole politicians, give the cash to charity, and let them see what it felt like to be impoverished in a world full of fat cats.

"Don't you think you could use something a little more substantial than an appetizer?" Peter questioned, raising an eyebrow.

Neal picked up his empty water glass, twirling it around in his hands, a surprisingly graceful movement. Apparently he hadn't lost all of his smooth groove. "Nah, I'm good. I drank a lot of water. I'm not that hungry." His stomach chose that moment to betray him by growling loudly and Neal's face turned a startling red color.

"Not hungry, huh?" Peter said dryly. "That sounds like hungry to me."

Neal set the glass down on the table a little harder than necessary, annoyance blooming across his sharp features. "Okay, fine, I admit it. I don't have enough money for this place, especially if I have to leave a tip," he snapped. "I only have seven bucks and, honestly, the idea that I'm going to have to spend it all on one thing when I could splurge at a dollar menu makes me feel kind of sick. Is that what you wanted to hear?" His eyes flashed. "I'm poor, Peter, okay? A fucking burger here costs nine dollars and I don't have that kind of cash. Hell, I had to borrow what I have 'cause when you asked me to dinner earlier? I had seventy-seven cents and plans to pick up a day old sandwich at a convenience store. So appetizer it is, 'cause it's all I can afford." He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at Peter like he was daring him to say something.

Peter felt his mouth drop open, a sick feeling rising in his stomach. God, no wonder the man had looked at Peter like he was crazy for asking if he wanted a beer. He thought he'd be paying for it, and obviously Neal couldn't afford luxuries like alcohol these days. "Neal," he said, voice coming out a little pained, "this is my treat, okay, buddy? When I invited you to dinner? I never meant for you to pay. You can order whatever you want. I've got it."

Neal stared at Peter for a long moment, big blue eyes unreadable, before he spoke, voice strained. "You don't have to—"

"I want to," Peter interrupted, not interested in listening to arguments from someone who looked like a slight breeze could blow them away. "It's my treat. It always was. I'm sorry that I didn't make that clearer."

Neal's eyes stayed locked on him so long that Peter was starting to wonder if they were have a stare down and Peter didn't know it, then the other man let out a very unhappy sounding laugh, dropping his head and shaking it tiredly.

"Shit. God, I wish I had known that. Now I owe Billy three bucks for nothing."

Peter's brow furrowed slightly. "What?"

Neal looked up, a manic sort of smile spreading across his face even as he made a choked sound, like he was holding back a sob. "Oh, I borrowed the seven bucks from a co-worker with a promise I'd give him ten back next week. Earn a little interest on his investment. The bank of Billy, I guess." He waved the words away. "But whatever. I'll figure it out."

Peter tried his best to school his features to keep from showing Neal how sad this was making him. He couldn't even imagine what it would be like to be worried over three dollars. To him, it was nothing. Literally, nothing. If he accidentally threw away three bucks and he'd have to go to the curb and bring the trash back to get it back… He'd just leave it there. Three bucks wasn't worth sorting through the trash to a guy like Peter. What would it be like to be so bad off that three dollars made you want to cry?

"Hey, it's no problem," Peter said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wallet. He grabbed a twenty and tossed it onto the table in front of Neal. "Here, take that."

Neal eyed the thing like it was a goddamn Michelangelo, but he didn't reach for it. "You don't have to do that," he said casually, though the look on his face made it clear that doing so was painful. "I get by."

"It's my fault there was a mix up," Peter replied. "Go ahead and take it."

The younger man glanced hesitantly up at Peter and, for a second, he thought pride was actually going to win out and Neal was going to refuse the money, but an instant later the man reached out and snatched it up, stuffing it into the pocket of his jacket. Apparently pride wasn't enough to keep someone on the edge of starvation from accepting a little charity.

"How come you aren't on food stamps?" Peter questioned.

"How do you know I'm not on food stamps?" Neal replied slowly, face suddenly suspicious. "You talk to my PO again?" His voice made it clear that he did not approve.

Peter held up his hands. "No, no, nothing like that. I can tell you're not on food stamps because you look like a skeleton, Caffrey. If you were on food stamps, you'd have at least a little flesh on your bones."

Neal relaxed noticeably. Apparently the idea of Peter talking to his parole officer really made him tense.

"Yeah, the Convict Rewind program doesn't allow you to get government assistance since it provides you with a job."

"A job that doesn't even pay minimum wage," Peter said flatly.

Neal shrugged. "Yeah, my social worker jokes that it was created by Tea Partiers. No offense to the more extreme wing Grand Old Party, of course. You get no food stamps, no unemployment checks, no housing assistance. You can't even get a driver's license. Just a shit job and a one way pass back to the slammer if you fuck it up. But hey, it cuts back on tax payer dollars!"

"That sounds like a really crappy deal to me," Peter said, shaking his head. "I mean, you've served your sentence, done your time."

"It's supposed to help ease you back into society or whatever. And I guess it does." Neal gave him a half-hearted grin. "I mean, let's face it. If I wasn't in the Rewind program, you'd probably be chasing me again. I have no degree, I have no previous employers, I have no recommendations. All I have is a felony record and experience making brooms and sewing medical scrubs in prison for ninety-three cents an hour. There's a reason I haven't been able to get a job that isn't part of the program, and if I didn't have what I've got, well, I wouldn't have much choice but to go back to stealing stuff, would I?" He shrugged. "A guy's got to eat."

Peter shook his head at the phrasing. A guy's got to eat? Neal might be working, but he definitely wasn't eating, not like a man his size should. "But you're so smart, Neal. You have so much to offer. I have a hard time believing that people can't see that."

Neal laughed. "Man, Peter, I don't know what fantasy of me you've got built up in that head of yours, but it's bullshit. Yeah, okay, I'm not gonna argue that I'm smart. Lots of people are smart. You're as smart as I am, maybe smarter. You did catch me, after all. Smart gets you nowhere unless you've done something with it. All I ever did was bad stuff. I blew off real jobs and degrees and all that crap to take a more exciting road like the stupid kid I was. But now I'm all grown up and I'm paying for my mistakes. If I'd delivered goddamn pizzas when I was twenty instead of stealing masterpieces, I might be able to get a decent job right now. But I didn't, and I can't, and now there's no going back. It's as simple as that."

At one time Peter would have given pretty much anything to hear Neal Caffrey come out and say he'd made the wrong decisions, but right now, looking at the man face to face? It just made Peter feel sad. The words were true, and it was a mature of Neal to admit to it, but it still seemed wrong that someone like Neal was in a place like this, no matter what mistakes he'd made. What was the use of learning from your past if all it got you was a life of poverty? Neal had already lost half his life to prison and, now that he was out, here he was hardly living at all.

"Hey, you guys decide what you want yet?"

Peter tore his eyes away from Neal to look at the waitress, giving her a strained smile. "Yeah, I think we're ready." He lifted up his empty mug. "Oh, and how about another round?" He glanced over at Neal. "And one for him, too."

o o o

"I swear to God, it was a carrier pigeon!" Neal said, laughing a little too loudly.

"No way," Peter said as he fumbled with the lock, a big grin on his face. "You're bullshitting me."

"It waaaas," Neal insisted, knowing there was a whiny edge to his voice but not giving a damn. God, he felt good. A little buzzed, but good. He'd only had two beers, but it had been forever since he'd had alcohol and he was a lot lighter than he used to be, so they'd left him tipsy. But even better than that was the warm, full feeling in his stomach. It had been awhile since he'd felt this full. Usually he tried to spread his food out to keep his energy up, eating part of a dollar menu burger then saving the rest for later in the day. He'd eaten all of his burger and almost half his fries tonight which, for someone with as small a stomach as he now had, was a hell of a lot.

"A freakin' bird flew the combination to you?" The door to the Burkes' house opened Peter motioned for Neal to go inside.

"Yup," Neal said proudly, despite a nagging feeling that this wasn't something he was supposed to be proud of. "Crazy, huh?"

"Totally crazy." Peter shut the door behind them. "You want a soda?"

"Yeah, sure," Neal said as he dumped himself on the couch, smiling pleasantly at the ceiling. It was a nice ceiling. This was a nice house. He liked it lots. Nice and warm and very pretty. Much nicer than his stupid room where it was always chilly and smelled bad. He wished he had a house like this.

"Here you go," Peter said as he came back into the living room, tossing a Coke can in Neal's direction.

Somehow Neal actually managed to catch it, despite the fact that his brain seemed to be moving a second slower than the rest of the world. He popped it open, taking a long drink. "Ah," he said happily, closing his eyes to savor the sugary taste. "I forget how much I like high fructose corn syrup. A beautiful invention, high fructose corn syrup. The main ingredient in everything tasty. Screw health foods. I like high fructose corn syrup."

"Me too," Peter agreed, flopping down on the couch next to him. He popped his can open, taking a sip. "Very tasty that high fructose corn syrup."

"Mmm," Neal agreed, sort of snuggling against Peter. "I'm glad you needed a maid. It's been lots of fun and stuff."

"Yeah," Peter said. "I didn't know that I missed you, but you know what, I did miss you." He laughed. "Funny, isn't it? Fate is such a nice guy."

Neal giggled. "What?"

"Well, it's *got* to be fate, right?" Peter said, the words slurring just a bit. "I mean, all of New York and you end up at my house? It's fate, buddy."

"I don't believe in fate," Neal said in a helpful voice. He was feeling very helpful tonight.

"That's stupid," Peter said, shaking his head. He moved his arm so that it was wrapped loosely around Neal's shoulders. It felt nice. "Fate introduced me and El. I swear, it was totally fate. Meant to be, you know? This was totally fate, too."

Neal giggled again. "How many beers did you have, Peter?"

The man made a face. "Enough for us to take a cab. Man, I'm gonna have to get the Taurus in the morning. It's a company car and Reese will get pissed if it gets busted into. His nose wrinkles up all funny when he gets pissed and it's really hard not to laugh at it, but if you laugh when he's pissed then he gets *more* pissed and it wrinkles up worse and is even funnier… It's a vicious cycle," Peter said mournfully. "You can't *escape* it. So I better go get the car in the morning."

"It's a nice car," Neal said, once again using his helpful voice. "I like cars that talk to you. Very friendly."

Peter smiled down at him. "You know, you're really pretty."

Neal pouted. "I wish people would stop calling me that. I never wanted to be pretty. It only gets you in trouble."

"But you are," Peter insisted. "It's a good thing."

"Not in prison," Neal said darkly, not feeling so helpful anymore.

"Hm, maybe not. But you're not in prison anymore, so it's good now, right?"

Neal began to chew on his lip, Peter's arm around his shoulders suddenly feeling a lot less comfortable than before. "How come you care?"

Peter shrugged, and the arm around Neal's shoulders tightened. It definitely didn't feel so nice anymore. "You're a really amazing person. You shouldn't be living like this. You don't gotta live like this. I could help you out, you know."

Neal's heart sped up and he suddenly felt way, way too hot. "I dunno about that," he muttered, trying to stand up, but Peter's arm around his neck stopped him, pulling his back against the other man.

"I could," Peter said, still smiling brightly. It made Neal uncomfortable. "I was thinking, remember what you wanted to do four years ago, after you escaped?"

Neal shook his head, mind too fuzzy to be sure of what Peter was talking about.

"You said you wanted to help me," Peter said, "and I would help you. They wouldn't let me do it then 'cause they said you'd run off for sure, but I bet now it would be different. I bet we could come up with something that would be good for both of us."

Neal wrapped his arms around himself, sinking down into the sofa cushions as much as he could. "I-I don't think so," he said in a shaky voice. "I don't do that, boss."

Peter shifted so that he was sort of facing Neal. Neal lowered his eyes but the agent reached out and tugged his chin up, looking down at the younger man seriously.

"I don't like to see you like this, Neal," he said softly. "You're working so hard, you should be rewarded for that. Instead you're…" He ducked his head, bringing a hand to his eyes for a moment before continuing. "Instead you're practically starving. You deserve better. You're special, Neal, and so beautiful, too. We'll work something out and you'll never have to go hungry again. Please, just think about it?"

Neal turned his face away, tears welling up in his eyes. He really wished his head was clearer, than the alcohol wasn't making everything so slow and confused. The words… they sounded so nice. He was so tired of being hungry and exhausted. Wouldn't it be easy to just do what Peter wanted? So what if it made him a whore? Who even cared? He didn't have any pride left anyway, not really. This last hold out was just desperation, him trying to pretend that he was still somebody important.

Neal trusted Peter, liked Peter. He always had. Peter wasn't dangerous like the guys in prison who wanted to use him or Officer Miller who waited for him outside the testing center so he could Look at him. Peter wouldn't hurt him, he was sure of that. Peter wanted to help him.

Peter wanted to help him. All he had to do was help Peter in return.

Before Neal's blurry mind even had time to fully process what he was doing, his lips were pressed against Peter's, tongue searching between the other man's lips.

The kiss was gentle but deep. Nice, even, but after a moment Peter pulled away slowly, staring down at Neal with wide eyes. "What are you doing?"

Neal frowned at the words, not understanding. "Isn't… Isn't that what you want from me?" He licked his lips nervously. "You said you wanted me to help you."

Peter stiffened, and Neal's stomach churned at the look on his face.

"Yes," he said in a shaky voice. "I did. I do want to help you. But that wasn't what I was talking about, Neal. I can't pretend that I don't want you, that I haven't always sort of wanted you, but I didn't mean *that.* I meant that you could come help me at the Bureau, like you wanted to when we were after the Dutchman." Peter paused, a troubled look coming over his face. "Neal… Do you do that?" His voice sounded pained. "Do you… help… men for money?"

Oh, God. Oh, God, no. Humiliation washed over Neal as the full weight of Peter's words fell on his muddled brain.

"No," he said, shoving at Peter's chest with his hands. "No, I don't." He stumbled to his feet, a tear running down his cheek. "I swear, I don't. I never have. I don't." He had to get out of there. He had to. The look on Peter's face… Neal hadn't felt so ashamed since his first day in prison when his cellmate had forced him to eat his food off the ground.

"Neal, wait!"

Neal didn't pause, just stumbled his way out the door and into the night and, for once, HUNGER wasn't the word on his mind. Tonight it had been usurped by WHORE.