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See Chapter 1 for summary and warnings!
Author's Notes: Okay, this chapter and the next move a little slower than I was planning this fic to be, but I felt like I really needed to spend some time setting up how everybody feels about Neal in the Burke house before moving on to meeting June, Diana, Jones, etc and working on the Dutchman case. So here's a couple chappies kind of setting that up. Hope they're not boring or anything lol.
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Chapter 4: Whose Cheese is it Anyway?
"I can't take my shirt off like this, Master," Neal said quietly, eyes flickering from Peter to the floor and back to Peter again as he fumbled to remove his shoes with his hands still cuffed.
Peter sighed, and there was an edge of annoyance to it that made Neal cringe. Of course, everything had been making him cringe since he'd stepped through the front door into Peter's house. This was his master's territory. Everything here belonged to Peter. Well, and also to Elizabeth, but mostly to Peter, at least in his mind.
Neal had served a mistress for a long time, but he still hadn't managed to totally overcome some of his more sexist feelings about owners. Neal had been trained to serve men, to fear men, to worship men. Women hadn't been a part of his early training at all and, before Mistress, he'd never been with a woman at all. He'd expected her to laugh when he'd admitted he was technically a 'virgin,' but she'd smiled sweetly at him and promised she'd teach him how to please her.
Elizabeth kind of reminded him of Mistress. Not in a sexual sense, of course—he would never even dare to think those kinds of things about Peter's wife unless he was told to—but in the way they smiled at him almost like he was a person. It was a nice feeling and Neal wanted badly to embrace it, but he needed to tread lightly around El until he figured out his master's rules regarding his wife. If he got too intimate with her too quickly, Peter might punish him, or even send him back to the prison. It was obvious that Peter felt very strongly for his wife.
"Okay, look, I'm going to take these things off so you can shower," Peter said, pulling a ring of keys out of his pocket, "but I'm going to be right here, so don't even think about trying to dash out the window or anything like that."
Neal gritted his teeth in annoyance at the words, wishing that the man would believe him already that disobedience was the *last* thing on his mind tonight. He did not want to go back to that fucking prison.
"I solemnly swear not to use my amazing Spiderman abilities for evil, Master," he replied cheekily, trying to hide the way Peter's endless stream of threats about what would happen if he stepped out of line was making him want to curl up in a ball and die.
"Good," Peter said, opening the cuffs and dumping them in the sink. "Okay, undress and get into the shower."
Neal shucked off his shirt and hoodie, brow furrowing a little as Peter turned his back to him. Apparently his new master wasn't going to watch him bathe, which probably meant he wasn't interested in fucking him tonight. Even though pleasing the man sexually was pretty much the main component in convincing Peter he was worth the effort of keeping, Neal couldn't help but be relieved. He wouldn't be anywhere near healed tomorrow, but his ass wouldn't be burning like it was now from having been fucked six times today with little care for his comfort.
He carefully folded his clothes, putting them in a neat pile beside the sink, unsure if Peter would want him to put them back on, if he'd be left naked, or if Peter had some clothes for him to change into.
Neal glanced over at Peter again, watching the man's big shoulders move slightly as he played some sort of game on his phone. Angry Birds, maybe? One of the guards, Marky, had been addicted to that game, played it all through his shift. Neal had liked Marky. The man never fucked him, and he'd give Neal bread in exchange for reprogramming defective registration chips he got from a checker at SlaveMart so he could resell them at pawn shops. It didn't actually require anything more than removing the battery, leaving it out for at least twenty minutes, then using a needle to press the tiny button that triggered the reset, but Neal hadn't shared that secret, letting Marky think he was some big techie.
Truth was, what Neal did was much more difficult than resetting chips. Creating believable identities was an art form, literally, because while registration chips listed basic data, they then directed you to view the Certificate of Registration, the physical proof of ownership you received after purchasing a slave. Each Certificate had at least three up to an infinite number of different watermarks that told a slave's life story, the first three being breeder, trainer, and trader and the rest signifying different aptitudes, past owners, and anything else you could want to know about your slave. Every watermark was listed in the federal directory, but they were not available to the public.
The idea was that the federal government, the only ones who had access to the meanings of all the watermarks, could catch forged certificates when the information printed didn't match the watermarks on the edges. And maybe you wouldn't bother having a five hundred dollar fuckling from SlaveMart's clearance section checked out, but no one paid big bucks for a slave without having their papers verified by the government. It wasn't impossible to get your hands on a black market copy of the watermark lists, though you needed a new one every few months to keep up with the changes, but the next dilemma came in faking them. Human beings didn't scan the Certificates, computers did, so being even a centimeter off in your brushstroke could bring up an alert. Techies who could jailbreak a chip were a dime a dozen, but an artist that could replicate perfect watermarks was worth his weight in platinum.
Neal had created over five hundred fake registrations before they caught him, many of which had more than twenty watermarks a piece. Peter knew about less than a quarter of them, and those weren't even what he'd been able to nail Neal with. Neal didn't even want to imagine the agent's reaction if he really knew how far he had gone over the line.
A computerized melody rang out from Peter's phone along with the words 'You win!' and the man made a soft sound of satisfaction. Neal sighed, wishing the bastard would tell him what he wanted from his slave instead of leaving him hanging here with no clue how to please his new master. Was this some sort of punishment or something? Was he trying to mess with Neal's head? Neal just wasn't sure.
Whatever Peter's game was, it didn't look like Neal was going to get any more instructions, so he stepped into the shower and reached out to turn on the cold water. Now the big question: Was he allowed to use the hot water? The cold spray was already making him shiver and pretty soon his limbs would start to feel numb, but he was on tenuous ground here and he didn't want to make assumptions. But surely he wouldn't mind if Neal used a little?
Master Vincent had once left him in a hotel room as a gift to a friend. After the man had finished with him, he'd told Neal to take a shower. Master Vincent had always let him use hot water, having been a extraordinarily generous master, but this man had been furious that Neal had taken such a liberty. As punishment he'd turned the cold water off completely and made Neal stand under the burning flow until he was sobbing in a heap on the tile floor, skin red and blistered. Then the man had fucked him again, scratching his nails across the raw skin, to make sure the lesson stuck.
On second thought, it would probably be best to skip the hot water completely.
Neal picked up the soap and began to wash himself as quickly and efficiently as possible, not wanting to stay under the cold spray for a second longer than necessary.
Peter's back was still turned to him, and Neal wondered if it was a subtle way of letting Neal know that he was disgusted by him and his overused body. Neal looked down at himself, cataloging the bruises and calculating in his head how long they would take to heal. One week, he decided, until he was pretty again. Then he could start working full out on his plan to con Peter Burke into believing that Neal Caffrey was the catch of a lifetime instead of an average grade fuckling whose only real qualities were a nice body, a handsome jaw line, and a talent for cheap card tricks.
Neal could do this. He'd done it a hundred times before, selling a different version of himself over and over again to earn money for Mistress. The registrations he'd created had always been middle range and fairly generic, no special qualities that might raise a flag on the Feds' network. It had been his body and his charm that had sold him then, and that's what he would use now.
Okay, it wouldn't be quite as easy as his usual con since Peter already knew he was a loser and a criminal. Also, the agent was more annoyed than entranced by his so-called 'charm' and thought so much of Neal's body that he'd given it away to every inmate who popped a boner. Not to mention the fact that the one use Neal had *never* registered himself as when forging his papers was a fuckling. But Peter obviously knew Neal's suggested use was sexual entertainment, a big strike down on his value. Why keep a fuckling when you can fuck a slave who has other uses as well? Plus Neal had been telling the truth when he'd said that he didn't have any real practical skills beyond very basic household use. In fact, his real registration was pretty pitiful, even compared to the middle grade personas he'd created.
'Male, 30 years old, blue eyes, brown hair, 6'1", multi-sexual, suggested usage: sexual entertainment, youth training: pleasure/sex work, additional training: none, additional usage: fine arts, party tricks, visual enjoyment.' He hadn't checked it lately, being in prison and all, but he knew it was something along those lines. Nothing impressive, to be sure. And, because of the law stating that a slave had to be of a certain age to be trained for sex work, six years of Neal's training wasn't even listed. Hell, he'd already been fully trained by the time he was twelve. As for the shit Mozzie had taught him, well, it wasn't exactly the kind of thing you could list in your papers, and it definitely wasn't the kind of thing that would impress Peter.
Neal used the bar soap to wash his hair since Peter hadn't told him he could use the shampoo, then reached out and turned off the water.
"Finished?" Peter asked as the spray sputtered out.
"Yeah, all done, Master," Neal replied, still dripping in the shower, arms in their comfortable position behind his back. He knew that Peter was trying to give him range of motion, but Neal privately wished the man would just cuff his hands behind his back. He'd stood with hands clasped behind him his whole life, and holding his hands in front of him was as awkward to Neal as holding his hands behind his back would be to Peter. Yeah, the position was supposed to be a reminder of a slave's bondage to their master, but mostly it was simply the way Neal was used to standing. He was nervous enough tonight without additional awkwardness.
"Okay, then—whoa!" Peter halted in mid-turn, slapping his hand over his eyes and groaning. "Shit, Caffrey, flash me much? Put a goddamn towel on."
Neal glanced over at the towel hanging from a rack next to him. "You want me to use your towels, Master?" he asked doubtfully, having never met anyone who shared their linens with their slaves. Especially not towels as nice and fluffy looking as these. Even hotels provided separate towels and bedding for slaves. Wouldn't want anybody to catch cooties, Neal guessed.
"Well, I don't want you to drip dry!" Peter retorted. It wasn't exactly an answer, but it was good enough for Neal to pull down the towel and quickly began to dry himself. He made a note to take it to Elizabeth later and at least let her know that Peter'd told him to use it so that she could throw it out if she wanted. Hell, maybe she'd give it to him since he'd already used it. Mistress had given him a very nice towel and, since he slept in her bed, his sheets had been nice, too. Which they should have been because he'd had to steal a solid gold set of bondage cuffs to pay for their silken luxury. Even the blanket in his cage had been very nice, real fluffy. Much better than the sandpaper that had passed for a blanket in his cage at the prison.
Neal missed Mistress' cage. He blinked back tears at the thought, turning his head to the side so that Peter couldn't see them, that is if he ever dared to uncover his eyes and risk having to see Neal's body. He would have to work hard to win Peter over, lure him in. Neal had no doubt that he could help the Bureau with their cases, but he wouldn't be living at the Bureau, he'd be living in Peter's house. There was no way that the Bureau would pay to put him at a boarding stable. Helping out at the office wasn't a good enough reason for keeping a slave you barely tolerated, much less wanted, around. He needed to prove to Peter that the goods could still get the job done, even if they'd taken a bit of a beating over the years.
"Okay, you can look now, Master," Neal said once he'd finished drying off and wrapped the towel around his waist.
Peter carefully spread his fingers, peeking through them suspiciously before dropping his hand with a sigh. "Okay, good." He picked up Neal's shirt, holding it out in disdain. "For a place that claims to spend $700 a month caring for each inmate, these clothes look like shit."
"I'm not an inmate, Master," Neal reminded him, doing his best not to roll his eyes. "I'm a slave. We get the clothes that are too worn out for the inmates to wear anymore. Hence all the holes and stains. I doubt housing a slave costs more than a hundred bucks a month, sir."
"I seriously doubt they could feed you for a month on a hundred dollars," Peter said, still looking at the shirt in disdain.
"The FDA laws don't apply to feeding slaves. You can feed slaves things you'd otherwise throw out, Master," Neal stated.
Peter made a face. "Oh, gee, that's lovely." He sighed, tossing the shirt back beside the sink. "I'll give you some money to go to the thrift store down the street in the morning. For now I'll lend you some sweats. They'll be a little big on your skinny rear, but it will have to do." He frowned, looking Neal up and down. "Seriously, buddy, we need to have a talk about what went down in that prison. Those are some *really* serious marks there."
Neal glanced down at the greenish bruises on his chest and ribs. They weren't all that bad, but he wasn't going to argue. If a few kicks in the side were what Peter considered *really* serious, he'd pretty much landed himself in the slave's version of Club Med, though he seriously doubted a powerful man like Peter would honestly let him off that easy if something went bad.
Peter led the way out of the bathroom and down the hall, stuffing the handcuffs in his pocket, and Neal followed silently, feeling a little steadier now that his hands were in their familiar position behind his back. He knew from experience that he could stand like this for hours without moving an inch. Master Vincent had liked to use him as decoration, like a sexier version of the guys at Buckingham Palace.
They entered what had to be the master bedroom, and Neal immediately decided that El had decorated it. The colors were soft and soothing and the bed stands held vases full of bright flowers. Neal liked it a lot, and not only because its effeminacy reminded him of Mistress. It appealed to him as a painter as well, and he wondered idly if Elizabeth dabbled herself.
"Okay, here you go," Peter said, pulling a pair of ugly grey sweatpants from a drawer. A blue t-shirt with a cartoon police badge arresting a kid with his hand stuck in a cookie jar followed, and he tossed them both onto the bed. "You put those on and—"
Any further instructions were cut off as Peter's phone gave a shrill ring. The man cursed as he looked down at the little screen, grimacing. "Dammit, it's Hughes. The prison must have rung him, the bastards." He looked up at Neal. "I gotta take this. You get dressed and go wait down with El." He glanced pointedly toward the large window overlooking their little yard. "Just remember, you run, I *will* find you. And you will be *very* sorry you did. Do you understand me, Caffrey?"
Neal's stomach turned at the look on Peter's face. "Yes, Master," he said, barely louder than a whisper, the shakiness making him blush. "I promises I be a good boy," he added in an obnoxiously babyish voice, trying to cover up his sudden rush of fear. You know, because the best way to handle a man who had every right to choke you to death where you stood was to piss him off.
Peter just rolled his eyes, however, and raised his phone to his ear. "This is Burke," he said, pointing at the pile of clothes on the bed as he walked out of the room, not bothering to shut the door. Once Neal was sure he was gone, he dropped the towel and pulled on Peter's sweatpants, tugging the drawstring tight so that they wouldn't fall down his narrow hips.
They were a nice metaphor, these pants belonging to Peter that engulfed him so. Too big and too rough, but they were all he had to protect him from the cold so he'd better make do and be grateful for what he got.
Neal's eyes drifted over to the window as he pulled the t-shirt with its silly cartoon over his head. It would be a cinch, that window. No lock on it, just your basic tug and pull, not even a storm window to remove. A one story drop was nothing to someone who had parachuted out of a plane with a four million dollar diamond encrusted collar in his fanny pack. He could be down the street and gone before Peter was off the phone.
He almost laughed aloud at the thought. Fantastic, he could make another great escape. And then do what? Mistress was gone, and if he ran from his new master, the full force of the FBI would be on his shoulders. He couldn't go to Mozzie or Alex or even dig into the small emergency fund that Master Vincent had left him before he'd disappeared. ANCIENTLYRE. NICE TRY NEAL. The words were the password to account set up under the name Tyler Niecan. Bringing any of them into it, even the elusive Vincent Adler, would just mean that the Feds would be after their heads, too. And when he was finally caught, he would likely be tortured until he begged for death as an example of what happens when a slave rebels twice in the same week. Hell, Peter might do it himself.
Forget it. Neal was a lot of things, but he wasn't a fool. He hadn't given up on searching for Mistress, but his only goal right now was to stay out of prison. He could worry about figuring out where she might have disappeared to after he got in good with Peter.
Fully dressed, albeit looking like a toddler in Peter's oversized garb, Neal picked up the towel and folded it neatly before heading into the hall. He paused at a door he guessed led to Peter's study, but couldn't hear anything but muffled voices. After a moment he sighed and made his way toward the stairs.
Elizabeth was in the kitchen, 'whipping something up' as promised, which apparently meant making grilled cheese sandwiches and microwavable French Fries. Neal came up beside her, setting the towel down on the kitchen counter.
The woman glanced over at him, flashing a bright smile. "Hello, Neal. You look much better. Did the shower feel nice?"
The cold shower itself had felt like hell, but the feeling of being clean was damn good so Neal said, "Yes, Ms. El," and laid a hand on the towel. "Master said I should use this towel, but I wanted to tell you in case you wanted to get rid of it."
El's eyebrows shot up at that and she glanced over at him for a second before returning her attention to the sandwich she was grilling. "I take it that owners don't usually share towels with their slaves?"
She sounded genuinely curious, which was nice. It was sort of freaking Neal out, the way Peter looked at him like he was crazy when he acted like a good slave. He knew that the couple had never owned slaves before, but he'd assumed that everyone had some basic understanding of things like etiquette and appropriateness. Apparently the Burkes really were starting from total scratch. Maybe getting them a user manual wasn't that silly of an idea after all.
"No, Ms. El," Neal said, running his fingers along the damp fabric. "A towel is usually one of the things a master gives his slave. Not that any of it is really the slave's property, of course," he added hurriedly, not wanting her to get the wrong idea. Though, truthfully, after awhile you did start to feel a certain level of possessiveness when it came to your personal items like your cage or blanket, but they were still your master's belongings. "But usually a slave is given basic grooming supplies, a towel, a blanket, and a cage. Also sheets if it has its own bed. And a collar or some other mark of ownership, obviously." Neal sincerely hoped the Burkes weren't the 'tattoo the face' sort. That was one fad he really wanted to steer clear of.
"Hm," Elizabeth said, looking interested but not shocked or anything. "Well, we'll get you all those things, Neal. Though I don't think you're going to need a cage, sweetie."
Neal tensed at that. A slave's cage was the closest thing it had to a sanctuary. It was a place where you were allowed to relax, to let your guard down and shuck some of the stress. Not having a cage was like being constantly on-call. It was a slave's job to be hyper aware of everything so that it could serve its mater well. A cage was the one place it could rest its mind.
"Or," El said as if continuing the thought, though Neal noticed that her eyes were flitting over his tense body. She was very perceptive this woman, much more so than Mistress. "I'm sure that we could find you a cage since that's what you're used to having." She nodded at the towel. "But how about you keep that, okay? We have five that all look the same. There's no reason that one can't be yours."
"Thank you," Neal murmured, fingers clenching on the fabric. It was his. Elizabeth had given him a towel. Peter's wife had given him a towel. That was a good sign, right? Proof that El wasn't totally opposed to his presence here?
"So, Neal," Elizabeth said casually as she flipped the sandwich she'd been cooking onto a plate. "You said that you were a prison slave. What does that mean?"
Neal's stomach turned at the question and he did his best to school his features into a calm mask. "It… It means I belonged to a prison, Ms. Elizabeth."
She shot him an amused look. "Well, I figured that. But what did you do?"
Neal's mind raced as he tried to decide what to say. He didn't want to lie to the woman who was essentially his mistress, but what if Peter didn't want her to know? He didn't seem like a man who brought his work home. And what if she didn't want him in her house anymore once she found out? Eventually the papers would come in the mail or Peter would decide to tell her and she'd know he was a fuckling. Being a prison whore on top of that? From what he'd gathered about her talk of working around slaves and Peter's short explanation in the car of her event business, Elizabeth probably spent a lot of time around high society types and, depending on the kind of people they were, her own clients might disdain her for having a fuckling, despite the fact that Neal knew damn well most of them did too. They just kept them locked away where no one else could see them and acted like they only banged slaves who were of higher education and usefulness. As if.
When Elizabeth found out, would she lock him away? The idea made Neal shiver but he forcibly reminded himself that sometimes people surprised you. Nick Halden's suggested usage had been companionship and office administration, but in the end Master Vincent had known who—and what—Neal was all along and apparently hadn't given a shit, because he'd never treated Neal-also-known-as-Nick like a fuckling. Of course, Master Vincent was also a con and a crook. And Mistress… she'd lost her social standing the moment she left her fiance to have illicit rendezvous with Master Vincent's personal slave, so who cared if he was a fuckling on top of that? He was lucky Master Vincent had cared enough to leave Neal's contract to Mistress, despite the fact that Neal had been trying to run a con from the start.
"I, um, helped, uh," he paused, trying to come up with something, anything to describe what he'd done other than 'spread my legs and thought of England.' "I just helped keep things running smoothly, you know?" That was technically true. Fucking slaves *did* keep inmate violence down. "I deserved it," he added, the words still feeling thick on his tongue. He'd thought that if he said it often enough, it might hurt less, but it still stabbed him in the heart to know that a fair, kind, powerful man like Peter had decided that all Neal was good for was spreading his legs for murderers and rapists.
El picked up the sandwich plate, studying Neal for a long moment. "Okay, sweetie," she said finally, though Neal thought her smile looked a bit forced. "Is Peter coming down?"
"I think he's on the phone with the big man," Neal said. "I think maybe I got him in trouble." He shivered at the thought, and El put her hand gently on his arm.
"Don't worry, Neal. Peter can handle Reese."
Neal bit his lip, chewing on it nervously for a moment before saying, "I hope I don't get him into trouble. I hope I don't get into trouble." He hadn't really meant to say the last part aloud, but Elizabeth was looking at him sympathetically.
"Neal, will you answer a question for me?" she asked seriously.
A question? "Sure," Neal said with a shrug, "as long as it's not 'can I call you Petunia'. I'm holding my ground on that one."
El didn't laugh, probably not a good sign. "Do you have any control at all over where you are, Neal?"
What? "Uh…" Neal stalled, not exactly sure what the correct answer to that was. He knew the true answer, but the truth wasn't always what your masters wanted to hear, especially with questions like this. Nobody wants to know that you'd rather be anywhere else but with them, after all. "No, Ms. El," he said finally, deciding to let honesty reign for once. "I'm only a slave."
"Well, there you go," Elizabeth said with a sudden smile. "You're only here because Peter decided to bring you here, Neal. It's not you're fault you're here. It isn't even within your power to decide where you go. So why would you get in trouble for being here? Like Peter said, we face the consequences of our own actions, and he was the one who brought you here."
Wow. Neal had to hold back a laugh. This woman's naivete was endearing, it really was. "It wouldn't be my first time being punished for something I didn't have any control over." Or the second. Or the tenth. Or the hundredth. He being a slave and all, it was a fairly common occurrence.
El sighed. "No, I suppose not. But that's not how things work in this house, Neal. You don't get punished for things other people do, even if they involve you, okay?"
Maybe in her world. Somehow Neal didn't think this house rules was Peter-approved, but there was no point in arguing even if he'd wanted to. "Thanks, Ms.—"
"Hey, is that grilled cheese I smell?" Peter called out, appearing suddenly in the doorway to the kitchen. Neal relaxed a little at the wide grin on his face. Apparently the conversation hadn't gone badly enough to hinder Peter's joy at the sight of toasted bread and melted cheese.
"It is indeed," Ms. El said, putting two plates on the table and setting down the tray of sandwiches in between. "And those nasty, greasy fries you love so much. The heart attack waiting to happen?"
"Oh, you are an *angel*," Peter said, practically swooping in to kiss his wife. Neal's eyes widened slightly at the easy, familiar way they held one another. He'd never had a master who kissed his wife like that, as if she was the only thing in the world worth having. Of course, he'd never actually had a master who liked his wife, so maybe his experience was limited.
Still, this could be a hindrance to Neal's plans if he wasn't careful. Peter obviously had an abundance of emotional companionship, and no need for any extra. That meant that he would need to approach the man on a purely sexual basis. Surely when you loved a woman that much there were some more degrading desires that you didn't want to have to ask her to perform, right? Maybe? Possibly?
Neal wasn't sure how a free couple would act in regards to that kind of thing. Obviously he had never asked Mistress for anything at all in bed. In fact, he'd never asked anyone for anything in bed—wouldn't even know what to ask for—but if Peter didn't make the first move, Neal would have to be the one to do it and it wouldn't hurt to have an idea of what his new master *didn't* get from his wife so that Neal could take up the slack. What did free men not get from their wives? Maybe he could ask Alex? She wasn't exactly the healthy relationship queen but she was a free woman who'd dated plenty of free guys. It was a place to start, anyway, and if he had to choose between her and Moz, she was definitely the winner.
Neal took a few steps backward away from the dinner table, hovering awkwardly near the refrigerator as he tried to decide if Peter wanted him to serve or disappear into a still and silent posture. Ms. El hadn't seemed very happy when he'd tried to duck out of their way in the living room, so Neal decided to take the middle ground, not hiding himself away but not approaching the table, either.
Peter dumped himself into one of the chairs, grabbing two sandwiches off the serving tray and pulling a fist full of fries from their bowl. El settled down at the end of the table, smiling in amusement as Peter practically shoveled fries into his mouth. Neal's stomach rumbled at the sight and he really hoped that there would actually be some left for him when Peter was done. That is, if they were planning for him to have the leftovers. El hadn't seemed to be preparing anything for him, but they might want him to make his own food.
Slaves generally had the joy of eating the highly processed, dehydrated crap that SlaveMart sold in large quantities. Talk about tasteless. Mistress had fed him real food, usually cereal for breakfast and sandwiches made out of cold cuts for lunch. Master Vincent had fed Neal his leftovers, but since he always ordered enough food for three, he essentially gave Neal the same rich, expensive meals he ate himself. Both Mistress and Master Vincent had even let him drink wine on occasion, never mind the law. But though Mistress and Master Vincent had been his favorite masters, they had not been his first and Neal had plenty of experience with the shit they marketed as slave food. But even slave food was better than what he'd gotten in prison. Instead of throwing any food scraped off trays and out of dishes away, they'd just dump the stuff in a big pile to give to the slaves in the evening. Disgusting.
"Hey, Neal, you watching your figure?" Peter asked through a mouth full of grilled cheese. "Stop smirking at us and come eat."
Neal frowned, feeling off balance again. It was practically becoming his normal state. "You want me to eat now?"
"No," Peter said, voice mildly sarcastic. "I want you to eat on Saturday at five. Food's on the table, come and get it before it's gone."
Neal took a step forward, then another, until he reached the table, then he hesitated, unsure what he should do.
"Have a sandwich, Neal," Elizabeth said, and Neal obeyed almost as glad to have clear instructions as he was to have food. He snatched the sandwich from the platter, eyeing Peter in case the man didn't like his move, then sank gratefully to his knees next to the table, already taking a bite. God, it had been so long since he'd eaten anything that wasn't dry, dirty, or moldy. He'd forgotten how fucking *amazing* cheese could taste.
"You know what, this is getting weird," Peter said, sounding distinctly annoyed, and Neal gritted his teeth to keep from snapping back that the only weird thing was his complete and total lack of knowledge when it came to slaves—real nice, considering that he worked in the federal unit that dealt with them. Seriously, it was like every move Neal made annoyed the man.
"What's that, Master?" he managed to reply in a fairly mild tone, wishing Peter would just shut up and let him eat his damn sandwich. Was that *so* much to ask for?
Peter scooted his chair back so he could better see Neal, crossing his arms over his chest as he stared down at him.
"Gee, I don't know, you acting like such a perfect, obedient slave, maybe? Give up the act, Caffrey. We both know that you don't give a rip about anything but how you can make your life a nicer place to be so, honestly, this just makes me suspicious. You think you're going to woo me into letting my guard down so you can take off?"
Neal looked back down at his sandwich, wishing desperately that he could simply ignore Peter and focus on eating. Unfortunately that was in total opposition to his plan of winning the man over. Besides, if he tried then Peter might very well take his sandwich away entirely, and then where would he be? Tired and aching *and* hungry.
"Neal, why don't you stand up and talk to us, sweetie," El said in that relaxed, gentle way she had. "Peter, give him a little space."
Peter let out a sigh as he scooted his chair back up to the table and Neal climbed slowly to his feet, putting the hand that wasn't holding the sandwich behind his back, then, after a moment's pause, adding the hand with the sandwich less for etiquette's sake and more to keep his precious dinner off his new master's mind and avoid any grabs he might make for it.
"Neal, you'll have to excuse Peter over there. Remember, this is a new experience for us. How does it usually work, slaves eating meals?"
"El, it's Neal Caffrey, for God's sake," Peter said in an exasperated voice.
"Peter," Elizabeth said in a flat tone, "you know I love you, hon. But it's time to shut up now."
Neal choked back laughter as Peter's mouth dropped open then quickly transformed into an annoyed pout.
"Fine, fine," he muttered. "Just trying to help."
"So, Neal? Enlighten us."
Neal licked his lips, trying to figure out what to say. He didn't really want to share the fact that most owners fed their slaves tasteless crap, but if he lied and they did pick up a manual one of these days, he would be screwed. And, hey, even tasteless crap was better than going hungry.
"You can buy food at SlaveMart, usually a hundred dollars will get you about a month's supply if you feed your slave twice a day. Or, obviously, half that amount if you feed them once. I've, uh, never eaten at the same time as my master," Neal admitted, blushing slightly at the disbelieving look Peter was shooting him. Nothing like watching what little respect he'd managed to garner from the agent come tumbling down. "I served Mistress. Other masters I just watched and I would be fed later. Master Vi—"
Neal cut off, not sure if Peter knew about Nick Halden and the former CEO of Adler Industries. He knew that Peter had spent a lot of time trying to prove that Adler Industries was involved in illegal slave trade, but he wasn't sure if he knew Neal had been a part of it.
"Another Master of mine would feed me his leftovers, either from his hand during dinner or by letting me have the plate afterward. Mistress bought me stuff to make sandwiches for myself after I'd picked up whatever food she wanted that night." He gave a dull sort of laugh. "I never really learned to cook beyond the basics, though I can do a pretty good breakfast."
El smiled at him. "Well, if you're interested in learning then I'd be more than happy to teach you, Neal."
"Thanks," he murmured, slowly pulling the sandwich out from behind his back. He stared at it for a long moment then forced a laugh as he tossed it back on the plate, even though he felt more like crying. "Usually masters don't give their slave the food they eat themselves. I'll eat later, Master." He took a deep breath, and faked a grin. "Wouldn't want to outgrow your pants. They're pretty tight," he joked as best he could manage with his mind screaming at him to grab the fucking sandwich like it was blood diamonds and run like hell.
"Neal… You can eat the sandwich," Peter said, his voice a little hesitant. Neal's eyes flickered over to the man, who was staring at him with troubled eyes. "And you can sit at the table, buddy. We want you at the table. How are we supposed to talk to you down there?"
Neal gave a huff of laughter at that. "You do realize that most slaves aren't purchased for their stunning conversational skills, right, sir?" Neal asked, trying to save a little dignity by not reaching for the sandwich like a starving man, even though a starving man was pretty much what he was.
"Yeah," Peter said, voice unreadable. "Yeah, I know that. But I think you can tell from my empty house that I'm not really part of the slave industry's target market. Sit down and eat the sandwich, Neal."
That was enough instruction for Neal. It was nice to have orders you were way more than willing to obey. Neal picked up the sandwich and placed it carefully on the plate across from Peter before slowly lowering himself down into the chair, pulse speeding up a bit. First the towel, now their furniture. Did the Burkes not even have *friends* who owned slaves? Slaves sat on the floor, not in chairs or on sofas, not unless they were doing something for their masters that required them to.
He sat there for a moment, shoulders tensed in case this really was a twisted game where Peter told him to do something then punished him for it, before relaxing enough to pick up the sandwich and take a careful bite, chewing it for as long as possible as he reveled in the taste of melted cheese and butter. He hadn't had butter in *forever.* Then he took another bite, then another, chewing each one for as long as possible.
Neal was halfway through the sandwich before he noticed that Peter had stopped eating and was just staring at him. Neal paused, suddenly worried that he'd done something wrong.
"What happened to your caveman cravings, Master?" Neal asked casually, smirking a little to hide his nervousness.
Peter didn't respond, just sat there with the same troubled look on his face. Finally he spoke. "I guess they didn't feed you real good in prison?"
"Uh, well, I wouldn't call the leftover inmate goop divine," Neal replied absently, returning to his little sandwich ritual of bite and chew and chew and chew. "I wish they would have fed us in the morning instead of at night, but you know how it goes. There was no place in the cages where you could hide anything, so you had to eat it all at night or lose it. Of course, you know I'm pretty tricky at hiding things, so I might have allegedly put some crackers away for the mornings every now and then."
"Wait, so you were serious about some people only feeding their slaves once a day? You only got fed once a day?" Peter sounded genuinely shocked and Neal had a sudden urge to laugh. How many times did he think they fed slaves with criminal contracts when even your average master didn't normally feed his slaves three times a day?
"They fed us at night," Neal repeated as he stuffed the last bite of sandwich into his mouth. God, that was good. He licked his fingers, not really giving a damn right now whether it seemed dignified or not. "Thank you, Master. Thanks, Ms. El."
"Here, have another one," Peter said, shoving the platter toward Neal. He licked his lips as he stared at the tempting hunk of bread and cheese, fighting over it in his mind. Finally he shook his head.
"Thanks for the offer, Master, but if I eat that, I'm gonna puke." Matter of fact, but the truth. It had been a long time since Neal had eaten anything this rich and having one meal a day had shrunk his stomach down to pretty much nothing. It he ate another sandwich, he really would vomit, and he didn't think that would be a very good start to his time in the Burkes' home.
"Right," El said softly, apparently understanding. "Well, as my hungry hubby can attest to, this is a three meal a day house—"
"At least," Peter interrupted, making his wife smile.
"At least. We'll make you something tomorrow morning." Elizabeth smiled at him and he returned it a little shakily.
"So, I think we're all pretty tired," Peter said, though his voice had a strange quiver to it that Neal didn't really understand. "Neal, I have some zip ties, I'm going to tie you to the guest room bed, okay?"
"Is that really necessary?" El questioned, shooting a troubled look Neal's way.
"It's fine, Ms. El," Neal said honestly. He hadn't spent a night free of restraint since he'd been with Mistress, and even she had put the cuff chained to the end of their bed on him sometimes. Not that he couldn't have picked it with two minutes and one of his tie pins, but the point was psychological. "I already told Master it's fine."
Peter grimaced a little. "Hughes would kill me if I didn't, El," he replied, sounding almost pained. "He's a freaking escape artist and he doesn't even have a tracker yet. If he ran off, I wouldn't be the only one whose ass was on the line. Of course, all I can lose is my job. Caffrey stands to lose a hell of a lot more."
"Which is why it's *fine,*" Neal said, a little annoyed at being talked about like he wasn't sitting right there. Never mind that being what free men usually did around slaves. Fucking Mozzie and his funky methods of training, messing with his head now that he had to play a good slave instead of a conman.
Elizabeth sighed then leaned over Neal, giving him a soft kiss on the temple. Wow. Apparently she was warming to him already. She already had a dog, but maybe if he played his cards right he could win over a spot as her pet as well. It was better than anything he was likely to get from Peter, who he'd be lucky to con into even thinking of him as a play toy, much less anything more intimate.
"Goodnight, Neal," she said, fingers brushing his cheek.
A warm feeling flooded through his chest as she smiled at him. The same soft, warm feeling he associated with Mistress. "Goodnight, Ms. El."