See chapter 1 for Warnings and Summary

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Author's Notes on Butt Fires and Reviews: Hey, I want to let ya'll know that I really appreciate reviews and am *always* grateful for those of you who comment on my stories-I love everything from smilies to constructive criticism! But there have been a few people (just a few) who have (usually anonymously) said some things that were kind of hurtful about how I originally stated that this would be posted quickly and then it wasn't. Look, I love fanfic, and I write fanfic for fun, for the joy of it. But real life sometimes takes precedence. I am sorry that this wasn't published immediately, but I actually got one or two flat out MEAN private messages about not having continued this and I just want to let those people know that it did nothing to make me want to work on it. It was hurtful and left me not even wanting to think about working on this story. In the past six months I have gotten a job where I worked 55 hours a week, lost said job because of the economy, been searching everywhere for another job, had to deal with my best friend and roommate getting sick with an illness that they still can't diagnose after 4 months, and met the man who just bought an engagement ring for me. I am picking it back up because so many great reviewers have very kindly expressed that they would like to read it through to the end, and I will do my very best to get it all posted in the next month. I understand that everybody gets upset sometimes, (God knows I do) but please, remember that this is a hobby, not a job, so please respect that Real Life gets in the way and don't send PMs or reviews cussing at me or calling me out for not doing what I said I'd do. It does the opposite of encouraging me, while NICE and CONSTRUCTIVE comments put a fire under my butt to write. Because, if you've seen my Glee fanfic, three of which are over 120,000 words at this time, I do tend to write a lot when I get the chance. I've just been very busy-I haven't updated my Glee fandom works in over 6 months, either, due to the RL stuff going on. Anyway, thanks to everyone who has given me so many nice reviews and hope you enjoy the fic. :)

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Chapter 4: Fire and RAINN

Neal stared down at the coffee maker, wondering idly if throwing it across the room would get him in trouble. Probably, but it might be worth it. The thing had obviously betrayed him. Eight cups in and he was still exhausted. He had even switched the grounds to make sure that no one had snuck in some decaf, to no avail.

He'd barely slept the night before, haunted by nightmares that left him gasping, covered in sweat. Staying at that motel had been a seriously bad idea. He'd had to get up before five to run home and shower—there was no way he was going to step one foot in what passed for bathrooms at the motel—and he'd still barely made it to work on time. He felt vulnerable, and weak. It wasn't a feeling that appealed to him.

He grabbed the pot and tipped some more of the muck they called coffee into his little styrofoam cup, willing to give the coffee pot one more try or twenty—anything to make the pounding in his head subside.

God, what was he going to do? It was obvious Peter was waiting for an answer on the whole undercover thing—he could practically feel the man's eyes on him from up in his shining glass office. He had acted like such a fool yesterday… his cheeks were still flushing at the memory of it. No doubt the office was already abuzz with what had gone down—what in God's name had possessed him to use the words "flash my junk"?

Okay, he hadn't actually heard anyone talking about it, but he was sure they were. Why not? It must have been amusing to see Neal Caffrey break down. Maybe if just he agreed to do it, they would all shut up.

Neal's heart skipped a beat at the idea.

Shit, if just that thought made him crazy, how was he supposed to pull off this op? The truth was, he couldn't do it. He couldn't. It brought back too many memories, and the last thing they needed was for him to have a panic attack or something in the middle of the job. He was Neal Caffrey. The person who had done those things was someone else, someone he had to morph into in order to handle it. But that someone else wasn't the kind of person who would be any help to Peter.

Peter needed someone calm and in control, capable of getting things done. He needed Neal Caffrey—but Neal Caffrey couldn't be that someone and still be, well, Neal Caffrey. It was a catch 22 and there was no way out of it. But how to explain it to Peter so that he understood? Neal didn't *want* to let him down, he really didn't, and he would do this if he could. He would. But… he couldn't. He couldn't risk losing his mind over some burned down buildings.

It was true that the mere idea of all those beautiful works of art burned to ashes made him feel vaguely ill, but not nearly as ill as he'd felt when Peter had announced that Neal was the Bureau's new bus route—slide your card and take a ride! Okay, that hadn't been exactly what Peter had said, but it was how he'd made Neal feel, albeit unintentionally.

At least he knew that Peter hadn't meant to hurt him, or even offend him. He had no idea that Neal had whored himself nightly at an age when he should have been sitting in his room thinking about cute girls and playing Super Mario Brothers on his Nintendo.

It hadn't been easy, those first few times. Having to pretend you loved it when some middle aged bastard shoved his penis up your butt, wiggling and moaning when what you really wanted to do was scream and scream and scream until you couldn't scream any more was tough enough. Then, after he'd mastered pretending to like it, he'd had to learn to hate it again, for the guys who liked to play rough and wanted to see tears running down his cheeks.

Turning tricks had been Neal's first lesson in reading people. Reading people was truly the heart of a con. It didn't matter so much who *you* were, it mattered who *they* were. Once you understood who they were, then you could act accordingly, becoming whoever it was you needed to be to get what you wanted from them. In this case it had been money to eat, but later it would be everything from artwork to diamonds to information on a certain Fed who had his eye on Neal.

The idea of having to redo his earliest con—the one that wasn't so much an organized, planned job as a reckless journey of things he'd rather forget—scared him. Neal knew Peter's belief that he would be in and out with no actual 'in and out' occurring was naive. Melbane would want something, and might very well just decide to take it, whether Neal wanted to give it to him or not.

Neal had never fought them, not even when they were raping him. If you could even call fucking a whore 'rape,' that is. After all, a boy couldn't ask for it anymore than by standing on a dark street corner with glitter in his hair. But even if Peter managed to save him from the physical pain of it and they were in and out in the truest sense, just going in to do the bare minimum would make Neal ache inside. Neal had learned to bear it, but that didn't mean he enjoyed it.

He wanted to help, for Peter's sake, but this whole thing was threatening to wrench up memories that Neal had carefully buried—and he'd buried them for good reasons. They were things that he couldn't handle, not now, not like he was. Reviving that… it would destroy the man he had so carefully rebuilt after prison had wrenched him back to being that worthless kid with no name. Neal had been out of prison for almost three years and, somedays, he *still* didn't feel like a whole person. There were some days when it was *still* just a facade. He couldn't risk that doing this might bring him crashing down to that point again. Not when he had worked so, so hard to become Neal Caffrey again.

It wasn't worth it, just to save a bunch of rags covered in paint. The may have been priceless in an artistic sense, but they weren't worth more than Neal's soul, were they? If he even had a soul. Sometimes he wasn't so sure. Maybe he was really some sort of creature of evil and didn't even know it. That would explain a lot. Why that happy little kid had grown up to be such a bad person. Why everyone around him either wanted to hurt him or ended up being hurt *by* him. Why all the people that he'd thought had loved him had broken his heart. Why every time he got his life together, something came along and broke him again.

Peter… Peter would just have to understand, or at least accept it. As much as he wanted to prove himself to the man, Neal wasn't willing to take the risk. Not for some stupid art. He was a human being, not something to be bought and sold, not anymore. Maybe that scared kid wasn't worth more, but Neal Caffrey was. He *was*, and anyone who said that he wasn't was *wrong.* Peter would understand. He would. If Neal could just figure out a way to explain it to him without sounding like a desperate child and losing all the respect he'd managed to reap over these last few years.

"Hey, Caffrey, I heard you're going in as the freaky fence's boy toy. What's your boyfriend think of that, sweetheart?"

Neal's shoulders tensed a little as he looked over at Agent Tanner's smirking face. He kind of wanted to punch it, but there was no point. Tanner had decided the day he'd met Neal that he was a flaming homosexual. Something about the flower on his lapel. And it was clear that Tanner was not fond of homosexuals. 'We don't ask, we don't care' might be Peter's motto, but not everyone in the Bureau felt the same.

"You know, he actually thinks it's kind of hot," Neal said, smiling plastically as he reached out and caught Tanner's mustard-stained tie, reaching up to straighten it. The fact that the man practically leapt away from his touch gave him some satisfaction anyway. Didn't want to catch the gay disease or whatever. "You know, he looks a lot like you…"

Okay, seeing that shade of red on Tanner's pock-marked cheeks was better than a punch to the face any day. The man had apparently decided he had other places to be, because he was halfway across the room already. Neal smirked. Nothing like making a meatheaded troglodyte question their sexuality to improve a man's mood.

"Hey, Neal, I think Peter wants to see you," one of the Harvard crew said as she passed, case file in hand.

Neal let out a sigh as he glanced up to see Peter pointing down at him, then tipped his Styrofoam cup back like a shot glass. He hated the double finger point. Damn the FBI and all its double finger pointing. He was really starting to wonder if Peter's little comment about teaching it at Quantico had been more than a joke.

"Neal, get up here!"

Neal tossed his cup into the trash as he turned, holding up his hands, face calm and confident. He was such a good con. No one would ever know that he was practically shaking in his Italian leather at the thought of talking to Peter about this… situation.

"Whoa, calm down, soldier. I'm coming, okay!" He grinned at the other man as he climbed the stairs, trying to ignore the churning feeling in his gut. Obviously Peter really, really wanted his answer, if he was double finger pointing *and* shouting in an undignified way across the office. Unfortunately for both of them, Neal still didn't know how to tell him 'no'… Not and still keep a shred of his pride anyway. He took a steadying breath as Peter gestured for Neal to follow him to the conference room.

Okay, he could do this. He would just tell Peter that he had some bad experiences that he really didn't want to talk about and that he'd be no good for this job. Peter would accept that. After all, he had been the one to say that Neal didn't *have* to do it. He could find someone else.

Neal reached out just as Peter's hand reached for the doorknob, catching the bigger man's jacket. "Peter I need to talk to you before—"

"No time, Neal," Peter said briskly, voice unusually clipped. "We need to do this, now."

Neal frowned. "I just wanted to say, about the, uh, undercover job—"

"Huh? Oh, you're no longer needed for that. You'll be in the van." Peter pulled the door open and gestured for Neal to enter. "Come on, we need to get started."

Neal stared at Peter for a moment, mouth hanging open in a rather undignified way. He was no longer needed for that? What the hell? After he'd spent all night tossing and turning trying to decide if he could manage it, Peter had just decided he was 'no longer needed for that'?

"Dammit, Peter," he snapped, suddenly very annoyed, despite the fact that it should have been a relief. "Feel free to keep me updated on these things! You do know how to use a phone, right? You pick it up, hit the speed dial, put it to your ear… that sort of thing?"

Peter sighed. "Neal, just get in the conference room, okay?"

"I'm just sayin'," he replied, holding up his hands again. "I know it's a complicated task, but—"

"For God's sake, Neal, two people are dead, okay? I don't have time for you to throw a tantrum!" Peter said shortly, shaking his head as he slammed the file against the door. "Dammit!"

"Oh my God," Neal said, color draining from his face. "How? Did someone get caught in the fire?"

Diana nodded. "Yeah, our guys set fire to another gallery. What they didn't realize—or what we hope to God they didn't realize—was that the artist the gallery had flown in for the show was staying in the loft above. With his twelve year old daughter."

Neal's stomach turned. "Oh God, the kid died?"

"Yeah," Peter said, his voice gruff. "She did." He sounded hoarse, tired.

Neal reached out automatically, hand pausing just before it came down on top of Peter's, then pulled his hand back as casually as possible, hoping Diana hadn't noticed his little faux pas.

"Our perps got away with an unknown amount of art," Diana said. "Place burned to the ground. These guys have upped their game."

"They haven't used accelerant before," Peter added. "They'd just set a couple of canvases ablaze and make a quick exit with their prizes. This time there was nothing left but ash."

"God… Maybe this is crazy, but… this kind of sounds like a pyromaniac," Neal said, trying hard not to imagine some poor little girl burning to death. "I mean, they started with a private studio with only one valuable painting to grab, in the middle of the night. Then they moved on to the museum, with a night guard. Then they hit that gallery in the middle of the day when it was full of tourists, but everybody got out. And now they're using accelerant with people sleeping in the building?" He shook his head. "Sounds like classic pyromania. Start with small, empty spaces and gradually move up."

"That's what out profilers think, too," Diana said. "We got some footage from a traffic cam nearby and it looks like one of our guys likes to play with fire more than the other. One of the men seemed pretty damn upset when they got into the van, waving his hands around and shouting. The other guy just moseyed along like it was all good."

"So one of them is in it for the grab," Neal said slowly, "and the other one is in it for the fire."

"It gives us some leverage if we can get them into interrogation," Peter said. "But first we have to catch them. And we are *not* going to wait another week. Our pyro is moving up—I don't want him to have a chance to start another fire. These bastards have brand new pieces to sell, it's likely they'll go to Melbane. So we're going in right away. Between the two we should be able to find an agent with undercover training. Diana, you get a wire ready that doesn't look like a ten thousand dollar watch. Neal, you—"

"I'll do it." The words were out of his mouth before he could even think about it.

Peter snorted. "I haven't even told you what to do yet."

Neal shook his head. "No, I mean I'll go in. Undercover. So that you won't have to find anybody. I'll do it."

Peter shook his head roughly. "Uh-uh. We've already got someone."

Neal's brow furrowed. "What, who?"

A laugh came from came from down below, followed quickly by a loud wolf whistle. Neal's eyes grew wide, mouth dropping open as his brain tried desperately to compute the image before him. Diana let out a sharp laugh, clamping a hand over her mouth as Peter turned to glare at her.

"Oh my God," Neal said slowly, drawing out the words as more laughter rose up down in the bullpen. "Am I going crazy or is Clinton standing in the middle of the room wearing a purple crop top and a pair of skinny jeans?"

Diana didn't seem capable of talking, her eyes watering as she continued to hold her hands over her mouth, so Neal turned to Peter, raising an eyebrow.

"Seriously, Peter? *Seriously*?"

"Two people are dead, Neal," he said flatly, though his cheeks were a little pink as he watched Jones shove his co-worker away ungracefully, a huge scowl on his face. "We gotta work with what we have."

It was ridiculous looking. Just plain ridiculous looking. As attractive as Jones was, this getup was just pitiful. The man was too big, too muscular, too old, even, to pull off the sparkly little tank top, and though Neal was sure his ass looked fabulous in the jeans, it was definitely not his style.

"Peter," Neal said, shaking his head, "he looks like an undercover cop, man." He gave a short laugh. "I mean, seriously. He looked like he just walked out of the Vice office, looking to arrest a couple of johns before daybreak. Do you really this is going to work?"

Jones was making his way up the stairs, eyes shooting daggers as he sort of wrapped his arms around him like it could hide the fact that he was dressed like a teenaged girl. "Shut up, Caffrey," he muttered before Neal could even open his mouth. "Just… shut up, okay?" He shook his head, baring teeth. "This is fucking ridiculous, Burke."

"He's right you know," Diana said, hiccuping a little, tears of laughter still running down her cheeks. "There is no way that he is going to pass as a hustler, Peter."

"Well, do you have any suggestions?" Peter snapped, looking annoyed. He let out a deep sigh. "Two people are *dead*, and one of them was a little girl! These guys have broken the pattern, upped the anty, and we have no clue when they might strike again. We need to get into Melbane's house *now*, and Jones is the best we've got!"

"Yeah, and what happened to Caffrey?" Jones snapped, obviously annoyed. He scowled in Neal's direction. "How did you manage to get out of this? You run to his wife?"

Peter's eyes narrowed. "Shut up, Jones. I assigned you to this one, and you're gonna do it."

"But it's not going to work, Peter," Neal said, rubbing tiredly at his forehead. On any other day, seeing Jones dressed like that would be flat out hilarious, but today he was too damn tired and stressed to appreciate. Hopefully someone would get a picture and he could laugh his ass off later when he didn't have the weight of the goddamn world resting on his shoulders. "I'll do it, okay? This is ridiculous, sending Jones out there. All it will do is make Melbane suspicious. I'll go."

"No," Peter said shortly, a strange look passing over his face as he looked at Neal. "No, I don't want you going. This is Jones' op now."

Diana frowned deeply, laughter wiped off her face. "Peter, Neal is right. Jones looks like trouble. He is *not* the kind of guy Melbane goes for. The sick pervert likes *kids* for God's sake, pretty boys. And Jones may be many thing, but he ain't pretty. Caffrey, on the other hand… He's almost as pretty as my lady."

"Peter," Neal said, his voice serious. "I'll do it, okay? I'll do it."

Peter took a deep breath, looking back and forth between Jones and Neal for a moment before letting out a tired sigh. "You sure, Neal? You don't have to if you don't want to."

Neal ignored his turning stomach, looking Peter right in the eyes. "No, it's okay. We need to get these guys. The bastards burned a little girl to death. I'll do anything to put them away where they belong."

Even if 'anything' meant giving up every last shred of his dignity.

Peter stared at him for another moment then gave a sharp nod. "Okay, great. You go out, get whatever you need to play the part on the Bureau's tab. Diana, you see about that wire."

"Sure thing, boss."

Peter clapped Neal on the shoulder. "Okay, I'm going to set up the op. I'll text you our meet up location."

Neal nodded silently, watching silently as Jones started yanking at his sparkly top and mumbling something about sexual harassment lawsuits as he glared down at the agents still pointing in his direction and making lewd faces. As if lewd faces were the worst thing that could happen to a man dressed like that.

Neal licked his lips nervously. He could do this. He could. It wasn't such a big deal. And, yeah, okay, probably Peter would never respect him again. No, that wasn't true. Peter would just think he was playing a part. Except Neal was pretty sure that, if he wanted in Melbane's house, something less than professional was going to have to happen, despite Peter's protests. What would the other man think of him then?

It didn't matter. He already knew that Neal was a criminal. A whore was just one more step down the highway to hell, right? He wouldn't lose those casual little touches, that friendly smile. He wouldn't lose the only man he trusted.

Of course, he wouldn't even be in this position if the only man he trusted hadn't set it up.

The thought took Neal by surprise and he shoved it away, feeling a little sick. This was not Peter's fault, he knew that. Peter had given him a choice. That was more than most men had given him. Neal had chosen to do this and there was no one to blame but himself, no matter what happened. If something went wrong, if Neal had to do more than just sit there and look pretty, he would have no one to blame but himself. Stepping onto that street corner was his decision. Peter hadn't made it for him… Even if it had been the other man's idea.

No, there he went again. He trusted Peter. He did. The man was not trying to hurt him, for God's sake! He didn't even know about Neal's history with this kind of thing. Right? Peter had once told him they had nothing on Neal before eighteen. He wasn't lying. Was he?

Neal couldn't help but remember how Peter's eyes had immediately fixed on him when Jones had asked who was going to be playing the whore, how the man just seemed to assume that it would be all fine and dandy with Neal. He said it was because Neal fit the profile, physically. But maybe he knew more about Neal than Neal realized. Maybe he'd looked to Neal because he knew how perfect Neal fit the profile, in every way. It was awfully naive of an FBI agent to think that you could go undercover as a street whore, no more than twenty bucks a fuck, and not have to get down and dirty. When Neal had protested Peter had actually laughed and said that he knew Neal could handle it. What if he really meant that?

Oh, for the love of God, he was starting to sound as paranoid as Mozzie. Bullshit, it was all a bunch of bullshit. Peter didn't know crap about Neal's childhood. Neal just needed to calm the fuck down. Neal would just do what he had to do and get out. The rest he could worry about later. It was a mindset had worked for him when he was fifteen, it would work for him now. It was only a con.

Peter caring for him, *that* wasn't a con. …Was it?

"Neal, are you okay?" Neal was jolted from his maudlin thoughts by Diana's voice. She reached out, touching his arm gently, the motion much more familiar than usual.

"Hm?" He flashed her his million dollar smile. "Of course, I am. Just thinking about the op."

Diana bit her lip, giving him a long look. "Neal, come talk to me a minute, will you?" She didn't wait for him to answer, using his wrist to tug him down toward the empty conference room.

The doors shut softly behind them and Diana perched herself on the edge of the table, crossing her arms over her chest. "Neal, have you ever heard of RAINN?"

Neal's brow furrowed in confusion. "Uh, yeah, I've seen it once or twice in my life. Tends to be good for raising crops and filling lakes."

Diana shook her head. "Not actual rain, R-A-I-N-N. The Rape Abuse and Incest National Network."

"Wh-what?" Neal choked out, eyes growing wide. "No, no I can't say I've ever heard of… RAINN. Diana, what is this about?"

She let out a sigh. "Look, Christy sees a lot of… victims. And, as a woman, you would be surprised how many of my friends have had… bad experiences. I'm sorry if I'm out of line here, but let's face the facts. You're a young, attractive, white man who was placed in one of the most hardcore federal prisons in the US. You didn't do anything near bad enough to get yourself locked up in the torture chambers they call SuperMax, so something must have happened for them to stick you there. Something bad. And the way you looked yesterday when Peter, God bless his big, dumb heart, told you that your next op would involve standing on a street corner? That wasn't just normal male pride. Jones shoving at those assholes down on the floor was male pride. You yesterday? That was fear. Real fear."

Neal shook his head, forcing himself to keep his smile in place. "Look, Diana, I appreciate the thought, but it's nothing like that, okay?"

Diana stared at him for another moment then shrugged. "That's fine, Neal. I'm just saying, if anything *did* happen… It wouldn't be the first time, and there are a lot of people out there who've gone through that sort of stuff. A good support network. You can always look it up." She stood and made her way toward the door, giving his little arm a squeeze as she passed him. "See you tonight, Neal."

"Yeah," he said, feeling like the smile on his face was about to shatter into a million pieces. "See you tonight."

As the door closed behind her, Neal let out a groan, rubbing at his forehead. Great. That was just what he needed: Diana thinking of him as some sort of in denial, closet case rape victim or whatever. Seriously, this day kept getting better and better. And it wasn't even noon yet. God help him.

Neal took a deep breath, pushing aside his embarrassment at Diana's little love attack. He needed to focus on the con. That was priority number one, getting through the con. Preferably without having a panic attack.

He just needed to think about it objectively, separate from the emotional sewage left over from years of pain and depression. Break it down into facts and steps. Fact: Peter was putting his ass on a street corner tonight. So what was step one? Well, first thing he needed was to look like a whore—and not the kind that cost you eighteen-hundred up front. And preferably not the kind that wore sparkly purple crop tops, either. Seriously, who had gotten that shirt for Jones and where had it come from, Lady Gaga's reject pile? Step one, if he was going to sell his butt tonight… it was time to go shopping.