Title: Stars That Fell (7/?)

Author: Ima Pseudonym

Rating: NC17

Summary: When the unthinkable happens, Peter Burke finds he's capable of responding in kind.

Warnings: Non-consensual sex, of dubious origin. (I don't know why it seemed plausible when I wrote it… But I did. And it stays.)

Notes: I don't remember my mindset when I wrote this, but if any chapter is going to cause discomfited squeamishness, here it is.

AGAIN, this may be triggery. You 'have' been warned.

-x-x-x-x-

Earth; both hard-packed and unforgiving, and slick with residual rain water, jolted and hindered Neal's flight.

He didn't scream; couldn't open his mouth. Air burned his lungs as he forced it through his nose.

The woods loomed tantalizingly close and still maddeningly unattainable. Peter had shouted an instant after he'd made his move, but clearly his concentration was on the chase now.

Ditches, stones, muddy puddles, and snagging brush tried to trip Neal up but he didn't stumble. And even as he sent up a prayer that something had slowed the former agent, he broke through the tree line.

The trees were scrawny, but densely packed; a struggling remnant of nature in a post-industrial age.

He fought the urge to look back and gauge how far behind Peter was, and instead set to cutting diagonally at a moment's notice; swerving, and zigzagging as he went.

It wasn't like a chase through Manhattan, where any alley could be a dead end, but then Manhattan was home to a million doors and obstacles that could be used advantageously.

"Neal!" the familiar, but oh-so foreign voice screamed –roared-, not particularly near, but sudden enough to break its prey's focus. The toe of Neal's shoe (the last real article of clothing he wore that was his own) caught on a root and he went down hard, scraping his palms on rocks, roots, and acorns.

When his burning, shaking limbs caused him to stumble as he attempted to gain his feet, he gave up on flight. He began crawling as stealthily as he could; looking for refuge.

The leaf-slicked ground tilted and Neal just managed to get his feet behind him as he skidded three, four feet downward. Icy water licked his ankles as his feet settled in a stream bed.

Crouching low, he listened.

Peter didn't call again, but by the sound of snapping branches and huffing breaths he was at the place where Neal had fallen: Only fifteen feet from where his prey cowered.

Neal didn't dare to look.

He yanked his tee shirt (Peter's shirt) over his mouth and nose, pressing his palms tight to muffle his own panting.

When the pounding in his ears subsided, he finally noticed how quiet the world had become.

He couldn't hear the former agent.

Terror, and not relief, struck him. It was so much less frightening when you knew where the monster was: Even if it was close.

The former conman hunkered down in concession to the shaking of his knees. The seat of his pants, and back of his thighs were soaked through in icy water, and he fought against his body's attempt to chatter his teeth. Peter's borrowed shirt clung damply, offering no relief from the chill.

The sky was still red, ablaze with the final vestiges of daylight, and Neal found it within himself to be vaguely astounded. Had it only been a few minutes since he'd fled?

Neal tried to take stock of his options, fighting back the impulse to simply burrow his way into the stream bed, and lie there forever. He wasn't under Peter's thumb, but that didn't mean he was (heh) 'out of the woods' yet. He was without a phone, but he was close to civilization.

A civilization owned by a ruthless crime lord bent on his total destruction. And possibly, also within feet of a man who wanted to give him up to said crime lord.

There was a sharp snap: a crack of twigs or branches, thirty feet to his right: Too large to be a bird or squirrel. Neal sank down further, feeling the current tug, insistently, at his sodden clothing, as though to pull him away from danger.

Peter was as bad as a bloodhound, Neal knew. He wouldn't abandon his prey even when treed. He'd stay in the woods, hidden, waiting for Neal to sneak out under cover of darkness.

Waiting... In the woods.

Neal almost gasped at the inspiration. Peter wouldn't expect him to move now. Not when there was still light. And certainly not back to...

The car.

Even if Peter had taken the keys, Neal knew how to hotwire. Knew the model, and his fingers twitched like they were already forcing the engine over.

The tank was over half full. He could make it out of Illinois before calling the FBI.

It seemed like a solid plan (or at least a passably decent one), but it all came down to what he knew about Peter. On that account, he wasn't too worried. He 'did' know the man, as well as anyone.

Lately, even better.

The real problem, Neal decided, was that his friend-turned -tormentor might be hiding anywhere. And as far as real problems went, that was an especially bad one.

But one thing Neal knew for certain was that it was often better, safer to be on the move; A rolling stone gathers no moss- and all that nonsense. He ignored the weak part of him that wanted to stay put and cry over how unfair his life had become. It was getting harder to ignore, but with the dim prospect of freedom on the horizon, he managed.

Neal chose to follow the stream west, back the way he'd come, while he could still follow the sunset. It was almost cathartic to his jittery nerves, following the light while darkness spread to his back. The riverbed turned north, and he climbed out, after a skidding misstep or two. He kept low: Kept silent.

The great outdoors, or city limit equivalent, wasn't his ideal terrain, but stealth was always in his arsenal of skills. He was relieved that those instincts hadn't faded in the last few, docile years as his physical stamina had.

He hesitated at the edge of the trees, marking the growing darkness until he could pass as a shadow, and then he moved towards the highway; just an ant line of headlights.

Neal couldn't see the car, as low to the ground as he'd kept, and with the twilight obscuring everything, but he knew it was between the trees and the highway. So he chose a direction, and began trekking southwest for some minutes. Upon finding nothing, he back-tracked a more northerly course. Some part of him worried that Peter had taken the car, or moved it… But he dismissed the possibility, out of hand. There was no chance Peter had given up.

After nearly an hour he stumbled upon the shape of the car, glinting faintly in the moonlight.

Neal fought the urge to throw his exhausted body over the hood, thinking Peter might have set the alarm somehow to warn him should Neal make such a risky move to escape. He needed to be ready to go, and fast, if it activated.

Approaching the passenger side slowly, keeping low, he scanned the interior for dark shapes that weren't seats.

It was empty.

Finally allowing himself a small sigh of relief, Neal stepped around the back of the Ford.

He hadn't even registered the dark shape before he was being yanked forward- down.

The former criminal had forgotten that while he knew the former agent, Peter Burke knew 'him'. Somehow '2 for 0' hadn't ever really clicked in Neal's mind. Make that '3 for'.

Neal fell hard, entangled in limbs that weren't his own.

"I won't let you leave me!" Peter hissed, although he wasn't out of breath. There was no telling how long he'd waited by the car, knowing Neal would return.

Neal fought, using every dirty trick he hated, but Peter was ready for each one. Clean fighting might have done better.

"Let me GOOO!" Neal shrieked, and a knee to Peter's ear (by chance more than design) allowed him to his feet. The larger man let out a sound between pain and blood-curdling rage.

Not quite incapacitated from the blow, Peter stumbled to his feet as well, catching Neal by his dirt-stained shirt; swinging him sideways. Neal hit the hood and doubled over, scrabbling at the smooth surface for purchase, and the air that had been knocked out of his lungs.

Peter pinned him with his own body, grasping for the wildly flailing wrists. He caught one and wrenched it back; higher than strictly necessary. Neal bit off a moan of pain, lashing out with his feet.

He didn't think of Peter's expression earlier that morning (and had it only been a few hours) when Peter had caught him trying to escape. That look had suggested the temptation to hurt Neal for his actions… This one, as best as he could make out from only peripheral vision, conveyed more than temptation to make him suffer. It promised he would.

Not knowing the manner of rebuke he would suffer, Neal fought for his life. His heel caught Peter's inner thigh: High, almost debilitating. His captor didn't allow for a second shot. He kicked Neal's legs apart, pushing his own legs between.

"This is how you want it to be, huh? Fighting dirty?" Peter's voice was more primal growl than human, and it scared the Hell out of Neal.

He got ahold of Neal's free hand and pulled it to the other, high on Neal's back, before yanking up the water-logged shirt. The collar dug into Neal's throat. The back pinned his arms, hem folded up and drawn over his shoulders, leaving most of his back exposed to the cold air.

"Stop! Stop! Let me go!" Neal pleaded; buried suspicions confirmed when Peter started tugging at the waistband of his jeans.

"I can't let you run!" Peter's voice was frantic, desperate; even scared. Whereas the night before, the older man had sounded regretful and even guilty at taking advantage of Neal's vulnerability, now he only seemed crazed.

The vulgar sound of spitting broke through the panicked whimpers and pleas, and Neal struggled for any kind of purchase to fight back, or escape. Calloused fingers found the bruises they'd left hours earlier, refreshing them.

Neal fought back a sob, not wanting to give in; not physically or emotionally.

When Neal's abused body grudgingly gave in, he bit his lip bloody, but Peter was inexorable. A hand at Neal's neck pushed his torso down, buying leverage.

It was several long moments before Neal comprehended that his tormentor was babbling; something about Neal belonging to him, about 'needing' him.

The second thrust was smoother, slicked with pain.

And somehow, still, it hurt more that Peter 'would' be doing this, than that he 'was' doing it: Made it that much harder to search for the right words that had never before abandoned him.

"Peter- Peter, please stop. You're hurting me. Peter Burke wouldn't do this!"

"I can't let you-" the larger man faltered, confused. Human. The ever-calculating part of Neal's mind latched onto this.

"I won't run again. I'm sorry! Jesus, I'm sorry. I won't run! You're hurting me! Please, Peter!"

All at once, the world stilled. Peter gasped, hands releasing their cruel hold on him.

"Oh God. Oh God, what am I-?" he made to pull back, and Neal shouted in agony.

"I'm sorry. God, Neal- Hold on. Easy, just-" it was a sickening minute before Peter had extricated himself.

The former agent fell to his knees, retching. Free from the pressure pinning him down, Neal slid a little but his damp shirtfront kept him from tumbling entirely off the hood. It was easier to tune things out for the moment, than to reflect on the pain radiating throughout his body.

He retained enough presence of mind to flinch violently when Peter touched him again, but his assailant only carefully removed the shirt.

With his numb arms free, Neal acted on the impulse to strike out twisting to deliver punches wherever he could. His aching arms, and numb legs wouldn't cooperate, and he only dropped.

Peter scooped him up, propping him against the escort as he removed his own shirt.

Neal whimpered at the implication but was hushed, ineffectually. Peter scrubbed the thin streaks of blood from his groin with a feverishness bordering on the hysteria he'd already displayed, with a constant litany of "Oh Gods..." to punctuate the motions.

"Calm down!" Neal was about to snap something cutting back at Peter, when he realized the words had been spoken by himself.

"I- Neal, I-" Peter began, reaching out to touch his victim's face, and pulling back before Neal had even finalized a reaction to the gesture.

The former agent methodically folded his shirt, cursing and refolding, until it was just right, before placing the poor makeshift padding on the passenger seat. He lowered the chair to its fully reclined position, and herded Neal in.

Neal didn't bother fighting a hiss of discomfort, and settled on his left hip. He ignored the seatbelt uselessly, but perfunctorily draped over his waist. The interior lights faded a few seconds after the door was shut to his back. He tried to tune out the whimpering sobs leaving his mouth.

There was a loud bang; that of a shoe hitting the car frame. An enraged shout, and curses outside but Neal ignored that, as well.

The trunk opened. Closed.

When Peter settled in the driver's seat, he was in fresh clothes. Slowly, carefully, he settled a jacket over Neal's bare torso.

It smelled like Peter, and against all reason, that was comforting.

TBC

-x-x-x-x-

A/N: Uh... Yeah. Well, no one can say I didn't warn them. So Peter kinda lost his shit, for a minute. And here, some of you may have been hoping Neal actually managed to escape, and then BAM! Captured, and worse.

Wow. You know, all along I was like, "I'm so gonna post this." And when it came down to it, I was like… Well, maybe I'll just remove that line… Oh, and this is just far too crass. Does anyone need to know 'that'? Nope, gone.

I don't like censoring myself, but I've had a rough day, and the final edit was making me a little green.

So, yeah… This is the 'tamer' version of this chapter. Peter/Neal-wise, this is absolutely the worst it gets. So, if you're 'still' reading, it gets better.

Chapter eight teaser: A little redemption...

Overall teaser: There should be nine or ten chapters, total. (Plus an epilogue.)