See chapter 1 for Warnings and Summary

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Author's Notes: Sorry for the wait on this chapter! I've been making crafts for a craft fair and am VERY busy! I'm working on Origami Soul next so I'll try and get it updated soon.

o o o

Chapter 10: Branded Memories

o o o

"This is it?" Jones asked in disbelief as he eyed the building before them. "Lucy Furs?"

"It's supposed to be ironic, Suit," Mozzie replied, sounding a little defensive. "Some of us appreciate such word plays."

"It sounds like a teenaged Satanist passing a coded note to his friend in algebra class," Jones said with a little smirk.

"Will you two *stop* bickering?" Peter said, sick of hearing the two of them banter. Neal was somewhere inside this building—or so they hoped—and this rescue mission needed to happen *now.*

"Boss," Diana called as she climbed out of the van, an upset look on her face. "We have a problem."

As if Peter didn't have enough problems already. "And what is that?" he asked tightly.

"I called in for backup like you said, but its been re-routed."

"What?" Peter demanded, face heating up. "What the hell do you mean, re-routed?"

Diana shook her head. "Homeland Security is rounding up every on duty cop, fireman, and paramedic in town. Apparently a bomb went off at the Metropolitan Museum and they suspect terrorist activity. After 9/11, you know how it is."

"Shit," Jones said, a sick look coming over his face. They think this is another 9/11?"

"Don't be stupid," Peter snapped. "It's the middle of the damn night! 9/11 was about making a point, taking out as many people as possible. Just what kind of bomb went off at the museum?"

"I don't know specifics, but apparently large sections of the building are on fire," Diana said. "It's so bad that the firetrucks we had waiting at Melbane's house have even been called in. And with so few agents doing night duty, Hughes had no choice but to head over there as well. Homeland's orders. God bless the Patriot Act."

"Wait, so there's no one left at Melbane's house?" Peter questioned, heart speeding up. "No one at all?"

"I think the locksmiths are still working and a couple of squad cars are on patrol, but other than that? It's the Metropolitan. It's a bigger priority than Melbane."

Peter made a furious sound as the pieces began to fall together. "Stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid! They played us! It was him! This is how Melbane was going to get the stolen pieces out of his fortress!"

"What?" Jones questioned, looking lost. "By blowing up the Metropolitan?"

"The Metropolitan didn't blow up, Jones," Peter said briskly. "It's on *fire.* It was just a distraction. A big, horrific distraction to get the goods out. Not to mention another step up for Melbane's pyromania."

"Oh dear mother of God," Mozzie said, eyes going wide. "Tons of non-agents in the house entering various rooms, paramedic and fire trucks parked everywhere. You could slip in as a locksmith and take the art out one of the escape routes and stack them in a city vehicle. Then, when everybody's called in by Big Brother, drive the art out and nobody notices. Shit, it's brilliant."

Jones' mouth dropped open. "Wait, you're saying this guy set the Metropolitan Museum of Art on fire just so he could sneak out a few paintings? That's *insane*."

"He's insane," Mozzie replied grimly. "Insane people do insane things. Besides, I don't think it's about the art anymore. Maybe it is for his partners, but I think old Joseph just wants to burn things down now."

"What do we do?" Diana asked, glancing over at the store. "Melbane thinks he's safe in a place where he can wait out the madness, but the second he realizes we tracked him down, God knows what he'll do to Neal."

"Or to everyone," Mozzie put in. "Like I said, he's insane. Most pyromaniacs end up going out in their own flames. If he's far enough gone then he might very well set the whole safe house on fire just to keep us out."

"We need to get in quietly," Peter said, "especially since we're not going to be getting any backup for at least a couple of hours. Not with hundreds of millions of dollars worth of artwork at risk *and* a Homeland Security watch. Jones, you head to the museum, find Hughes, and tell him what we suspect. See if you can find anything there to link Melbane to the fire at the Metropolitan. Also, check to see if any of the emergency vehicles that were at Melbane's are away without leave. But make sure you keep it on the down-low. If Homeland Security gets wind of this, they'll be here with guns a'blazing to take down the so-called terrorist, and they won't care if Neal gets sacrificed along the way. Not with the media all over them spouting talk about 9/11. Mozzie, get with your street contacts. Jones can get you a list of the art taken from the museums Melbane hit. If anybody fences it, I want to know. We are taking those sons of bitches down."

Mozzie made a face. "You know, fences aren't exactly forthcoming about their wares, Suit. Don't you think my talents would be better suited to helping you get Neal out?"

"I think your talents are worthless in a gun fight," Peter snapped. "Melbane has Neal and those bastards were involved. I want them found! Do whatever you have to do to catch the sons of bitches. If anyone is going to burn, it'll be them, for their own damn crimes."

"Okay, I'll see what I can do," Mozzie said, looking worried. "Just make sure you get him out, Suit, or you'll be answering to me."

"Mozzie, you have no idea where the entrance to this bunker might be?" Diana asked as she eyed the building.

"I told you, I'm not one of them," Mozzie replied, sounding a little exasperated. "The only reason I know it's in this building is because an acquaintance from my anarchist's tea was complaining that he couldn't join, being a vegan and all. The fur thing really turned him off."

Jones shook his head. "You have some disturbing friends, you know that?"

"Okay," Peter said, looking down at the curb running along in front of Lucy Furs. "There's a flood drain along the gutter here, so the bunker has to be under the back half of the shop to avoid the sewer. Jones, can you find out what's behind the shop?"

"Already done," he replied. "It's an empty apartment complex, full of squatters. And it's owned by a Ms. Belle Sebub. Somebody sure likes his devil metaphors. No wonder he got such a kick out of taunting Caffrey with the angel thing."

Mozzie frowned. "Angel thing?"

"It's nothing," Peter snapped, shooting Jones a warning look. "Let's focus. Obviously Melbane's crew owns the complex behind the shop, so the bunker could run under that as well, but I doubt the entrance is on that side. No one wants to have to fight their way through a hoard of squatters when the zombie apocalypse hits. Our best bet it the shop." Peter checked the firearm at his side. "Let's get on this, Diana, come with me. We're going in."

She gave a sharp nod, placing her hand on her own weapon. "You got it."

"Get him back, Suit," Mozzie called out as they moved toward the shop. "Do whatever you have to do!"

Peter smiled grimly. He was going to do more than what he 'had to do.' He was going to take this bastard down.

o o o

"Hush little baby, don't say a word, Daddy's gonna buy you a firebird. If that firebird don't sing, Daddy's gonna buy you a, um…" Melbane paused, cocking his head to the side thoughtfully. "What rhymes with diamond ring? Hm…" A wicked grin spread over his face. "An ass fucking! If that ass fuck makes you hurt, Daddy's gonna make sure you get burnt! Ha!" Melbane laughed, obviously pleased with himself. "Now that was terrific. How about a round of applause, angel lips?"

Neal glared at the man. "I'm kind of tied up at the moment," he replied, voice hoarse and low. "Though if you want to untie me, I'll be glad to give you a big 'bravo.'"

"Nah, I don't think so. I can't believe you don't enjoy daddy's songs…" Melbane chuckled as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a pack of Marlboros and waving them mockingly in the air. "Speaking of daddies, those lovely little circles on your thighs have really faded away, angel lips. I thought maybe I could freshen them up."

Neal's whole body stiffened as he stared at the pack, a wave of sickness rolling over him. He hadn't avoided smoking in prison just because it was a filthy habit. The memories were just too strong… So very, very strong for something that had happened so very long ago.

"You think you can get away with whatever you want? I don't think so. It's time you see what happens when you're a bad boy."

A man's face, square and stout with fuzz along the chin, grinning broadly down at him. Big hands waving the cigarette tauntingly above him.

"You really thought she wouldn't tell me, you little bitch? I'll show you what happens when you run to mommy for help. Now hold still. Hold still! Hold still or I will break your fucking legs and we'll see how well you move then!"

The glowing tip pressing into Neal's thighs. The rush of searing pain making him scream and scream and scream.

"Please," Neal whispered, hating himself for begging, but unable to stop the words from rolling out. "Don't. Don't do that."

Melbane laughed. "Oh, you're so cute when you beg. Do you beg for your little agent friend?" He reached out, fingering the small scars on the inside of Neal's legs. "Or is he super nice to you? Is your new papa the daddy you always wanted, angel? Does he take you places and hug you and make you feel all special?"

"Fuck off," Neal said in a shaky voice. "Peter is not my fucking father."

"Oh, but wouldn't you like him to be?" Melbane practically purred as he tapped a cigarette out of the box. "Nice daddy, be so good to you. But I bet you're real good to him, too, *Angel Lips*. Of course, that's all over, isn't it? Your new daddy knows what you really think of him now. He may have treated you like you were special before, but he knows the truth now. He knows you're not special at all. You're just a cheap whore, a dime a dozen on the street, and even after all daddy did for your worthless ass, you still turned on him in the end like a very bad boy. Because you are a very bad boy, aren't you, angel?"

Neal let out a whimper as the end of Melbane's cigarette flared up. The man took a short inhale then blew it out, making a face.

"Yuck. These things are seriously nasty. I love me some flame, but why people pay ten bucks a pack to suck smoke into their lungs is beyond even my understanding." He laughed again, the sound seeming more evil by the second. "But they make *awfully* fun toys."

"Please, please, please don't," Neal begged as Melbane leaned over him, dragging rough fingers along Neal's thighs.

"Aw, it's okay, angel lips. Daddy will take care of you… You've been a bad boy. It's your own fault. If you hand't been a bad boy, daddy wouldn't have to do this… Hush now…" He began to sing again, amusement tinging the words. "Smoky ciggy, hot ciggy, little ball of hurt. Sizzly ciggy, ouchy ciggy, burn, burn, burn. Little ciggy, flamey ciggy, burn, burn, burn."

"Will you stop singing nursery rhymes already?" Neal choked out, despite the utter panic building up in his chest.

"You don't like Sheldon Cooper? Don't believe in the big bang theory, perhaps?"

"What?" Neal asked in confusion, heart pounding too fast. "You're fucking crazy, you know that?"

"I *am* crazy," Melbane replied in a pleasant voice. "My mother had me tested. Hush now, angel, and hold still for daddy…"

Neal held his breath, squeezing his eyes shut as he waited and waited and…. He let out a loud scream as Melbane shoved the cigarette into his thigh, deep searing pain running through him as the man pressed against it unrelentingly. Finally he pulled it back, but the skin continued to sizzle. Neal whimpered and dropped his head down on the table with a bang, tears running down his face.

"Aw, that's a good boy," Melbane murmured as he reached forward and began to wipe away Neal's tears. Neal turned his face away, hiding it in his arm "Oh, you don't want daddy touching you? What a pouty boy. I guess we'll have to punish you some more."

That was all the warning he got before the cigarette came down once more. Neal let out a choked sob, the burned flesh aching relentlessly.

"This is fun. Maybe I'll make a pattern and when your agent-turned-papa finds your body, he can play connect the dots." Melbane chuckled. "That is, if there's anything left to find."

"Please, stop," Neal moaned, skin pulsing as the burns got deeper and deeper, flesh still sizzling long after the heat itself was removed. "Please, please stop."

"Oh, angel, how could I stop? I'm only *just* getting started."

o o o

The shop was dark and musky with the smell of old leather permeating it. When the lock on the door had refused to give, Peter had used a trash can to smash in the window, so the floor was scattered with broken glass. Well, what floor there was, anyway. The entire place was packed to bursting with hundreds of fur coats, hats, gloves, and even cowhide rugs.

"Dammit," Diana muttered as she looked around. "This place is a disaster area."

"Yeah," Peter agreed distractedly. "It's a mess." And it was… Except…

Peter bit his lip, brow furrowing slightly. There was something about this place, something he couldn't quite pin down. Lucy Furs. Belle Sebub. Judeo-Christian references to Satan. Peter turned slowly in a circle, eyes narrowing as he studied the shop. Something about it nagged at his mind, but he couldn't quite get a fix on it. It was at the very edge of his mind, something important, but he couldn't reach it…. Dammit! Peter wanted to scream, his pulse pounding rapidly as images of what Melbane could be doing to Neal raced through his head. He took a deep breath. He needed to be calm and focus. That was the only way he could help Neal. Focus. Lucifer. Beelzebub. Satan. Fire.

Peter began to turn again, carefully taking in the layout. To his far left was a rack of fur panties. After that, fur coats so rich they would have made June's closet look thrifty. Next were little coats for dogs, and along the back were thick stacks of uncut pelts in a heavy, cumbersome pile. Following those was a section of black rain boots topped with fur and an area made up entirely of items dyed red. Hats, coats, bags… each one was different, but they were all red. Then to his right was a section devoted to outdoor winter gear heavy duty enough to handle a trek through Siberia. Last, but not least, was a small checkout counter with a sign stating that they took commissions above it.

"What is it?" Diana asked as Peter scanned the room again, clenching his teeth in frustration as the answer danced along the edge of his mind. There was something about the layout of this place, something important. It might have looked like a mess at first, but Peter's gut was telling him otherwise. There was an order to Lucy Furs.

Lucy Furs. Lucifer's.

"It's hell!" Peter said, mind flashing back to his European Lit class at Harvard. Not something he'd ever dreamed he'd use, much less to save a life. Hell, he'd only taken it because the cute girl from his Accounting 301 class was in it. What had her name been? Sandra? Sally? Something like that. Whatever it was, God bless her and her fetish for Italian poetry.

"It's hell?" Diana asked, voice doubtful. "What are you talking about?"

"Look. See the sign over there?" Peter said, pointing to the register. "Commissions by Mr. Dan Tay. Dante! They laid it out like Dante's circles of hell! From the Divine Comedy." Peter turned back around. "See? The panties are lust, the fancy coats are gluttony, and the doggie outfits? Cerberus the three headed dog was in the third circle! Then the big stacks of uncut fur? In the fourth circle the greedy rolled heavy weights around. Then the black rain boots—in the river Styx people drown in black mud. Then all the red stuff—the river Plegethon is filled with blood! The cold weather gear is for the final circle, where Satan eternally flaps his wings, freezing everything."

Diana's eyebrows shot up. "Wow. These guys really are psychos." She paused, frowning. "But that's only eight circles. There are nine circles in Dante's hell."

"Exactly," Peter said, moving toward the corner that divided the rain boots from the red clothing. He knelt down, running his hands along the floor. "The City of Dis is missing. The sixth circle of hell, the one between the two rivers."

"You think their bunker is the City of Dis," Diana said, beginning to run her hands along the wall.

Peter nodded, heart beating fast as he tapped on the tiles, straining his ears for any sort of echo that might indicate there was something behind them. "I do. It's perfect. Dis is where the heretics who spoke against God burn eternally in flaming tombs. The bunker is like a tomb, Melbane's a pyromaniac, and everyone in his little group is an anarchist atheist." He brought his hand down on the next tile, pausing at the tinny sound that resounded. He looked up at Diana, equally excited and terrified. "Here. I think I found it. Help me get this tile off!"

Diana dropped down on her knees next to him and together they hoisted up the edge of the large stone tile. It slid out slightly, revealing a hinge and a small keypad. Peter tugged harder on the edge, but it refused to budge. Apparently they had attached it to some kind of metal plate.

Peter stared down at the hatch beneath them, fists clenched. "Dammit," he swore, staring hatefully at the small keypad. The lock wasn't exceptionally fancy like the ones at Melbane's house, but Peter had no idea how to override it. "It's a four number combination. Ten thousand variations."

Diana frowned, leaning in closer to inspect it. "Can we use a cellphone to overload it?"

Peter shook his head. "No. I've seen this lock before. It only allows you three tries then locks down from the outside for twenty-four hours. Running it through a program would just lock it up unless we happened to hit the code on the first three tries."

"Not good odds there," Diana said grimly.

Peter bent over, inspecting the keypad. "It looks like the number 3 has a lot of wear on it. And there's a little chip off of 7." Peter's brow furrowed as he ran the numbers through in his head. "It could be… D, E, F, P, Q, R, S—" He cut off, staring down at the lock in disbelief. "No way. It couldn't be. It's too easy." He paused. "But I guess it's worth a shot."

"What do you think it is?" Diana questioned.

Peter ran a hand nervously across his hair, saying a silent prayer as he began to punch in numbers. "3, 4, 7… 3." for a moment nothing happened, and Peter held his breath, waiting… After what seemed like forever it beeped and the small light next to the pad began to blink green. Peter let out a sigh of relief.

"Damn," Diana said, kneeling next to him. "How did you figure it out?"

"3, 4, 7, 3. It's 'fire,'" Peter replied, frowning deeply. "Come on, let's get this open."

The hatch was heavy, a thick steel that Peter could hardly lift. Obviously Melbane was strong. Diana slid down through the hatch and Peter followed, landing lightly on his feet onto a small staircase leading downward. "Okay," he said in a low voice. "We're going down, but we don't want to spook Melbane, not when he has Neal. We need to—"

A loud scream cut Peter off, making them both jump. It was high pitched but hoarse, definitely not the first scream of the night, and it was loud enough that they would have been able to hear it from above. The bunker must be soundproofed. Peter's stomach turned as another scream cut through the passageway before them. It took everything he had not to leap down the stairs and run to the rescue, not that he knew where Neal was or how he could help them. Melbane held all the cards and Peter didn't like it, he didn't like it one bit.

"Diana," he whispered, forcing his voice into an artificial sort of calm. "I'll lift you up and you close the hatch. The place is soundproofed. If we shut it, Melbane won't be able to hear the sirens if we do get backup."

Diana gave a short nod, stepping into Peter's clasped hands so he could hoist her up She pulled the heavy metal door shut behind them with a clang that made Peter wince. God he hoped Melbane hadn't heard that.

"Okay, come on, let's go," Peter whispered. They started down the staircase, Peter trying to walk as quickly and quietly as possible. The stairs were longer than he had expected. The bunker was very deep underground, maybe even below the sewers. If that was the case, no telling how big it was. After at least fifty or sixty stairs they finally came to a landing, but there wasn't a door, just two new staircases leading in opposite directions. What was this place, a fucking maze?

Peter pulled his gun from its holster, slowly peeking around one corner as Diana took the other.

"We're clear here," Peter said, holding the gun closely.

"Here too," Diana whispered back. "Which way do we go?"

Peter took a steadying breath as he looked back and forth. "We go—"

Another scream bounced through the bunker, carried from God knows where. The place obviously had good acoustics, because the screams seemed to fill the whole structure, leaving no hint as to what direction the sound was coming from.

Sweat trickled down Peter's face as he gripped his gun even tighter, stomach turning. If he chose the wrong direction, Neal could end up dead, but if they split up they would have no backup if one of them found Melbane. But he had to do something *now*, before he was forced to listen to another of those heart-wrenching screams. Visions of tears pouring down Neal's handsome face filled his mind. He had to make a decision *now.*

"You go that way," Peter said gruffly, hoping to God he was making the right choice. "I'll take the left."

Diana gave a short nod and started down the right staircase. Peter breathed in deeply as he started down the opposite way, trying to steady himself. It would be okay. He would find Neal, take him home, and everything would be all right. It would all work out—

Another scream echoed, hitting Peter like a slap to the face. God, this was all his fault. Why the hell hadn't he listened to Neal? Neal was a part of *his* team, was *his* friend. How could Peter have forced him into this?

Peter swallowed deeply as a soft light began to glow before him. A few more steps and he could see the end of the staircase, complete with an arched entry that looked worthy of a place in Dante's inferno. Peter was half surprised it didn't have 'Abandon All Hope' written across it.

"Please," Peter heard Neal's voice saying, hoarse and broken. He'd never heard Neal sound that vulnerable before. "Please, stop…"

"Aw, little boy is so scared," came Melbane's mocking response. Peter tightened the grip on his gun. "Poor baby… But don't worry. Daddy's here now. It sure took him long enough, didn't it? Maybe he wants to take a turn playing with you now?" A chuckle. "What a fun reunion. I'm even going to dress up." There was a loud clanking noise, like metal smacking against rock, and Neal made a terrified sound.

Peter took a deep breath as he flattened himself against the wall next to the door, planning to spring out on the count of three. One… Two…

"Oh, Daaaaddy, why don't you come out now? And I suggest you put down your little gun. I don't think it will be much help against my chosen weapon. Fire melts metal every time. Kind of like rock beating scissors, you know?"

Peter froze, shoulders tensing. No. There was no way. How could Melbane know?

"If you're wondering how I know you're there, there's a security pad that tells me when the entrance hatch is opened. Well, and also because I can see the front of your wingtips. A little sloppy for a Quantico grad, aren't you?"

Peter glanced down, swearing quietly as he saw the tip of his shoe peeking out around the corner. "Why the hell would I put my gun down?" Peter called out. "Fire has to be pretty damn hot to melt metal, Melbane."

Another of those horrible, crazy sounding laughs. "Which is why my World War II surplus flamethrower was such a good purchase. I did the restoration work myself. It's sort of like my baby. In fact, I probably love it about as much as you love Angel Lips here. It is heavenly isn't it, his pretty mouth? Do you enjoy it, Agent Burke?"

Oh, screw this. Peter swung around the corner, pointing his gun in a two handed stance in the direction of Melbane's voice. He realized in some small part of his brain that Melbane was still chatting away like there wasn't an FBI agent pointing a deadly weapon at him, but all Peter could process was the image of Neal, bound naked to a metal table in front of Melbane. His face was covered in tears and blood, and his ass was a deep red color. Neal's lip was trembling as he stared at Peter with something like disbelief in his eyes. It *was* disbelief, Peter realized as Neal mouthed the words 'you came' like it was some sort of miracle. Of course he'd come! Had Melbane really convinced Neal that Peter would ever, *ever* leave *his* friend to suffer? Didn't Neal know him better than that? Didn't he realize how much Peter loved him?

Of course he didn't. Why would he? Peter had never been brave enough to tell him, after all. The closest he'd ever come was calling him 'buddy' and giving him the occasional 'arm around the shoulders' routine.

"Oh, Agent Burke, are you listening to me?"

Peter's attention snapped back to Melbane, tearing his eyes away from Neal's battered face. This was all his fault. "Let him go," Peter said hoarsely, training his gun on Melbane's chest. "Now!"

Melbane let out a loud sigh. "No, you definitely weren't listening." He sort half-turned and Peter noticed the large pack on his back for the first time. It was a pair of metal cylinders that strapped over his shoulders with a thick tube running downward to hang off his belt. It looked heavy as hell, and pretty damn scary too. It was definitely military. Shit, did Melbane *really* have a flamethrower?!

"Like I said, my precious baby here," Melbane caressed the tube like it was a lover, "is World War II surplus. They hadn't really perfected the art of flamethrowers yet. In fact, it was brand new technology back then. Very… volatile." Melbane flashed a smile. "Kind of like me. You put a bullet in my chest from this range it will go right through me into these canisters and the spark of metal on metal is all that it will take to sent this whole place up in a fantastical flash of flame. So, unless you're interested in your personal meat being well done, I suggest you put down the gun."

"I don't think so," Peter said, lifting his gun a few inches, eyes locked on Melbane's face. "How about you let him go or I put one in your head? I'm pretty sure that your WWII surplus junk can handle that."

Melbane rolled his eyes and took three steps back, pointing the flamethrower's tube in Neal's direction. Neal cried out and began yanking madly at the ropes tying him down.

"The trigger in this is pretty touchy, too, Agent. How about you put your gun down or I burn your pet alive? Then the only thing you'll have to put on a leash is your actual dog, and we both know leashes are most fun with a person at the end." He stared threateningly at Peter. "Drop it, now, or your boy toy burns!"

"Please don't burn me," Neal moaned, squeezing his eyes shut. "Please."

Peter swallowed hard at the desperate edge to Neal's voice. His mind raced as he tried to figure out what he could possibly do to get them out of this. Finally, seeing no other option, he bent over and set his gun on the floor, kicking it away.

"There," Peter said coldly. "I dropped my gun. Now stop pointing that thing at Caffrey."

"Oh, he's 'Caffrey' now, is he?" Melbane questioned as he lowered the flamethrower, an amused look on his face. "A little formal for the man you spend your days raping."

"Shut the hell up!" Peter snapped, a rush of rage coming over him. He was tired of this bastard's perverted crap. "I've never touched him like that, you sick fuck."

Melbane sighed loudly, an exasperated looking coming over his face. "Does *anyone* understand the meaning of 'existential'? It was speaking metaphorically, Agent." The man reached out and ran a hand through Neal's glitter filled hair, inducing a whimper.

"Don't touch him," Peter said in a threatening tone, causing Melbane to laugh.

"Oh, there it is. So protective of your property. You really don't like other men playing with your toys, do you, Peter? May I call you Peter? I think I'll call you Peter."

"He's not my property, Melbane, and he's not a toy, either."

"Really?" Melbane said, feigning surprise. "From the way you treat him, I never would have known."

God, Peter could really use some backup. Surely Diana realized by now that Melbane was on Peter's side of the bunker? Of course, for all Peter knew, this bunker could go on for eternity. Maybe he really was in hell. Seeing Neal's tear drenched face was close enough, anyway. Broken Neal, Peter's own personal hell.

"For the last time," he said, taking a small step forward. "I have never raped Caffrey."

"God!" Melbane shouted out suddenly, slapping Neal's ass as he did so. Peter gritted his teeth in anger. "Does nobody listen anymore?" He shook his head, disgusted. "I'm telling you, everything these days is one big lie. Like you, the esteemed Special Agent Burke, lauded hero pretending to be the good guy when, really, you get your joy from taking people down and ripping them apart."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Peter snapped. "You're the crazy one."

A twisted smile appeared on Melbane's face. "Maybe your lies have even managed to fool you. The easiest person to lie to is yourself, after all. But it's time for you to admit what you are, Peter. Take some time to think about the things you've done and how they've made others feel."

"I'm not lying to anyone."

Melbane reached out, stroking Neal's back. "Take little Neal here. Pretend for a moment that you're him, with his angel lips. Daddy used to fuck you up, then all the bad men did too. Finally you get away from the grasping hands…" Melbane dug his fingernails into Neal's back, making him whimper. "Then Mr. Superior Agent comes along on his high horse and sends you back to them. For four years they hurt you because of him. You never did *anything* to hurt anyone. Unlike him with his big gun, you don't even like violence! You'd rather run and hide than stand and fight anyway, because you're a cowardly bitch like that."

"Neal is anything but a coward," Peter snapped, anger surging through him. "You're the coward, Melbane, hiding behind your locks and your safe houses and your mind games."

"Then you see an out," Melbane continued as if Peter hadn't spoken. "You know Big, Bad Agent Man loved how it felt when he took you down, and you know he'd love to feel that rush every day. So you make a deal. You'll give yourself to him and he'll protect you from the pain you're trying to escape. But being with him brings new pain."

Peter's eyes dropped back down to Neal's battered face, feeling ill. Being around him *did* bring Neal pain. How could he have gotten him into this?

"Lots and lots of new pain. Every day you wake up heavy with the knowledge that you're a prisoner. No, more than a prisoner, because you don't just sit in a cell. You're a slave. *His* slave, and you're wearing his mark around your ankle. You get out of bed, you go to work, you do your best, but he never lets you forget. Every time you meet someone new he tells them what a bad boy you are, doing his best to make sure no one respects you."

"I respect him," Peter snapped, taking a step forward. "Neal, you know I respect you."

Neal didn't respond, just buried his face deeper into his arm.

"Liar," Melbane replied lightly. "You don't respect him. You demean him, degrade him, then use the fact that you saved him as an excuse. The daggers are cloaked, but they hit home every time. I watched you two, I followed you two. I *know*, Peter. There's no use pretending around me. You're big, strong Agent Burke and he's the worthless criminal who's lucky to be granted the honor of getting you your coffee."

"You don't know anything," Neal said suddenly, and Peter was surprised at the strength in his voice. The man turned his face up, glaring at Melbane angrily. "You don't know shit, Melbane. He's my friend."

Melbane's eyes dropped down, an amused look crossing his face. "Oh, he's more than your friend. You love him, Neal. You try and try and try to win him over, but you're the coward and the thief and the whore while he's the brave, honorable soldier, so it never works. And just like your daddy when you were little, he always has the perfect excuse to hurt you. 'Neal's been a bad boy!'" Melbane laughed. "For every happy hour you spend working together there's another where he's ripping you down in front of everyone, isn't there?"

Peter locked on Neal's big blue eyes, chest tightening at the pain he saw there. For a long moment they just looked at each other, then Neal turned his face away again, hiding his eyes, and a rush of guilt washed over Peter. Had he really done that to Neal? Was this really how Neal saw him?

"That's what I thought." Melbane was looking pleased with himself again. "He rips you down and you have to take it because that's his right. You're on his leash and, if you don't take it, he can send you to a much, much worse place—a threat that is forever lingering over your head." Melbane glanced up at Peter. "And you never miss a chance to remind him of it, do you Peter? Because you *like* to take him down a notch. It makes you happy to know that little Neal will go home, make his dinner, take a shower, curl up in bed, and think about how many times he bent over so you could fuck him up the ass that day. How many times you raped him. Because it is rape, even though Neal here," Melbane ran a hand through his hair, "would give it up to you in an instant if you asked. But you don't ask, you don't worry at all about how he feels or what he wants. You're too wrapped up in reminding everyone what a loser he is. And little Neal smiles and nods and laughs and says 'sir, yes sir', but it's definitely rape. After all, you don't care if he wants it or not and you do it to bring him down. That's what rape is really about, isn't it? The power over another person? Face it. You're a rapist, Peter. That's the truth, the truth you've tried so hard to hide from yourself. You take pleasure in making little Neal's shoulders hunch and his pretty smile fade away. Just admit it, Peter, admit what you are and I won't burn your pet up."

Peter's heart was pounding as he stared at Neal, blinking back tears. Was that really what he did, was that really what he was? Was it the truth? It must be the truth since nothing Melbane had said was a lie. Peter *did* enjoy reminding Neal of his place, but only in good fun and as a reminder that nothing good came from being bad. Except what if Neal didn't think it was good fun? What if Neal really felt that Peter… that he… Oh, God, Peter couldn't even think it.

"Well?" Melbane said, lifting the flamethrower threateningly. "You're pretty close, Peter. And like I said, this thing is volatile. I might very well burn you up too when I take down your toy. Admit it and we won't have to do this…"

Peter's mouth moved silently, not knowing what to say. Finally he spoke, voice hoarse. "Okay, I admit it. I… I treat him badly sometimes."

"You treat him like a whore," Melbane said flatly. "A whore that you can rape anytime. Say it, Peter! Say it or I'll burn him!"

"Oh, go to hell, Melbane!" Neal shouted suddenly, yanking madly on the ropes binding him down. "I am sick of your twisted shit! God, you make Freud look normal! *I'll* admit it—I kind of love, Peter, okay? And you know why? Because he's not a fucking monster like you are! Like any of them were! Out of all the friends I've ever had, Peter is the only one I trust. *That's* the truth. Maybe, once upon a time, I didn't trust him. Maybe, once upon a time in a motel far, far away, I was afraid of him. But I trust him now because he *earned* it!" Neal let out a short laugh. "Obviously it was deserved because Peter's here now. So you know what? Because I kind of love him, I'm shutting down this therapy session. Your online psychology degree has officially been revoked."

Peter let out a shout as Neal suddenly slid his weight toward one side of the table, yanking at the restraints as he did so. The movement was enough to tip the table over, sending him crashing to the ground. The edge of the table hit Melbane right in the groin, sending the man toppling down as well. It was like slow motion, watching his body fall slowly, slowly toward the concrete, Peter's stomach in knots as he waited for him to hit and show to the world just how volatile that flamethrower really was.

Finally Melbane hit and Peter's breath went out in a whoosh as no flames burst to life. The flamethrower's tube flew from Melbane's hand and Peter leaped forward, covering several feet in one step and coming down hard on top of Melbane. The man grabbed for the tube, grasping for the trigger, but Peter slammed an elbow in his face before he could reach it, then grabbed Melbane's right hand and twisted, cracking all the fingers at once. The man let out a scream, something that was rather satisfying after having heard Neal's cries echoing through the building. Before Melbane could try and grab the tube with the other hand, Peter took him by the hair and slammed his head back against the concrete floor once, twice, three times, then again and again and again until blood was running from his scalp and his features were slack with unconsciousness.

"Peter, Peter, that's enough!" There was a grinding sound as Neal used his weight to try and drag himself toward Peter, arms and legs still bound to the table. "Stop!"

Peter obeyed, letting Melbane's head fall to the concrete, fists still clenched in anger as he stared down at him. God, he wanted nothing more than to put a bullet in this sick bastard's head, to see the blood run and know that he'd never take another breath after what he'd done to—

"Peter," Neal's voice was small and hoarse.

"Neal," Peter said, crawling over Melbane's body toward the other man. He grabbed a knife that had fallen off Melbane's little accessories table and began sawing at the ropes on Neal's wrists.

"'M sorry," Neal said, tears running down his cheeks. "'M sorry. Please don't hate me."

Hate him? Why the hell would Peter hate him? It was Neal who should be hating Peter. The final rope gave way and Peter pulled the smaller man into his arms, wrapping him up tightly. "Are you okay?" Peter whispered, though it was obvious Neal was very much less than 'okay.'

Neal buried his face in Peter's chest, shoulders heaving as he sobbed.

"Shhh, it's okay," Peter murmured, rocking a little. "I've got you, buddy."

"Boss!"

Peter looked up at the sound of Diana's voice. She was standing just in the doorway, gun in hand.

"Diana," he said in relief, glancing over at Melbane. "He's got some sort of antique flamethrower. Get it the hell off of him and bind him up. He's out now for now, but I don't want to take the chance he'll wake up, not with this sicko."

Diana obeyed, making a quiet noise as she took in Melbane's battered face. It didn't phase her long, though, and after cuffing Melbane to a heavy pipe protruding from the wall, she began to cut the straps to his pack. When it was free she picked it up and carried it to the furthest corner of the room, setting it down carefully.

"Is Neal okay?" she asked as she moved over toward them.

Peter began to run a hand comfortingly up and down Neal's back. The man shivered in his arms. "I don't know," he said honestly. "And I don't care if the entire Metropolitan is on fire. Call this in and tell them to get the paramedics over here *now.* I don't want to move him too much without knowing where he's hurt."

Diana nodded, heading toward the door. "Got it. I'll be right back."

Peter turned his attention back to Neal, running his eyes across the man's naked body as he tried to assess the damage. Of course, with Melbane's twisted mind fucking, the damage was probably a lot more than physical.

"He'll always remember," came a sluggish, gravelly voice. Peter jumped slightly at the sound then looked up in disbelief as Melbane grinned a bloody smile at him from his place cuffed to the pipe. God, was the man indestructible? Peter had to have slammed his head into the ground ten, fifteen times and he was already awake. "I branded that cow with his master's name so he'd remember forever. Don't think you can make him forget." Apparently the effort of talking was too much, because with those words he passed out again, the man's head falling back against the wall with a clunking sound.

What the hell did that mean? He'd branded him? Peter hadn't seen any brand. But then, where would you brand someone?

Slowly, slowly Peter lifted Neal up. The man didn't seem to notice, was perfectly still actually, and Peter suspected that he'd given into the pain and the shock and finally passed out. Ever so carefully he manipulated Neal's body until he could see his ass.

Oh, God. Peter choked up as he found the name branded in elegant script across Neal's right buttock, wickedly red against his pale skin. A single tear slid down Peter's face as he pulled Neal close again, the letters as burned into Peter's mind as they were into Neal's ass.

AGENT PETER BURKE

So he'd remember forever. So that Peter could never make him forget.