Author's Notes: This chapter is not actually the one I intended to write. A girl at my school passed away under very sad circumstances, and I felt it was time that at least one wrong-doer got some payback; so here it is, though like many wrong doers he gets less than he deserves. If you want to know more, there are more complete author's notes on my live journal at pucktheplayer dot livejournal dot com, but I am warning you it's a sad story.
o o o
Chapter 26: Make It Rain
o o o
The early morning sun lit up the Bureau lobby, dancing across the tile, but the power of a thousand suns couldn't have brightened Peter's day. There was a storm brewing inside of him, and it wasn't going away.
Fuck the bright skies. This office was about to storm.
He tapped his foot impatiently as he waited at the elevator block, checking his watch. Nine forty-five. Neal would be up by now for certain. Hopefully El would be able to keep him in check for a little while longer. It had taken longer at the bio lab than he had expected, but Peter supposed that he couldn't complain, considering they didn't usually open until ten, and Dr. Garret had shown up at six o'clock sharp as a personal favor to him.
The elevator binged, doors sliding open, and Peter stepped in. He was immediately met by the elevator operator, a young man with a smile almost as bright as the sun outside and shaggy red curls peeking out from his fancy little cap. He was dressed in a double breasted polyester suit with bright silver buttons, but instead of an button down with a tie he wore a crisp grey shirt with a mandarin collar that pretty much covered his neck. All of his neck.
Peter was used to seeing this kid—he rode the elevator every single day—but today it was like he seeing him with brand new eyes. The boy wasn't ugly, but he wasn't exactly handsome, either, with heavy freckling and ears a little too big for his head—a head that was tipped slightly forward, hazel eyes locked on the agent's chest rather than his face. His hands were tucked neatly behind his back.
"Good morning, Agent Burke," he said, smile widening. He met Peter's eyes for an instant before dropping them back down to his chest. He reached out to hit a button as the elevator doors swung shut, but Peter caught his arm. The boy stiffened. "May I help you, Agent Burke?" The words were cheerful, but his tense shoulders betrayed his nervousness.
"What's your name?"
The boy blinked and raised his eyes again, obviously not expecting the question. And why would he? Peter had ridden in this elevator with him hundreds of times and never asked his name before. He was, after all, just the elevator operator. All he did was push a button, and up they went.
"I'm sorry, sir?" the boy said as he stared at Peter's big hand on his arm, obviously distracted by the tight grip. Peter released him, feeling guilty for putting that nervous look on his face.
"Your name," Peter said. "What is it?"
"Oh." The kid had a look in his eye like he thought Peter was a little crazy, but he answered, "Um, well, they call me Goanup."
Peter blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Goanup," the boy repeated, voice sheepish. "I used to be called Tommy, back when I sorted mail at the IRS, but when I started working here all anybody ever said to me was 'Hey, going up!' So the other slaves started calling me Goanup."
So his suspicions were confirmed—the kid really *was* a slave. Right here, in the goddamn FBI building. Pushing the button that sent agents up to Vice Collar. How many more slaves did they have running around, serving his needs without his knowledge? Ten? Twenty? A hundred?
Peter wasn't sure he liked seeing the world with these new eyes.
"They really call you Goanup? God, that sounds like a bad joke." Peter shook his head, embarrassed for the boy, but the kid just laughed.
"Oh, they don't mean nothing by it, Agent Burke, sir. It could have been worse—they could call me 'Going Down.'"
Peter chuckled along with him. "Yeah, I guess that would be worse."
"So are you ready to go up, sir?" Goanup—oh God, Peter couldn't even think of him as that—*Tommy* asked as he reached toward the buttons again, but Peter held up a hand, making him pause.
"Actually, Tommy, I am going up. But it's going to be a little further than usual today."
o o o
El smiled as she walked into the kitchen, the smell of sizzling bacon and freshly squeezed oranges luring her to the table. Neal was at the counter, busy wielding a spatula like a pro.
"Good morning, Neal," she said as she tightened the belt on her terrycloth robe and settled into one of the chairs, making a point *not* to try and lend him a hand. He obviously wanted to serve breakfast, and she had no reason to stop him.
"Good morning, Mistress El." He glanced over his shoulder to give her a smile, and she returned it with one of her own.
"Would you like come coffee, Mistress El?" he asked, not waiting for an answer before he set a steaming yellow mug in front of her.
She took a careful sip, finding it exactly to her liking. How in the world did Neal know how she took her coffee? The boy was like magic.
Neal turned back to the counter, dumping out a tub of strawberries onto the cutting board. She sipped her coffee in silence, watching him as he worked, chopping away.
For some reason Neal had chosen to wear a pair of black silk boxers and nothing else, putting his bruises in full view. What had been a solid smear of red and purple and blue before had now faded to just a few black and green patches on his pale skin. Without the bruising to distract, El could see fine white lines tracing random patterns on his back and legs, almost but not quite invisible. She wasn't exactly an expert at measuring scars, but her instincts said they were old, that they'd had many years to fade to the edge of nothingness.
"When did you get the scars on your back?" El asked, then immediately wished she hadn't. Talk about tactless, bringing up what had obviously been very painfully earned lash marks.
Neal, however, didn't seem bothered, glancing back at her for a moment before continuing with his chopping. "Oh, those are from forever ago. When I was a kid. They were supposed to be on Hezekial."
"Hezekial?" El said, shaking her head at the name. First 'Titillation,' then 'Hezekial'? Was there a book out there called 'Weird Ass Slave Names for Dummies?'
"Yeah," Neal said, picking up the chopping board and sweeping the strawberries into a bowl. "He was this kid I trained with. Dumb as a brick, but pretty as hell. Your usual mid tier fuckling. At the time we looked really alike. In fact, they advertised us as a matching set. Blue eyes, dark hair, pretty face. Same height, same build. Totally different IQ. Anyway, he set off the sprinklers at a strip club."
He turned around just as El's eyebrows shot up.
"He did what?"
Neal chuckled at the look on her face, leaning back against counter and crossing his arms over his chest. "We were there 'cause our trainer was trying to teach us to strip, and it wasn't going too well. Zeke didn't know right from left, and I looked more like I was treating a rash than doing a sexy dance. So our trainer took us to this strip club so we could see how it was done or whatever. Anyway, our trainer got distracted by all the boobs and wandered off, leaving our tweenish butts sitting at a table." He shook his head, looking amused. "Then this old geezer came over and told Zeke to stand up and make it rain."
El's eyes widened slightly. "Oh my God, he didn't…"
"He did," Neal said dryly. "Like I said, we were matched in all things but IQ. Zeke gave the dinosaur a big smile, walked right across the room, and pulled the fire alarm." He gave a small shrug. "Hey, he *did* make it rain."
"That's horrible," El said, though she couldn't help but laugh. "I can't believe he thought the guy really wanted him to make it rain."
"*I* can't believe that he knew pulling the fire alarm would make the sprinklers come on," Neal said, shaking his head. "He didn't even know how to screw in a lightbulb. So our trainer is right in the middle of a lap dance when this happens, and boy is he pissed. He drags us out of there by our hair, screaming the whole time about how that's twenty bucks of his life he'll never get back."
"Oh man," El said, laughing again. "That is too funny."
"Yeah," Neal said, smile fading a little. "It was pretty funny, until the old geezer came storming up. He started yelling like a maniac at my trainer, all this shit about how if your bitches don't know the difference between making it rain dollar bills and bringing the fire chief to a strip club, then you shouldn't be taking them out in public. Whoa, was our trainer mad when he figured out what had happened. Seriously, I had never seen him that angry in my life."
"And he thought it was you who set off the alarm," El said, all humor disappearing as she retraced those fine white lines in her mind. "The pervert at the club couldn't tell you apart."
Neal shook his head. "No, my trainer knew it was Zeke. You're right that the pervert couldn't tell us apart, but my trainer knew that only Zeke would be that stupid. So he started screaming at him about how he hoped Zeke had enjoyed this night because it was the last he'd ever see, along with a bunch of other crazy shit about chopping off his nuts and beating in his face before he put him out of his misery. I knew there would be a needle in Zeke's neck the second we got home."
"Oh my God, he killed him?" El said, suddenly feeling sick to her stomach. "For one little misunderstanding?"
"No, no," Neal said, waving the words away. "I wouldn't have let that happen. Zeke was too sweet. It wasn't his fault he was a total idiot. I told our trainer I did it. I said that I was tired of the old guy sticking his hand down my pants so when he said 'make it rain,' I decided to give him exactly what he asked for."
"And your trainer believed you?" El asked.
"Not at first," Neal said, "but then I asked him where the hell Hezekial would have learned that pulling a fire alarm would set off sprinklers, and my trainer couldn't argue with that. Zeke really was stupid."
"So if you were afraid your trainer was going to kill the other boy, weren't you afraid he'd kill you?"
"Zeke was pretty," Neal said, turning back to the counter and scooping the freshly chopped fruit onto a plate. He then spun around, balancing it on his fingertips dramatically before setting it down in front of her.
El's eyebrows shot up at the elegant arrangement of bacon, eggs, and fruit salad. It wasn't easy to make greasy, runny breakfast foods look beautiful, but somehow Neal had managed.
"Pretty was all that Zeke was, though," he continued. "Pretty fucklings are a dime a dozen. Hardly worth the food you feed them. But me…" Neal shrugged. "I knew he wasn't going to put me down, or even chop off my 'freshly dropped balls,' as he so eloquently put it. I had too many skills. So he just whipped me. Hard. With the kind of whip that leaves marks you'll never be able to heal. But it was better than a dead Zeke."
Neal returned to the counter, pouring a glass of orange juice and setting it on the table next to her plate, looking at her expectantly.
It was sickening, the things they'd done to Neal. Though she wasn't quite sure what was worse: The awful events themselves or the way that Neal told the stories like he was reliving his frat boy days. If he could laugh about things like this, then how bad was the stuff he cried about?
El didn't really feel much like eating anymore, but she didn't want all the slave's work to be for nothing. She took a deep breath and picked up a piece of bacon, forcing herself to chew and swallow it down, then gave Neal a smile. "It's good."
"Thank you, Mistress El." Neal licked his lips, staring at the table for a moment, then he pulled out the chair across from her, sitting down stiffly in the seat, his arms hovering uncomfortably above the table.
"Are you going to eat?" she asked, glancing over at the second plate, still sitting on the counter.
"I'll eat when you're finished, Mistress El," he said, and El nodded her head in understanding. This was an olive branch, Neal meeting her half way. He would sit with her at the table, as uncomfortable as it made him, and she would allow him to wait until after she was finished to eat. Fair enough.
They sat there in silence for several minutes, Neal picking idly at his cuticles while El practically gorged herself on the most delicious fruit salad she'd ever tasted, then finally he spoke up in a casual voice.
"May I ask where Master is? I woke up at six and he was already gone." Neal's eyes were still locked on his fingernails, but El had a feeling that the slave had been dying to ask this question for awhile now.
She smiled at him, hoping it came off as genuine. She had rehearsed this little speech at least five times in the mirror this morning, but she wasn't sure it was conman worthy. "He got an early call about some paperwork he forgot to sign on a case," she said, feeding him the story Peter had come up with to explain his absence. "It's going to court this morning so they needed his John Hancock ASAP. None of us got much sleep last night so he decided not to wake you." She glanced down at her watch, frowning. "I'm surprised he's not back yet. Oh, who am I kidding? He's such a workaholic. He probably won't be home before dinner."
"Oh," Neal said, brow furrowing. "So does that mean that he doesn't want me at work?" The words were casual, but the look on his face was not. Obviously the idea of being left behind terrified the shit out of him.
"No, no, of course not," El soothed. "He just didn't want to wake you up for no reason. After breakfast I'll put you in a cab to the office."
It was quite an effort not to add, "How does that sound?" onto the end of the sentence, but El had sworn to herself that she'd try and treat Neal more like Jack treated Ian, as disrespectful as it felt to her. She held her breath, half expecting Neal to say something sassy or try to pry more out of her regarding what Peter was doing at the Bureau before the crack of dawn, but he just nodded and returned his attention to his nails.
"Yes, Mistress El."
Okay then.
They fell into silence again, Neal picking dirt out of his fingernails as El worked on her meal, then Satchmo trotted in, doing a little jig at her feet. El rewarded him for his fine efforts with a piece of bacon, and Neal chuckled.
"What?" she said, raising an eyebrow.
He shook his head, grinning, and she pretended to scowl. "Oh, come on. Don't start going all strong and silent on me now. What's so funny?"
"Can't say," Neal replied, curls falling into his eyes. "It's totally heretical."
El made a rude sound. "By that I'm guessing you mean it would piss Peter off? Well, Peter's not here, boyo, so spill."
Neal's grin widened, blue eyes flickering in Satch's direction. "I was just thinking that you really know how to make your men dance. Does Peter realize that you rule this roost with a porcelain fist?"
"Oh please, you know he's completely clueless," she said, waving the words away. "He totally believes he's the man of the house, but the fact is that women have always ruled. Men are just living in a dream world. It's the same dream world that convinces them their penises are even remotely attractive."
Neal burst into laughter, the first truly untempered laugh she'd ever heard from him. His whole face shined, and the unhealed bruises faded to the background, allowing her a glimpse of just how handsome he would be when well fed and free of those marks.
"Oh yeah," he said, nodding. "I call it 'My Beautiful Penis Syndrome.'" He lowered his voice, faking a redneck accent. "You know, you're almost as pretty as what I'm packing in my pants."
El laughed then squared her jaw like a man and grunted. "It's gorgeous ain't it?" she said in a low voice, gesturing vaguely toward her crotch. "Don't you just wanna *touch* it?"
"Standing tall and proud," Neal countered in a deep, gravelly tone. "Have you ever seen anything like it? I named it Bob."
"Forget Paris at sunset, lady—you should see what I got in my pants."
"Looking for Prince Charming? I got him right here. All you have to do is dance with his royal balls."
"Oh, God," El said, bursting into laughter. "Please tell me you made that last one up."
"I wish," Neal said, shaking his head. "And trust me, it looked nothing like Prince Charming. In fact it had a lot more in common with Cinderella. And by that I mean all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't find it if they tried."
"You are horrible," El said. "I love it."
"You're pretty horrible, too," he replied with a grin. "I have to say, I've never met a woman quite like you."
"You mean that your old Mistress didn't make dick jokes with you?" El said, feigning shock.
Neal laughed again. "No, Mistress was not the dick joking kind. Or the joking kind in general. Mostly jokes just went over her head."
"I seriously doubt a penis joke could go over anybody's head," El said.
Neal shook his head ruefully. "You would be surprised." The good humor faded slowly off his face, and El really wished she hadn't brought Kate up. "I haven't even tried to look for her, you know." The words were heavy with guilt.
"Oh Neal… She was the one who left you," El said, reaching across the table and offering him her hand. "I mean, she sold your contract."
Neal stared at her hand for a moment, then took it gingerly in his own, squeezing lightly. His hands were surprisingly soft. "It wasn't ever really about the contract."
El frowned. "What do you mean?"
Neal sighed. "I called her my mistress, and it was fun to pretend. But the truth is, if Master Ad—" He cut off, taking a deep breath. "I mean, if my old master had showed up on the doorstep and ordered me to leave her, I would have. She was the love of my life, but even with the contract, she wasn't my mistress. Not for real. I would have left her." The pain in his voice was ten times what it had been when he talked about the whip marks on his back, and El gave his hand a comforting squeeze.
"I loved her so much. I still love her. I would do anything for her. Anything except defy my real master, that is." He made a disgusted sound. "I escaped prison slavery to be with her, yet here I am in this house, with no chains to hold me down, and I haven't even attempted to find her. I want to be with her… I want her to be Mistress again. But I want to have a master more." He shook his head. "Which makes zero sense, right?"
"It makes perfect sense, Neal," El said softly. "You called her Mistress, but she wasn't *really* your mistress. You were in charge, not her. I think you know that deep down. You and Kate… You were lovers. That's why you would have left her for your old master, and that's why you can't bring yourself to look for her behind Peter's back. Because you were Kate's lover for a few years, but you've been a slave your whole life. Your heart is dedicated to Kate, but that isn't enough to overcome two decades of brainwashing. So when it comes down to the wire, you can't help but choose master over lover."
"That's ridiculous," Neal murmured, not meeting her eyes. "I'm not even a man. How could I be someone's lover?
"Oh Neal," El said, shaking her head, "you are very much a man, whether the state acknowledges it or not. There is not a woman on this planet who looks at you and thinks 'what a pretty little boy.' A man is still a man, even if you call him a boy. You may be a slave, but you are also charming, witty, romantic, and a whole slew of other words that make women swoon. If it weren't for that piece of metal around your neck, you would be straight out of a romance novel."
Neal opened his mouth like he wanted to protest then shut it again, looking slightly peeved.
"You can't deny it, can you?" El said. "You know that you're every woman's fantasy. It's time to face facts. Kate was your lover, not your mistress. So you are not betraying her by being here."
Neal's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Maybe not," he said, voice hoarse. "But she was just so special, you know? So very, very special."
El bit her lip. From what Peter had told her, Kate really wasn't that special at all. What was it about this elusive 'Mistress' of his that made Neal take such wild chances and do such crazy things? "Look, I mean no offense when I say this, but beyond being beautiful, it doesn't seem like Kate was very special at all." The words 'especially compared to you' hung unspoken in the air. "What is it about her that you love so much?"
Neal looked away, staring off at nothing. When he finally spoke, El could barely hear him. "I guess… I guess it's because she was my first."
His first? Neal was a fuckling. Kate had to have been far from his first. Maybe he meant his first woman? No, that didn't make any sense. It wasn't as if men had a corner on the sex slave market. Plenty of women owned pleasure slaves. Neal would have been trained to serve women.
"What do you mean, your first?"
Neal turned back toward El, the look in his blue eyes making her shiver. "Being with her… It was the first time where I wasn't afraid."
o o o
Peter stared through a mass of ugly plastic leaves, eyes locked on his target. The big, tacky fern stuck in a corner by the copy machine wasn't exactly a surveillance van, but it was better than nothing. At least he had a good view of his mark. The bastard was seated in a small cubicle right in the heart of White Collar's bullpen, completely unaware of his impending doom as he idly pushed papers and scratched his butt.
It wasn't often that the law abiding Peter Burke dreamed of complete and total anarchy, but today he had a thirst for blood. If only it were the zombie apocalypse, Peter could blow that fucker's head off right here and now, then hang around to watch as animated corpses feasted on his brain. Not that it would be much of a meal.
Peter checked his briefcase one more time, making sure everything was ready to go. The office was packed, exactly how he wanted it. It was five past ten and a congregation of probies were worshiping the coffee machine as junior agents studied the unholy works of corporate fat cats and the head of the White Collar division fiddled his thumbs high up in the sky.
Let the humiliation commence.
Peter popped out from behind the fern, making one of the agents screech and spill coffee all over her ugly brown suit. No wonder the White Collar division never closed any cases. If a six foot two man built like a linebacker could hide behind a potted plant in the middle of the office for twenty minutes without a single agent noticing, God knew what a guy like Vincent Adler could do.
"Stephen Curtis Johnson?" Peter boomed as he reached his target's little cubicle, taking pleasure in the way the bastard jumped in his seat.
Brainless turned, his eyes widening for an instant, then his face twisted into a smirk. "Agent Peter Burke," he said in a nasally voice, the little rat. "A pleasure to see you. How are things going downstairs in Vice Collar these days? Catch the Dutchman yet?"
Peter gritted his teeth, willing himself to keep his hands at his sides, far from the bastard's neck. Death was too gentle a punishment for this shithead. Time to wipe that smirk off of Brainless' face.
"Johnson, you're going to have to come with me."
Brainless stood, puffing up his chest, and Peter resisted the urge to roll his eyes. What a little peacock.
"Didn't you get the memo, Burke? I've been transferred to White Collar. HR agreed that you had absolutely no grounds to fire me. In fact, my lawyer thinks that I might very well have a case against you." He chuckled. "Or maybe that's why you're here? To beg me for mercy? Because there's no way I'm going back to Vice Collar." He tilted his head toward the big, shiny offices over the bullpen, where the division head was now watching them with a suspicious look on his face. "I got me a new boss."
Peter let out a hearty laugh, and Brainless' brow furrowed up. Apparently this confrontation was not going precisely as he'd planned.
"I'm not here as your boss, Johnson. I'm here as Special Agent Peter Burke of the Vice Collar division." He reached into his jacket and pulled out his badge, flashing it at Brainless with a smirk. "And you're under arrest for first degree trespassing and vandalism of property."
Brainless stared at him blankly, what little mind he had obviously working double time to comprehend the words. "What the fuck are you talking about? I didn't vandalize shit."
"Oh?" Peter said, feigning surprise. "So you *didn't* penetrate slave Neal Caffrey in the cafeteria slave depository approximately forty-eight hours ago?"
"What?! No, no, of course I didn't!" Brainless said, face going bright red as every agent in the office turned their attention on the unfolding drama.
Peter set his briefcase on the desk, popping it open to reveal a ziploc freezer bag containing Neal's crumpled hat. He pulled it out, picking up the lab papers beneath. "Well, I guess you're in luck then, Johnson. If that's true then there's no way that the lab will be able to match your DNA back to this sample, seeing how you're so virginal and all."
Brainless' face went from tomato red to a sickly shade of yellow in an instant, eyes locked on the hat. "Where did you get that?"
"The mall," Peter replied sarcastically. "Where do you think I got it? Off my slave's head."
"Burke, Johnson… Mind if I ask what the hell is going on?"
Peter turned, flashing a grin at the White Collar department head. "Oh nothing much. Just arresting your agent here."
"You can't arrest me for shit," Johnson protested, sweat trickling down his face. "Okay, yeah, I banged the slave. But he asked for it! Begged me for it! It wasn't my fault. It was all him. You knew he was a slut when you got him."
Oh goody, exactly the words he'd been looking for.
"So you confess that you penetrated slave Neal Caffrey with full knowledge that he was in my possession at the time?"
"What?" Brainless' eyes were wild. "No! I mean, yes! I mean… Only because he wanted it!"
Peter snorted. "For someone who was in Vice Collar just a few days ago, you don't know much about slave law, do you? It doesn't matter if Neal paid you fifty bucks to stick your dick in him. He's my property, and property can't make decisions. The owner does. And I have several witnesses willing to testify to the fact that I clearly stated you were to stay the hell away from my slave. You violated my property rights, trespassing on my slave and vandalizing its body." He paused dramatically. "Oh yeah, and then there's the attempted murder."
"What?" Brainless choked out, stumbling back like he'd been struck. "What the hell are you talking about? Okay, yeah, I fucked the slave, but I didn't try to kill anybody!"
Peter clucked, shaking his head. "See the thing is, Johnson, when you decided to smear your man juice all over my slave's face, you opened up the possibility of transferring a sexually transmitted disease. And what a coincidence, the slave you chose to infect just *happens* to be property of the boss who fired you the day before. Seems pretty suspicious, you trying to trade fluids with the very man who put you in the unemployment line."
"That's never going to hold up in court," Brainless protested, though he didn't sound all that sure. How the hell had this one even made it through the Academy? "I don't even have any STDs!"
Peter grabbed the other man by the arms, yanking him forward until they were nose to nose. "You would be *amazed* at how convincing I am on the stand, Johnson," he practically growled. "I have put away hundreds of scumballs like you on half the evidence. You know it, I know it, everybody in this office knows it. You're going down, Johnson, one way or another. So if I were you, I'd think long and hard about taking a plea bargain. Fifteen to twenty is a hell of a lot better than forty to life. Now assume the position."
The words weren't completely a lie. Peter *had* put away hundreds of scumballs like him with half the evidence—but only because they *always* took the plea bargains.
Brainless let out a choked sob, and Peter smirked.
Let the bastard's tears fall like rain.