*Please be advised that this chapter has disturbing and potentially triggering content*

Chapter Twenty-Six

"It's okay, Danny. Don't fight me." It was a kind voice, a woman's voice. Ceasing his flailing, he opened his eyes. It was a strangely familiar face but he couldn't place it. "I'm here to help."

Just as his muscles started to loosen, she pressed something hard against his nose and mouth, something sickeningly sweet. Panicked, he resumed his struggle, trying to push her away, to move the cloth from his face. "This will make it better," she insisted, easily deflecting his feeble attempt at self-defense. "Look at me." Her sharp tone stilled him, immediately drawing his eyes to hers. "I'm gonna take care of you," she promised, her voice softening. Mary. It was the lady who lived at the end of the hall. "And make it all go away." How desperately he wished that were true, that everything could just go away. He had no energy to fight anymore; his hand dropped to the bed. "That's it," Mary encouraged softly, her free hand smoothing back his hair. "just breathe." His mind was slowing down, stalling out, but mercifully, so was the pain. The drug, whatever it was, and the gentle hypnotic rhythm of her touch soothed him. His eyelids were growing heavy and he closed them in sweet relief. She was making it go away, at least for now. "It was just a bad dream, do you hear me?" her voice was growing distant. "Just a very bad dream."

"Just a bad dream...just a very bad dream..."

Neal sat up in the pre-dawn light, his heart pounding, gasping for breath as panic washed over him in waves. The sweet smell pressed to his face had been ether; Mary had drugged him. She'd been there.

After.

It wasn't a dream at all. It wasn't just his worse fear revisiting him night after night. It was a memory. It had happened.

Bile rose in his throat; he gagged once before he managed to get his head over the side of the bed. He heaved several times, bringing up mouthfuls of thick, bitter acid before collapsing back on his bed. Weak and shaky, he rolled to his side, pulled his knees up, and curled into himself. It was real and as he lay there, it all came back in painful clarity. His chest ached and his throat hurt; a sob escaped his lips.

He didn't know how long he lay there, that horrific night replaying over and over in his mind. He'd tried to fight; if he'd been healthy he might have been able to fight off the slightly built Francis Douchant but Douchant hadn't come alone and he'd been quickly overpowered. Terry needed him to learn his role, Douchant had explained, caressing his cheek in a way that made his stomach knot and his skin crawl, and to do what he was told. When he didn't do as he was told, he'd continued, there would be consequences.

Then, as he was held firmly in place to keep him from squirming away, Douchant had described in great detail what those consequences were going to be.

There were no words for the terror he felt as Douchant loomed over him, reciting the punishment he was to receive. He'd begged then, more desperately than he had when he'd been curled up on the floor of Eden's office. Then he'd been begging for his life, but here in his small apartment, it felt as if even more than his life was hanging in the balance. Now he was begging for his soul, for his very being. He'd pleaded with Douchant to leave him alone, to tell Eden he was sorry and that he'd never question him again. But there had been no sympathy in the man's eyes and his petitions had fallen on deaf ears. In fact, there came a point when he realized the man enjoyed the fear he was invoking; was entertained by his desperate attempts to barter or make some kind of deal to save himself. He knew his fear was making Douchant feel more powerful and that he should stop showing his panic, clench his jaws and stay silent. But each time he tried, it was only a matter of moments before his terror drove him to begin it all again. That continued until he was no longer able to beg or even form coherent words.

The attack had been mind-numbingly painful but there had been so much more than the damage done to his body. The things they'd said to him, or about him as they meted out their punishment, had been humiliating and demeaning. He no longer cried out in pain and even the tears had stopped. His body was in agony but his mind had gone numb; he no longer could process what was happening to him and that in itself brought some relief.

At some point, it was over. Rough hands drug him up and around to face Douchant. They had to hold him upright because his legs were rubber beneath him but he managed to keep his head up. He stared at the man but no words, or even thoughts, came to mind.

"Where have you gone, Danny boy?" Douchant had asked, giving his cheek a sharp slap. "Lights are on boys," he'd chuckled, "but nobody is home." He grasped his chin firmly then, his eyes growing cold and hard. "Terry said to tell you there is more than one way to make a profit off you, Danny. Remember that."

At that, he'd been tossed back onto the small bed, and Douchant and his goons had left. It was over but nothing would ever be the same. Something had broken in him, something that made him, him. Something he knew he would never get back.

Danny had died that night in Chicago and Neal Caffrey had been born the next day. He just hadn't understood why. Mary had made him forget but seeing her picture had made him remember. She knew what had happened to him.

Cold dread washed over him. He sat up as his heart began to pound. Terrence Eden knew too, probably every sordid detail. Douchant would have reported back. They'd probably shared a drink and laughed about it. The thought of the two of them discussing the horror he'd endured sent him retching off the side of the bed again though there was nothing left in his stomach to expel.

Eden knew. Neal felt his chest beginning to squeeze tight. Every time he'd called him Danny boy, every time he'd had that knowing smirk on his face he'd been thinking of what he'd sent Douchant to do. To hurt him. To humiliate him. To show him he had no choice, no power.

You will always be Danny to me.

He shot up off the bed. He couldn't look at that man ever again, not now that he knew the truth. Mozzie was right, Eden would be convicted with or without his testimony. He didn't have to sit on the stand and answer questions about Danny while Eden watched him struggle. Or watched him freeze up. Or have a panic attack. No, that wasn't going to happen. He did have a choice now; he did have power. He had the power to walk away from this, from everyone who ever knew or even heard of Danny. He'd done it before and he could do it again. A feeling of calm purpose settled over him. He had a plan for this. A carefully curated, incredibly detailed contingency plan hidden in the mantle. It was time to use it.

He got up and retrieved the towel hanging over his shower door and with a grimace, cleaned up the mess he'd made on the floor. Half an hour later, he was showered and dressed in jeans, a tee-shirt, and a light running jacket. He filled his duffle bag with a change of clothes and an extra pair of shoes. He thought about taking the Fedora but decided against it; it was too Neal Caffrey and in order to leave Danny behind, he would have to leave Neal behind, too. Sometimes to survive you had to know when to cut your losses. Still, he did take the small, plastic badge from he'd gotten from Peter's box of cereal. Just to remember how it felt to belong and be a part of something. To be at the Burke house. A place he'd never be again. Just like here. He glanced around at the rooms he'd started to think of as home and the weight of what he was losing nearly undid him. But the reality of the situation was that he could not stay; this life was not for him. It never had been.

It does no good to pine away for things that we can never have.

His mother's words stiffened his spine and his resolve. He hastily stuffed the one keepsake he'd allowed himself into the zipper compartment of his bag. He needed to focus on the task at hand, at accomplishing each step necessary to expedite his departure. He couldn't let sentiment or emotion cloud his thinking. He went to the fireplace, pressed the latch, and removed the manilla envelop from its hiding place. He took his burn phone and dialed the emergency-only Mozzie number. His friend answered it after just one ring.

"What's wrong?"

Neal took a breath, hoping to keep his voice sure. He was sure. There were no other options. "Rabbit."

There was a pause as Mozzie processed his one-word response. "STAT or ASAP?" he asked. When Neal didn't immediately give an answer, Mozzie went on. "STAT comes from the Latin word statim, which means "instantly and ASAP-"

"Now, Mozzie," Neal snapped, having no patience for a commentary on word usage. He began to pace the small route from window to sofa. Standing still made him feel like he was crawling out of his skin. He needed to move. To go. "I need to go now."

Neal heard a heavy sigh from the other end of the line. "I understand, mon frere," Mozzie said almost mournfully. "Sometimes a journey makes itself necessary."

WCWCWC

"Move Satch," Peter said, flipping on the porch light to see what had incited his profound interest. Probably the neighbor's cat again. He flipped on the porch light and peer out the window. He was surprised to see Neal standing on the steps, wide-eyed and dripping wet.

Something was wrong; nothing else would have brought him here at this hour of the night. Or rather morning; predawn light eased the darkness to the east despite the rain. The nightmare had most likely prompted the visit but usually Neal just dashed around Riverside Park. He'd never shown up at his door. Or rather on his doorsteps. For whatever reason, he hadn't yet stepped onto the porch, not even to get out of the rain. He was just standing there, water running in torrents down his face. Had the dream changed again? Had his subconscious revealed a bit more? Was the truth of it starting to take shape in Neal's mind?

In mounting concern, he quickly unlocked the door. "Stay, Satch," he ordered as he opened the door.

"Neal," he said by way of greeting. "What are you doing standing out in the rain? Come inside." He stepped aside to allow him to enter, but instead of doing so, Neal continued to stand there, a mix of fear and desperation on his face. But of course, only fear and desperation would have brought him here.

"Neal," he said, stepping out onto the porch. "Just come inside and we can talk about whatever it is, okay?"

Instead of giving a reply, Neal's face contorted in anguish. A groan escaped his lips and he thrust something at Peter. Confused, he looked down at the folded, rain-spattered manilla envelope shaking in Neal's grasp. He frowned at it, unsure of why it looked familiar to him. Then he remembered; he'd seen it before. On the credenza at June's. Mozzie had shown it to him. The realization of what it was dawned on him and his eyes flew to Neal's in disbelief.

"Is that...?" He let it trail off as Neal, still unable to verbalize, gave a series of quick nods of affirmation.

The envelope was again thrust into his chest insistently. He took it almost tentatively, trying to understand what was happening. What would prompt Neal to act in such a way? Why would he ever hand him his Plan B, contingency plan? Again he met Neal's eyes, unsure of how to even formulate his question.

"What's going on, Neal?" he asked softly, eyes fixed on Neal's tortured ones. "What's this all about? Why are you here?"

Neal swallowed hard and when he found his voice, it was low and choked with emotion.

"Help."