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See prologue for warnings and summary.

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Author's Notes: For the 'Possession/Mind Control' square on my H/C Bingo Card for hc_bingo on LJ. I'm not real fond of possession, despite being a major Supernatural fan, so I went the mind control route. As always, this story will have a happy ending no matter how angsty it gets!

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Chapter 1: Pain to Bear

Neal carried the file up the stairs leading to the main offices, careful to keep his eyes firmly on the floor. He had learned early that it was better to avoid looking around. Not looking someone in the eye when they wanted you to could cause problems, but being caught glancing around like he was casing the room or trying to steal files or just plain being insolent was much, much worse. Best to keep his head down and his eyes where they would be least likely to earn him any discipline marks. He still had bruises from Friday when he had gained more marks than he usually racked up in a week in one fell swoop.

It had been pretty bad. Agent Billings had caught him at the vending machine with two quarters already in the slot—definitely no plausible deniability there. He hadn't even gotten the chance to explain that the new probie had asked him to get her some chips. Actually, he hadn't even *tried* to explain. It was his fault. He had broken a rule. Look like you might be doing something you aren't supposed to, get punished.

There were a lot of rules that ended with "get punished," but this was particularly bad since Neal wasn't even allowed to carry money and, therefore, it could be supposed that he'd stolen the change. Guilty until proven innocent—or, in his case, guilty until declared guilty. Billings hadn't said a word out loud—the first rule of training was that you didn't talk about training, right?—but when he'd held up five fingers, closed his fist, then opened it again, Neal had wanted, more than anything, to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness.

Ten discipline marks for trying to be nice to the new girl on the team. Agent Billings probably thought he'd been trying to flirt, though nowadays he was lucky if that got him more than a pitiable glance. He wasn't exactly eye candy anymore. But he hadn't been flirting, he really hadn't. He knew who he belonged to, he did, he did, he did. Neal had tried to give him a little one to make up for it, a tiny bear made out of an ad torn from one of Kramer's old Guns and Ammo magazines, but Billings had wrinkled him up in front of Neal and thrown him in the trash, then raised another finger. One more mark against Neal, one more little death, and he hadn't even been able to rescue little bear from the bin that day.

It really wasn't officially defined, what a discipline mark cost you. It could be anything from scrubbing floors to being stuck in a dark closet to a straight up punch in the gut. But to have earned ten—no, *eleven*-in a day… The punishment had been terrible. Neal hadn't hurt that much since his first night under Agent Billings' care. It had been almost a week since, but his muscles still cried out when he moved and he had to grit his teeth together before he could even make himself sit in a chair, much less take a shit.

Neal took a deep breath and opened the door to Agent Kramer's office as quietly as possible, not wanting to attract the man's attention. It was best to treat the agent like a GSO 1217 alarm system with a Mantegro 4.0 silent backup. Also known as very, very carefully.

Kramer hardly glanced up as Neal set the folder as quietly as possible into the man's inbox then silently lifted his coffee mug up. As always, the stupid saying about honor and justice inscribed on the front made Neal wish he could roll his eyes without gaining a discipline mark, but the scent of the cheap, lukewarm roast was what really beckoned him to do evil. Just one little sip… It would almost be worth a beating. Almost. God, Neal missed coffee. Alas, it really *wasn't* worth another dislocated shoulder. Neal dropped his eyes back to the floor and headed off to do his housewife duties like a good Bureau slave.

It was twenty-two steps to the coffee maker, diagonally across the room, then one step to the right to place himself as close to the wall as possible while still being in reach of the pot. It might make him look like a cowering little boy, hiding against the wall, but it made him feel safer and it wasn't like he could possibly look any more pitiful than he already did. The over-masculinized assholes who worked this floor were not above "accidentally" ramming Neal into shelves like a high school jock trying justify the fact that his left testicle had yet to drop.

Of course, it wasn't just the meathead agents. Neal also spent several minutes of every day acting like he didn't understand what the male secretary meant when he mouthed the word 'faggot' in Neal's general direction, but he might as well let the guy feel like a man for a moment. He was a *male* secretary after all.

Neal guessed that the stories about him wafting around the office were just too much for the cavemen in their Walmart khakis and their cheap ties to resist. He wasn't sure who, exactly, had started the rumor that every heist he'd ever run depended on him sucking off at least one balding, middle aged man, but he hoped it really made them all feel like men, because their mix of thick glasses and pocket protectors screamed '40 year old virgins.'

"Hey Caffrey," a cheerful voice said from behind him, and Neal raised his eyes from the safety of the floor just long enough to give Agent Matthews a small, if somewhat forced, smile. For some reason Agent Matthews liked to talk to him, not that she ever got much of a response.

Neal was pretty much a mute these days, unless he was specifically told to speak or he broke and couldn't hold back his disgust at the way the agent at the desk across from his would shove entire hamburgers in his mouth at once. Either the lady agent had *really* forged a bond with him over those martinis during the U-boat fiasco or she just felt really sorry for him. But hey, he'd take a little kindness where he could get it.

The first time he'd walked in with a noticeable burn, Matthews had insisted that he needed to go to a care center and get something for it.

"Oh, Neal, how did that *happen?* When did you get so *clumsy*? I hope it isn't *infected*! You need to get someone to look at it!"

She'd gone on and on and on until Neal had finally dragged her into the copy room, slammed the door shut behind them, and told her flat out that Special Agent Billings had decided no medical attention was necessary and, therefore, no medical attention was necessary. Insisting on said medical attention would do nothing more than lead to a greater need for medical attention.

She had stared at him blankly for a long moment before realization dawned in her eyes and a horrified look came over her face. Neal hadn't hung around to find out whether or not she'd fully understood the implications of his words, but apparently she hadn't run off and told anyone because he hadn't gotten any discipline marks that day.

The next time he'd come in with a burn, Agent Matthews had made a beeline for his desk. Neal already had three escape plans in work by the time she made it (over the stacks and under the empty desk in the corner, crawl on hands and knees to the door using a rolling chair for cover, sprint to the window and try to hide behind the curtains) but she had only come to a stop and started babbling on and on about how she'd just seen 'Phantom of the Opera' and it was so good and the chandelier actually crashed down on the audience and that he totally needed to see it because it was really something a man like him would appreciate.

Neal had simply stared at her, unsure when, exactly, they had become Broadway buddies. Then, right as she was describing how the Phantom swung across the ceiling, he heard a soft thud in his trashcan. She had gone on for a few more minutes—"Oh my gosh, I nearly *screamed* when the chandelier fell!"—before abruptly remembering some filing she needed to do. After giving her a few minutes to fully remove herself from the crime scene, Neal had bent down and found a tube of aloe vera cream sitting atop the crumpled memos and wrinkled origami animals he'd sacrificed to Billings earlier that day. She was no Mozzie, but it was a good first drop. Billings didn't catch her, anyway, and it did make the burn feel a lot better.

"Nice day, huh?" Agent Matthews said with an obviously feigned cool.

Neal nodded, more because he was expected to than because he cared about the weather, and picked up the pot, carefully pouring the coffee into Kramer's mug. One envelope of Sweet N Low, one half of those little creamers that come in a pre-packaged packs of forty, stir twice, and the coffee was ready—

"Hey Neal…"

He flinched slightly at the unexpected feeling of Agent Matthews' fingers on his arm then smiled sheepishly, trying to act as though a grown man flinching when a woman half his size brushed his arm was completely normal.

"I think Agent Kramer wants you."

Neal froze at the words, sheepish smile fading and shoulders tensing. Kramer wanted him? For what? He still had a full twenty-seven seconds to make the trip back to Kramer's office before he missed his two-minute coffee run deadline. He turned slowly, eyes widening as Kramer did the two finger point right at him, gesturing for him to come to his office. At least Neal hoped it was just the two finger point and not a subtle way of giving him discipline marks for… for… well, for something. Smiling at Agent Matthews, maybe?

Discipline marks were tricky. Neal didn't always know why he got them. He was supposed to catalog everything he did during the day that might deserve a mark and then, that night, report to Billings just how many discipline marks he had earned, but it was kind of a lose-lose situation. If his estimation was lower than Billings', the marks got doubled. If it was higher, Neal got those anyway.

He swallowed hard, clenching the mug in his hand as he carefully made his way across the room toward the office, leaving a worried looking Agent Matthews behind. He took a steadying breath as he reached for the door, pulling it open and slipping inside, silently setting Kramer's mug down on its coaster.

"Take a seat, boy."

Neal forced down the panic at the words as he slowly lowered himself into one of the two plastic chairs facing Kramer's desk. He needed to calm down. It was just a little break in the routine. It wasn't that big of a deal. There had even been a time, though it seemed like forever ago, when Neal had done different things everyday. He'd rolled with the punches and came up fine and dandy. Maybe Kramer just wanted to tell him to put two Sweet N Lows in his coffee from now on.

Kramer leaned over, punching a button on his phone. "Billings, get over here."

Okay, maybe it was more than just a change in Sweet N Low to coffee consistency. That didn't mean it was anything *bad*… Oh, who was he kidding? *Anything* that involved Special Agent Billings was destined to be bad.

Neal jumped a little as the door to Kramer's office opened behind him and he clenched his fists in an attempt to hide the shaking of his hands. He'd spent enough time bound and blindfolded to know the heavy footsteps behind him anywhere. Agent Billings.

"What's up, Phillip?" Billing's meaty hand clamped down hard on Neal's shoulder and he did his best not to flinch too noticeably.

"It seems that the time has come for our little CI to make a visit to his home office," Kramer said, holding up the memo Neal had brought him. "It seems, after hearing all the reports of our success in reforming Mr. Caffrey, that Agent Burke has finally decided he's ready to give him a test ride down in New York."

Fear raced down Neal's spine at the words and he actually let out a whimper. New York? They were sending him back to New York? Why would they do that? Had he done something wrong? They couldn't send him back there! Why, why, why would they send him back? Whatever Neal had done wrong, he'd fix it, as long as they didn't send him back there. Didn't send Neal back to *him*.

Neal's hand slipped into the pocket of his pants, fingers brushing thick folds of paper. He couldn't go back. He couldn't.

Billings laughed loudly as Neal blinked back tears, fat fingers digging into Neal's collarbone. "A test ride. I like that." Another hand appeared, this one running along Neal's cheek then firmly cupping his chin, tipping his head until he was staring right into Billings' eyes, the man's thumb still stroking his cheek like a cruel parody of a lover.

Neal felt his stomach turn. A test ride? Peter was ready to give him a *test ride*? Billings' hands, so big and warm and terrifying emphasized the point and he shuddered, not wanting to believe it, wanting so, so bad to pretend that it wasn't real, but he didn't have that luxury anymore.

Back when they'd worked together, Peter had never looked at Neal that way, even when Neal had been flirting so hard that he was practically sitting in the man's lap. Hell, even *El* had noticed and teased him about how he better not steal her honey away. Something he had, of course, replied was impossible since a) her beauty and wit was unparalleled and b) she didn't have whiskers so Peter would never have to worry about carpet burns on his face from kissing. It had become a joke between the two, though there had been that one night…

Peter had been out late on a stake out and Neal, feeling unusually lonely in his little apartment with no one to share it with, had shown up unexpectedly on the Burkes' front porch. Kate was heavy on his mind and he really just wanted someone to talk to who wouldn't judge. El, in all her kindness, had been the obvious choice.

He had done his best to keep up his carefree facade but, after a few glasses of wine he had caved in and everything had spilled out. The pain of losing Kate, first because of some stupid music box, then again in prison, then forever, all because he had been stupid enough to flaunt a theft he hadn't done. The terror and excitement of being on the run and the insatiable need to prove himself to a man he had never spoken to but knew everything about. A good man, a strong man, a man to be respected and relied on. A man so much like the father Neal had always imagined having yet so much like the person he had always imagined loving. The knowledge that, when it had come down to the wire, Kate sitting in that plane, he had really planned to say goodbye to her and stay with Peter. And it was this betrayal that had most likely led to her untimely death.

El had hugged him close as tears ran down his cheeks and he made drunken declarations of his unworthiness, citing how badly he had failed Kate and how Peter, the man he had tried so hard to prove himself to, didn't even want to be his friend—words he had quickly followed with an apology for even talking about his foolish, head-in-the-clouds misconception that Peter was the kind of person who would ever look at a man like Neal, much less love him, even if he didn't have the most perfect partner in the world.

But sweet El had waved his apology away like it was nonsense, cradling him in her arms as she smiled down at him. "You know, Neal," she had said, voice low and gentle, "Peter *does* love you. There is *no* question about that."

To which Neal had replied, rather miserably, but he could blame that on the booze, "Not like he loves *you.*"

El's laugh had been beautiful. "That's true. But there are two sides to that coin, Neal. He doesn't love you like he loves me. But he also doesn't love *me* like he loves *you*. The world isn't black and white, sweetie. Before Peter caught you, I used to joke that he needed to take some time off because it was damn hard to compete with a man like Neal Caffrey. Peter would get this embarrassed little look and try pretend he *hadn't* dedicated an entire wall in the study to you. Photos, bills, maps, identities, letters. It was an enormous collage of Neal Caffrey, with one of your old forgeries hanging in a fancy frame in the middle of it all. But I was never threatened, Neal."

"Because Peter and I could never have what you two have," he'd said quietly, filling in the blanks.

El had laughed again and ran a hand through his messy hair. "Exactly. Just like Peter and I can never have what *you* two have. And how Peter will never have with me what I have with you. Don't you understand, sweetie? No one can take another person's place in someone's life. We're too different, too unique. You can't forge a person. We all have our own special place."

She had paused then, cocking her head to the side, studying Neal's face. "It's just a lot harder for Peter to admit how he feels about you. Loving me is simple. Loving you… not so much. But I've told him before, and I'll tell you now. You two have something special. Exactly how you want to define it is up to you guys. But you can't deny that it's something good. The problem is that you two speak a different language when it comes to showing people you care. You write sonnets and Peter says 'hon.' Unfortunately, Peter was never much of a linguist. If you want to get anywhere with him, you're going to have to learn to speak his language." She had paused then, giving him a mischievous wink. "If you know what I mean, buddy."

Neal's breath had caught in his throat. At the time that had seemed like the best thing in the world, the thought that maybe he *hadn't* been a total fool. Maybe he just wasn't seeing what was in front of his face. There were a lot of things about Peter he didn't understand, after all. First and foremost, how he could wear the same suit day after day without feeling like a heel. Or why he would have given up a chance at a Fortune 500 job to chase bad guys. Or what, exactly, the phrase "cowboy up" was supposed to mean. Maybe he *did* have a chance with Peter. It had been a light in the darkness.

Now, however, it made him want to bury his face in his hands and scream. Neal didn't know what to call the things Billings did to him, but it wasn't sex, not as Neal had once known it. It was terror ad pain and… and… God, he couldn't even describe what it was, but Peter knew about it, encouraged it, commanded it. Neal had been forced to listen as Billings had described it graphically to Peter over the phone, as he hid under the desk at Billings' feet, carefully folding little scraps of paper with shaking hands, forming the only friends he had. Oh God, and the videos. The videos… Billings, a ski mask hiding his face as he forced Neal to call him 'Peter' or 'Agent Burke'…

Billings had sworn that Peter had requested them himself, though at first Neal found that a hard to believe. But over the months he had begun to see. What El saw in Peter when he spoke about Neal wasn't love. It was obsession. A very dangerous obsession. A need to have him, posses him. Peter had made more than his fair share of comments about how Neal was on his leash, after all.

Neal wasn't the man he used to be anymore, but it was for the best. For the best. It was, for everyone. The old him meant pain, so much pain. Neal hadn't even dared to think about the possibility of pulling any sort of con job since his first few weeks in DC. He wasn't Neal Caffrey anymore, but he also wasn't a criminal, so it was okay. It was. Now the thought of stealing or conning or fencing actually made him feel physically ill, not because of any morals that they'd managed to instill in him, but because now there were inescapable consequences for even the smallest misstep. And the consequences were very, very bad.

Maybe Peter would stick him in that shitty motel he'd stayed in for less than 24 hours before meeting June. "Snake Eyes," the old man at the front counter had called him. He knew he wouldn't be going back to June's. It was too nice there. Too comfortable. It would be a reward he hadn't earned—and rewards did *not* come free.

The motel was the most likely option. Maybe Peter would put special locks on the doors and they'd both pretend that Neal couldn't pick them if he wanted to. Hopefully he wouldn't bind him to the bed. Because zip ties, Billings' favorite form of bondage, were not the kind of thing you could pick, and not being able to use the bathroom when you needed to could lead to some very humiliating situations. Not that most of Neal's life these days wasn't humiliating.

The first thing that Agent Billings had done when Kramer dropped Neal off at his house was to strip him down, tie him to a chair, and buzz off his hair. The act didn't seem like such a big deal in hindsight, but psychologically it had been devastating. It made it crystal clear that Neal Caffrey was no longer in control. Billings could do whatever he wanted and Neal had no say. In just a few minutes he had totally changed how Neal looked (definitely for the worse) and there had not been a single thing he could do to stop him. He'd then proceeded to put Neal into the nastiest looking clothes he'd ever seen and taken him out to dinner. Well, to sit while Billings ate dinner, anyway, his face burning at the idea of what all these people must think of him.

Oh, he had tried to protest. He was Neal Caffrey, after all, and he wasn't known for doing nothing. Billings' fists had quickly put things in perspective, but even then it had taken a while to break him.

The physical abuse had been bad, but it was the constant mental torture that really pushed him to the edge. Being forced to beg for water or to eat off of the floor had made Neal's face burn and tears come to his eyes. But the worst times were in the bedroom. Well, "in the bedroom" in a metaphorical sense, considering that Billings had no qualms about proving his manhood on the kitchen table or with Neal's face planted on the toilet seat. It was more than embarrassing, it was dehumanizing.

Billings had even managed to get Neal a "secondary GPS tracker," citing all the times that Neal had cut his tracker during his stay in New York as a reason to order the specially made system. Neal, however, knew that it wasn't about tracking him. If they'd really just wanted a more foolproof tracker then they would have put it around his ankle. This… this *thing* went around his throat like a collar. It was solid metal and had permanent locks—the two halves snapped together around his neck, permanently bonding them. He couldn't pick it because there was nothing to pick. It would take a special saw to get it off. Neal wasn't sure if it was even really a tracking device or if they were just trying to humiliate him, but they had definitely succeeded in the latter. More than once Billings had tied a leash to it and dragged him around the house on his hands and knees.

But none of that had really been enough to ruin him. Two and a half weeks into his so-called "training" and he was still Neal Caffrey at heart. He was still Neal Caffrey because he truly believed, whatever may have seemed to go down the day he'd been arrested, that Peter would come for him. He'd trusted in their friendship, their bond. And that had helped him be strong. Then the unbelievable had happened.

Neal could hardly recall the details now—he was pretty sure he'd had a concussion at the time—but he remembered Peter's voice, crystal clear, felt those big hands on his body, FBI ring twinkling in the light. Peter calmly asking Billings for an update on Neal's training and giving the man suggestions to better "reform" him. Telling the bastard to take away his food and make him earn every bite. To play white noise in his ears when he blindfolded him and tied him to the bed so that there was no way he could guess how long he would be there. To remind him every day that his bad decisions were what had killed Kate, that it was all his fault and that if he had just played by the rules, she would still be here today.

All his fault. Pain, pain for everyone, but mostly for him. Lots and lots of pain.

The rush of emotions had overwhelmed him. Betrayal, anger, hurt, guilt, fear. More and more *feelings* that he couldn't contain. And that… that was when Neal Caffrey had first started to slip away, gladly leaving behind his aching shell for the comfort of numb lifelessness.

Now… Now Peter wanted him back in New York. But *why* now? Neal had only spoken to Peter… no, to *Agent Burke*—Peter was *not* his friend anymore—a few times since that terrible night, and the man hadn't had much more to say than 'keep training him.' Then all of a sudden he wanted him transferred to New York? Something was going on, and Neal didn't have a clue what.

"For the love of God, boy, say something! Speak!" Neal snapped out of his confused haze at Billings' sharp words, looking around wide eyed. Speak? Why did they want him to speak? They never wanted him to speak at the office unless it was something about a case.

Kramer gestured at the phone and, when Neal just looked more confused, he lifted up the memo from Peter, waving it around like a message. Wait… did that mean… Oh God. Neal's stomach twisted. Peter was on the phone.

He swallowed hard, trying to wet his suddenly dry mouth. "I… I'm here, Peter. Agent Burke." He paused, then added "Sir," just in case Peter didn't think he was being polite enough. The words didn't come out very loudly, but Neal wasn't really used to talking anymore. His friends didn't talk to him much. Quiet, his little friends were so, so quiet, like him. Even at the office he mostly answered in 'yes's and 'no's to, with an occasionally "thank you" thrown in for politeness' sake. It felt… awkward, to be speaking here, in the middle of the office, sunshine streaming through the windows. The conference room where they gathered to work on cases was dark, its windows covered by heavy curtains. Speaking here, in Kramer's office, where he tried to tread the lightest, just seemed… strange.

"Neal. Are you on speakerphone?"

"I'm here with him," Kramer said, taking a sip of his coffee then grimacing a little as he glared at Neal. Apparently, in his distraction, Neal had managed to mess up his coffee. Discipline mark number one for the day. Or at least Neal hoped this was his first for the day. "And his handler is here as well." Once again, making him sound like a dog. His "handler."

"His handler? I thought you were going to be his supervising agent, Phillip." Peter's voice sounded a little puzzled and Neal chewed lightly on his lower lip—one of many nervous habits he'd picked up—wondering why the man sounded so confused. He knew that Billings ran point on his training.

"You know I don't have time to babysit. I put Special Agent Billings on it. A good man. Ex-military. He knows how to keep a criminal in check."

Something else that Peter already knew. Really, what was going on here?

"I spent years studying Caffrey, Kramer. You know that. Why you think that there is *anyone* more qualified than I am to deal with Neal is beyond me."

"Well, since Caffrey has been under Billings' watch we've had an equal percentage of cases solved with *none* of the more… unfortunate incidents. Isn't that right, Caffrey?"

Kramer raised an eyebrow in his direction and Neal just stared at him blankly.

"Answer the damn question, boy," Billings hissed, causing Neal to wince as that big hand dug hard into his shoulder.

"Uh… uh, yeah, that's right. Agent Billings has followed your… suggestions… well. Sir." Neal winced as the last word came out a little sharper than he had meant it to, the bitterness he still felt toward Peter shining through. That wasn't good. The last thing he wanted to do was upset the man right before he was sent to New York.

"But you are completely right about no one knowing Neal Caffrey like you, Peter," Kramer put in, looking aggravated, his words coming out a little too fast. Obviously he was not happy. Neal really hoped it wasn't about the coffee. "You know exactly how his mind works and we are very appreciative of all the… hard work you have put in to helping the FBI rehabilitate Mr. Caffrey. You were totally correct that day when you told me that he just needed a new start. And DC was just the start he needed. Agent Billings and I will be putting him on a plane tomorrow morning. I think the New York office will be very pleased in the steps Mr. Caffrey has made. Over the past few months he has truly come to understand that nothing comes free and that there are consequences for his actions. And once again, I thank you for all your help in his rehabilitation process."

"Phillip, what are you talk—"

"Goodbye, Peter. Say goodbye, Caffrey."

"Bye." This time Neal was almost ready for it and the word actually slipped pretty easily off his tongue. Kramer hit a button on his phone, cutting off anything else Peter might have wanted to say, then turned to Neal, shoving his coffee cup in his general direction. "This is crap. Get me more and do it right this time." He turned his attention to Agent Billings. "And then you take him home. Make sure he's ready to meet Burke." A wicked look came over his face, making Neal shiver. "I'll call our special friends, let them know that the program is ready to commence."