Warning! This chapter contains intense violence, nothing above a T rating, but is still scary although it's short. This chapter also contains some Neal whumpage so be prepared!
Disclaimer: I don't own anything: I don't own Sly Cooper, I don't own White Collar, and I don't own Romania! Although I do own the story behind Mikhail Raskolnikov and Jorgen Kamychzek!
Thank you all so much for the reviews I received and enjoy the chapter!
Neal sat staring at the filet in front of him. He mentally etched out the grill's char lines running along the prime piece of meat. Slowly awareness sunk in around him. "Neal, Sweetie?" a caring voice beckoned him. El maybe? Oh and there was Peter right beside her, beside Neal. The three of them were at the dinner table.
"Neal," a firm voice finally brought the kid out of his dark thoughts; it was Peter's voice. The man's hand rested on Neal's slightly shaking shoulder and the other one rubbed circle's on his back. "Bud, what's wrong?" The head full of dark waves was at last lifted to reveal stormy blue eyes meeting Peter's own worried gaze. "You've been staring at that piece of meat for an unusually long time; those grill lines are nothing like a Degas."
A few blinks washed those stormy blue eyes calm before the boy responded in a level voice, "Oh, have I? I just zoned out; thinking about the case, ya know."
"Neal, can I get you anything? Pain killers, a glass of juice—" Elizabeth asked filled with concern that something was bothering this teen that held such a large place in her heart.
A smirk and a smart response cut off her kind gesture, "A glass of wine?" the boy slipped in.
El shook her head with mixed feelings. She was aggravated that Neal was trying to put up a strong front and hide from them, but at the same time, she was so worried about her baby and wanted to just hold him in her arms and make everything better. "You can have a glass of wine in three more years. Now tell us what's wrong; you know you can tell us anything."
The teen let out a frustrated sigh, pushed his plate in front of him and sunk back into his seat forcing Peter to withdraw the hand that had been rubbing his back. "I'm not hungry anymore, just tired," the young man said seemingly brushing off El's reply.
"If you wanna talk, you know we will always listen. I will do whatever it takes to help you, but you need to shed some light on what's going on. I can't do anything in the dark," Peter said calmly trying to get something through Neal's thick skull. He felt sorry for the kid, Neal is an amazing conman, but some of the biggest cons he pulls are on himself. Peter could see it: Neal liked to pretend that he was stronger and bigger than he actually was; like he could carry all of his numerous problems on his own. But the discerning agent could see past his best friend and son's cons; he could see the boy breaking under the weight of all the traumas piled on top of him. The weight of his unmasked childhood, Kate's death, Ellen's death, his father's betrayal, and now Jorgen was coming back and all of this was too much for one kid to bear.
Pleading blue eyes looked at the couple one last time before giving in, "Okay, I'll tell you," he said quietly. "But Elizabeth, you might not want to hear; it's may get a little gruesome."
The strong woman pursed her lips and responded surely, "I can handle it, anything to help you. Let me hold some of your burden."
A moment of silence hung in the air but Peter and El sat expectantly ready for whatever their boy would tell them. And then with a shaky breath, Neal began, "After I found out the truth, that everything I'd ever known had been a lie, I forged a passport and ran away. I fled to Eastern Europe and ended up in Moscow where I assumed the identity of Mikhail Raskolnikov. As the FBI has dutifully noted, I'm fluent in many languages, one of which being Russian, so it wasn't hard to blend in and break away from Danny Brooks. I started small: picking pockets, breaking into rich houses, etcetera. Then I gained a glow in my eyes and took a fancy for bigger cons. Of course a fourteen year old con man coming to town attracted some attention, good and bad. A source of good attention came from Jorgen Kamychzk; he was kind of like my first Mozzie. He saw the potential in my talents, praised my artwork, and pulled me into a few jobs. Before I knew it, we were a dynamic team and thanks to myself, I was known as Sly Cooper."
Neal paused a moment before letting out a deep sigh and continuing, "He taught me how to use my artistic ability to forge paintings and bonds. Jorgen was the brawns behind my talent and he watched out for me. If someone bigger was picking on me, he would protect me. From him I also learned how to fight my own battles one step at a time. He genuinely cared about me and was like a father figure to me; kinda like a dark version of you Peter." At this comment Peter felt as if his heart was pierced by a double blade. He knew Neal meant nothing by it, but he couldn't dodge the stab. On one side he felt honored for the boy to have practically admitted he was a father figure, but on the other side he felt infuriated to share comparison with a murderer and a man who was out to hurt the boy he and his wife loved so dearly. But Neal couldn't see the agent's struggle; he was trapped in his own memories now. "We traveled together, pulled heists together, and enjoyed the spoils of our plunder together. Life was good, until reality caught up. During the heist in Romania we thought we were golden, everything went according to plan. Except that one of the security guards hadn't evacuated like everyone else. No, he had to go back and get a picture of his wife and child in case the fire was for real, he didn't want it to burn." At the mention of the security guard's family El saw tears begin to form in Neal's eyes. She knew the teenager would never let them spill out, but she wished they would so she could wipe them away. Her hand reached out and grabbed Neal's cold, clammy one and held it carefully in hers.
Neal smiled slightly at El's gesture and it gave him the strength to go on. "He walked in on Jorgen and me about to make off with the stolen painting. We didn't see him coming, we had our backs turned to him and he snuck up behind me and put me in a headlock with a gun on my temple. I could feel him trembling; I could hear the stutter in his voice as he threatened us. His threat was empty, he wasn't going to hurt me, but Jorgen was still scared. The man shoved the gun harder into my temple trying to reinforce his show and then something in Jorgen snapped. The next thing I knew, Jorgen's burly frame was hurled onto the guard and I was shoved aside. I sat and watched as Jorgen repeatedly pummeled the young man whose gun wasn't even in reach. The crack of his broken jaw echoed throughout the chamber, blood splattered from his mouth and spit onto me." Neal gritted his teeth and stared intensely at the table as if it were a movie screen replaying the gruesome image and this time, tears really did spew from his eyes. Peter instinctively pulled Neal into his chest and held the back of the boys head running a hand through his soft hair while tears were brought to El's eyes as well. Neal didn't have any say in the matter as the senior agent treated him like a child, but then again, the usually strong headed teen might not have even cared. It felt good to be comforted and he relished the moment in Peter and El's protective hold, but he needed to finish. Not for Peter or El, but for himself, he needed to press on and release this terror like water rushing through a dam. "The guard's ribs cracked under the force of Jorgen's knee as his strong build crushed down on the man. And then to finish him, Jorgen snapped his neck. I didn't know what to do, I couldn't move, I couldn't make a sound. But my friend's fiery eyes turned to me and I bolted."
"I stayed elsewhere in Romania for a week trying to decide whether or not to talk to Jorgen. But no one goes crazy like that just for an instant and I thought that maybe insanity had been creeping onto him for some time and I had never noticed; I was so scared and confused. I lost my best friend and I decided to throw away Mikhail with him. That's when I returned to America. Over the next year I kept some of my Eastern European contacts waiting to see if the Jorgen I knew was still alive. All I heard was that he had killed six more people since then and had turned to the less admirable side of crime." Neal shifted slightly away from Peter's embrace to look him and El in the eyes, "And know you know all about the history of Sly Cooper, Mikhail Raskolnikov and Jorgen Kamychzk."
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