White Collar Fic - Keep the Creatures Safe From Harm (Part Two/Four)

[elrhiarhodan]

Title: Keep the Creatures Safe From Harm – Part Two/Four
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, Reese Hughes, Diana Berrigan, Clinton Jones, Mozzie, June Ellington, Amanda Calloway, OMC, OFC
Spoilers: All of Season 4, Specifically In the Wind
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Prison Fic, Dub-Con, Violence, First Time fic, Angst,
Word Count: ~28,000 Total
Beta Credit: coffeethyme4me, jrosemary, rabidchild67
Summary: Following the tragic events at the end of In the Wind, Peter is facing the ultimate penalty and Neal is prepared to do whatever it takes to keep that from happening. Even as old enemies are sharpening their knives, Peter and Neal are not without friends.

A/N: Many, many thanks to my trio of beta readers and cheerleaders, who gave unstintingly of their time as this turned from a vague idea for some dirty prison fic into a massive and angst-ridden epic. And my deepest appreciation to the ladies of the wcwu chats, whose enthusiasm for this story boosted my confidence and kept me going.

Title from Oysterband’s “Put Out the Lights”.

Part 1 – On DW | On LJ

__________________



The hand on his ankle is a tighter shackle than the tracker could ever be. Through all the years, through their good times and their not so good times, Neal has always reacted to Peter’s touch. He might have told James that Peter is more of a father to him that he ever was, but never says that he ever sees Peter as a father figure.

It’s a finely cut distinction, one that he’ll never admit to anyone. Mozzie, though, probably knows exactly how he feels and has the rare good sense not to mention it. It would be like uncorking a bottle of Champagne. Once it’s out there, it’s never going back in.

Neal wonders if Peter even realizes what he’s doing, petting him like he’s Satchmo. He’s always loved how handsy Peter is with him, how he’s always touching and tugging and guiding him. It’s been that way since the beginning, and maybe he wouldn’t have developed these highly inappropriate feelings for Peter if he hadn’t been so touch-starved in the days and weeks after his release from prison.

Perhaps he’s like a baby bird, and the constant contact made Peter imprint on him. But that brings him back to parental relationships, which he’d really prefer to avoid.

The stroking continues, soft little pets that make Neal want to purr and stay like this forever. They don’t talk, but he can read what’s going on in Peter’s abstracted gaze. He’s worried (obviously).

“They’ll find Bennett – he won’t get far.” They hadn’t really discussed this. Neal wonders if he should tell Peter just how much of a liar and a conman his father is. Not now, not when Peter’s hands are on him and he’s relaxed for the first time since it happened.

“Except that the FBI has no reason to go after him – they believe that they already have Pratt’s shooter in prison.” The bleakness in Peter’s voice almost kills Neal.

“You don’t think that they wouldn’t want to bring him in for questioning – especially since he was seen at the Empire State Building, that he had taken the evidence box before Calloway’s team could get to it? Not even with the assault charge?”

Peter shrugs, not willing to concede the point. “It’s all my fault. This whole mess.”

“What?”

“I was the one who encouraged you to look into your past. I’m the one responsible for all of it – Ellen’s death, Flynn’s, even Pratt’s. If I’d just let sleeping dogs lie.” Peter’s hand stills.

Neal sits up – he has to. He can’t have this conversation when he’s at such a physical disadvantage. Neal turns and sits next to Peter, shoulder to shoulder. “Didn’t you just tell me that this isn’t my fault – that I’m not responsible for other people’s actions? Do I have to tell you the same thing?”

Peter laughs. “I hate it when you’re right.”

He picks up Peter’s hand; it’s missing something – his wedding ring. Of course he wouldn’t be allowed to keep that while inside. “Trust me, Peter – you’ll be out of here soon.”

Neal runs his thumb across the strip of white, untanned skin, his stroking much like Peter’s caresses. Peter doesn’t pull away, and Neal is a little surprised. There are lines in this relationship – Peter initiates contact, it’s his hand at the small of Neal’s back, at his arm, around his shoulder. But Neal has never forgotten the few moments when he was the one to reach out to Peter. It took months before he stopped waking (sometime hard and aching, sometime already wet and replete) from the memory of the moment he wrapped his arms around Peter and Peter held him close.

They sit together; the silence is companionable, easy, until Peter breaks it.

“You’re my goat, you know.”

Neal laughs, outraged but still amused. “What?”

“When I was a kid, I used to work in the stables at the local racetrack. Thoroughbreds are high strung creatures, and a good trainer knows that companion animals will keep a nervous horse from acting up. There was this one race horse, amazing on the track, but a demon in the stable if his friend wasn’t there for him.”

“Friend?”

“A nanny goat. Her name was Clytemnestra.”

Neal couldn’t restrain a startled bark of laughter. “Yes, of course a nanny goat would be named after one of the most notorious women in Greek mythology.”

“Anyway, Clytemnestra would keep the thoroughbred –”

“Whose name was Agamemnon?”

“No, Bob.” Peter looks at him and smiles, full of sweetness and innocence.

Neal doesn’t buy it. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. The horse was called “Bobs Your Uncle.”

“Okay – back to the story of Bob and his pet goat, Clytemnestra.”

“It’s really not that much of a story. Just that Bob would go stir crazy in his box or trailer without Clytemnestra.”

The story was amusing, but Neal can’t seem to find the point to it. “And I’m like that, how?”

“You’re keeping me from going crazy. I don’t know how you managed this for four years.”

Neal rests his head against Peter’s shoulder, taking liberties he probably shouldn’t. “It was hard when I first got to Sing-Sing. Like I’ve told you, the boredom was the worst. When I was here – waiting for trial, when I was on trial – it wasn’t so bad. I always figured I’d get off.”

“The jury was almost taken in by your good looks and charm.”

“Almost, but not quite.”

“Had you dead to rights on the bond forgery, they couldn’t overlook that. If you hadn’t been such an arrogant little shit that day, I’d never have been able to place you at the bank.”

For years, Neal had regretted that moment. Not anymore. “It was the best thing I ever did.”

“Really?” Peter looks at him, his eyes soft, filled with wonder. “I’d never have caught you otherwise.”

Neal laughs. “The great Peter Burke admitting that it was my own stupid mistake that lead to my arrest? That it wasn’t your storied deductive powers?”

Peter wouldn’t be distracted. “If I hadn’t, you’d never have gone to prison.”

“I still don’t regret it. Prison was horrible, why do you think I’m here – you shouldn’t go through this alone.”

“Neal …” His name is a prayer on Peter’s lips.

If ever there is a moment to tell Peter what is in his heart, this is it. But he has to let the moment pass. What he has to do tonight is too important, he can’t afford to be distracted by his own desires.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter hears the cell door open. He throws back the blankets and surges up, out of his bunk. If they are coming for him, he wants to be prepared. He’s not going to die on his back, defenseless.

But there’s no one there – the cell door is shut, there’s a guard stationed outside. It must have been a bad dream.

Except that it isn’t. Neal’s bunk is empty.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The guard that Moz says is trustworthy comes to the cell a little after one AM. Neal watches Peter carefully, watches him sleep and dream. He listens to Peter murmur his wife’s name, and he longing breaks Neal’s heart. Peter may insist that this debacle isn’t his fault, but it is of his making.

He’s going to fix this.

The door opens on well-oiled hinges and he slips out into the corridor. There’s a guard on duty; Neal has to worry.

“He’s good – the Fed will be fine until morning.”

In other words, a payment’s been made. No guarantee what will happen after the shift changes, though.

The trip to the head guard’s office is shorter than Neal expects – his frame of reference isn’t the vertical construction of a modern urban prison, but the ancient sprawl of Sing-Sing. The elevator takes them down two floors, into an administrative level. No one questions their passage.

They reach their destination, and the guard pushes him into an unlocked office. “You have five minutes. And you’ll need this – “ He hands Neal a small electronic device – the cloner that Moz had passed to the guard earlier.

It’s more than a cloner, though. It’s a high speed wireless data backup unit that can capture all of the cellphone’s contents, regardless of make or model. Neal has to wonder where Moz got his hands on this. One of these was on display at the FBI conference he and Peter had spoken at last year.

Neal looks for the all-important cell phone. He finds it on a credenza, plugged into a charger. He puts the phone on top of the cloner, presses the green button and prays that this works. It does – the progress bar zips along and Neal watches the clock, counting down the seconds. The device gives off a little bing and flashes “complete” before going dark. Neal puts the device deep into his pocket, tucks the condoms Moz gave him into his breast pocket, sits down and waits.

He doesn’t have long.

The door slams open and Neal flinches at the noise. He gets to his feet, better now than if he has to be ordered. Eyes are towards the floor, hands loose and at his side. He’s nothing if not the picture of a submissive supplicant. This is how the game is played.

“Well, well, Neal Caffrey. I’m not surprised to see you in my house.”

Moz had never told him the name of the head guard, the one that MacLeish was paying off. But if he had, Neal wouldn’t have been surprised. Carter Anderson – once sergeant, now captain from the bars on his uniform – didn’t rise to the top of the heap by being a Boy Scout, despite his angelic good looks.

“Captain Anderson, good to see you again.”

Carter grins, like a shark. “I’m touched, you remembered me.”

This is going to work in Neal’s favor. Carter had obvious weak points. Neal looks at him and licks his lips. The gesture is one of seduction, not nerves. “When I heard who was in charge, I had to see you.” He casts his eyes down again. “I was a little hurt that you hadn’t sent for me.”

Carter steps in, close – too close. “I figured you’d come to me. You know the rules. You ask, maybe I give – if you’re willing to pay.” His breath ruffles the curls at Neal’s temple, it smells like cinnamon chewing gum.

“I don’t want to be a punk.” Neal knows better than to mention Peter. “What will it cost to keep me safe?”

“Maybe the question is, what are you willing to pay?” Carter’s coy as he steps back from Neal and sits behind his desk.

Neal sits, too. He stretches out as if none of this matters to him. He takes out the strip of condoms and tears off one, tossing it on the desk. No point in giving away the store in the first round.

Carter’s response is not surprising. “You really think that paltry offer is going to keep you safe? When some of your old friends heard you were back inside, they wanted to put in bids on who’d get your ass first.”

“Bull?” Neal names one of the worst of the guards. The man liked to bite.

“And Joey, too – he still goes like a rabbit.”

“That’s nice to know.”

Carter gives a little huff of laughter. “You’re really something.”

“You can’t tell me that you want to share. You never did.”

“No, that’s true. But I didn’t get to the top of this shit pile by thinking with my dick. If giving you to Bull and Joey gets me something, you’re going to be their new plaything.”

Neal starts tap dancing. This isn’t going the way he expects. “I don’t think you want to do that.”

“Why not?”

“My stay here is temporary – I’ve got powerful friends now. You abuse me, your little kingdom will come crashing down on top of you.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Neal bluffs, hoping that Anderson isn’t plugged into the whole law enforcement network. “You can call Reese Hughes, head of the FBI’s White Collar division, here in New York.” He rattles off a cell phone number – it’s Hughes’ private one.

“If you’re jacked into the FBI, then why are you here in the first place?” Carter’s stare narrows. “You’re bunking with the Fed – you’re connected to him.”

Shit. “I hitched my wagon to the wrong star.” Neal borrows Calloway’s turn of phrase and mentally apologizes to Peter.

“That you did. The guy killed a U.S. Senator. Allegedly.”

“Wouldn’t know about that. He doesn’t talk much.”

Carter picks up the single wrapped condom that Neal had tossed on the desk. “Tell you what – we play this your way. You keep me sweet, I’ll make sure everyone knows it’s hands off. You piss me off, you’re going to spend the rest of your time in the hole, as the hole. Get my drift?”

“It’s always a pleasure doing business with you, Captain Anderson.” Neal stands and strips off the orange shirt, flexing his pecs as he folds it. He’s equally enticing as he takes off his pants, carefully folding them to keep the cloner from falling to the floor.

Carter’s clearly amused by Neal’s performance. And aroused. “Pity I don’t have more time.” He goes behind Neal, pushes him across the desk, kicks his feet apart and pries open his ass cheeks. “Nice, tight little hole. Yeah, I think I’ll keep you for myself.”

Neal hears the familiar rip-tear of the foil packet and Carter’s little grunt of pleasure as he rolls on the condom. Fingers press deep into his body, stretching, and Neal just lets his mind go.

This is for Peter, this is to keep Peter safe and alive.

That’s all that matters.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The cell is airless, Peter feels as if he’s suffocating. Time is irrelevant, but he counts the paces of the guards as they pass by. It could be an hour since he woke, it could be just a few minutes. He doesn’t know.

He pulls the single chair over to the door, there’s an opening in the solid steel and he stares through it, his world reduced to a five-by-eight slit. He can mostly see the floor and the opposite wall and a few feet on either side of the cell. The corridor is as brightly lit as if it were daytime.

Peter waits and watches. He wonders if prayer would do any good.

A gate opens and there are two sets of footfalls – a guard’s boots and the lighter sounds of the slip-on tennis shoes that prisoners are issued. The sounds get closer and stop. The access port is blocked by the guard’s navy blue uniform and Peter moves away from the door.

It opens, and Neal steps into the cell. The door slams shut.

His heart is pounding; the combination of fear and relief is nauseating. But Peter puts it aside and goes to Neal.

Except for his slightly mussed hair, there are no signs of physical trauma. Still, his partner looks like he’s aged a decade. Peter doesn’t know what to say, what to ask, and all the fear he harbored during the long wait returns when Neal’s gaze slides away from his.

He opens his mouth to at least ask what happened, but Neal cuts him off. “You need to talk to your attorney tomorrow. He’ll have to get in touch with Mozzie.”

“Why?” But Peter’s not diverted from Neal’s extra-cellular forays. He’s just waiting for Neal to finish.

“There’s a hit out on you. Your attorney’s going to need to get the information that Moz will have.”

Peter doesn’t focus on the news that he’s marked for death, that’s almost irrelevant. “What do you mean, will have?”

“There are some things you’re better off not knowing, Peter. Consider this another case of plausible deniability.”

“Neal –” He reaches out, but Neal flinches away.

“Just – not now. Tomorrow, it will be all better tomorrow.”

There’s a hint of pain in Neal’s voice and his eyes beg Peter to hold off, to let it go until he’s ready. Peter wants to press and he wants to let it go. He wants to wrap his arms around Neal and make that pain go away. He finds that he can’t not do that, and Neal doesn’t flinch away again.

But his hold is loose, because he’s not stupid, he’s not naïve. Tomorrow is time enough for recriminations. Peter gently pulls Neal down onto his bunk and positions them so his own back is to the cell door. The narrow bed isn’t comfortable for one man, let alone two, but for the rest of this night, Peter will protect Neal, with his body and his heart.

Neal doesn’t turn in his arms and he doesn’t pull away. He buries his face in Peter’s neck, his breathing shallow. Peter can feel Neal’s heart race, he can feel the shivers run through him. He silently curses the ties between them: the connection that sends him to prison because he believes in Neal, that makes Neal jeopardize his life, his health, his sanity to keep him safe.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal wakes. Not in a panicked rush, nor in a slow languor. He’s asleep one moment, and then he’s not, absolutely aware of every damn thing around him. This is the way he woke every day he was in prison, the way he woke every day in Cape Verde, in a state of fearful anticipation.

But this morning is different. He feels safe.

There’s a warm, heavy mass draped over him, a heart beating under his ear. Peter’s there, his body blocking out the world.

Neal shifts, so he can look into Peter’s face, to memorize the image of this man in complete repose. But Peter isn’t sleeping. He is looking at Neal, concern in every line and crease, shining out of his eyes.

There’s no preamble, no meaningless morning exchange. Peter picks up right from where he left off last night.

“What you did – “

Neal still doesn’t – he can’t talk about it. Not now, maybe never. “I did no less than what needed to be done. No less than what you have done for me.”

“I’ve never – “

“Not that – but you’ve killed to protect me.” Neal thinks of Adler – his lean, aristocratic face twisted in rage and going slack as a bullet from Peter’s gun explodes in his heart. “You’ve risked your career to bring me home, to keep me out of prison. There’s nothing more to discuss.” He’ll never forget their reunion – Peter stepping out of the shadows with open arms. Wrapping those arms around him, holding him tight, whispering how much he missed him. No, Neal will never forget that.

He sighs and rests his head on Peter’s shoulder. He never imagined that their first intimate contact would be so … innocent. Maybe it’s for the best. He’s stained now, too damaged for the purity of love he feels for this man.

Peter’s lips brush his forehead, and a memory surfaces. He’s tired; the day was hot but good. Neal thinks that it was his birthday. Someone comes into his room, covers him and brushes his forehead with a kiss. He wants to cry at the memory; instead, he forces himself to remember the truth he does know about James Bennett.

“He wasn’t framed.”

Peter looks at him, head tilted like a quizzical bird.

“James said he was set up, framed for his supervisory officer’s murder. That someone had planted his back-up piece near the body.”

Peter nods. “That was why he wanted to find Ellen’s evidence box. He hoped it would lead him to the real killer, or who set him up.”

Betrayal is a sour taste in his mouth. “No, he wanted to make sure that Ellen had no proof that he was the real killer. That she had no proof of any other crimes he committed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Remember – James said his back-up gun had been planted. The official report of the shooting said that his service revolver was used to commit the murder. I guess Ellen was never willing to admit – even to herself – that she knew my father …” Neal stops, correct himself. “That James was a cop killer.”

“So, after everything, what was the point of James chasing after the box? Just to get Pratt?”

“I don’t know, Peter. James confessed to the murder, he testified against the Flynn organization in exchange for that guilty plea. He served no additional time and was relocated to Montana under WitSec. Looking at it now, it all seems kind of pointless. Even if the evidence proved his guilt, it wouldn’t change anything.”

Peter holds him a little tighter. “Maybe he just wanted to get to know his son?”

Neal twists free and regrets the loss of contact. “No – no. He didn’t want to know me at all. He couldn’t care less – it was all a con. He’s better than I’ll ever be.”

“Neal – no. I’ve seen how he looks at you. Whatever he’s done, James loves you.”

“And you didn’t see he face when he came back to my apartment and started looking through the papers. His face when I confronted him. When I told him that I knew what he’d done. You didn’t see the ugliness there when I told him that he had to go and tell them the truth – that he shot Pratt.”

Peter pulls him back into his arms. They stay like that for a while, Peter absorbing the truth of all those lies.

“He told me –” And Neal struggles to keep his emotions in check. “He told me that I shouldn’t take the fall for this. I should be like him, I guess – let someone else take the rap.”

Peter sighs, his breath ruffling the hair at his temple. “Then it seems that Bennett doesn’t know you at all. He doesn’t know you, he doesn’t understand you – what makes you tick. You may be misguided at times…”

Neal lets out a watery chuckle. “Yeah.”

“You may do foolish things, you may have the impulse control of a three year old, but you’d never, ever let anyone take the fall for your actions. You were willing to go to prison for the rest of your life to keep Keller behind bars. You are a good man, Neal Caffrey. You are not your father.”

Something in Neal, a hard, cold knot of fear and self-loathing that’s been growing since he was seventeen and Ellen told him a version of the truth, shrinks. It doesn’t go away, but it eases, just a little. Maybe someday he’ll wholly believe Peter’s words, that even though he is his father’s son, he is not James Bennett. He is not evil.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal slides the small electronic device across the table. “I hope this has the proof that MacLeish is paying Carter Anderson to kill Peter. And Moz – thank you for not telling me just who the head guard was. I don’t need more surprises like that.”

Moz shrugs. He didn’t tell Neal because, well, he didn’t want to make a bad situation worse. He plugs the device into another handheld unit – this one’s supposed to read the data from the phone. He navigates and scrolls and finally finds what he’s looking for: the wire transfer transmission receipt. “Here you go.” He shows it to Neal.

“And how are you going to prove that this money came from MacLeish’s accounts, and how are you going to convince anyone that this isn’t some fake or forgery concocted to get Peter out?”

“Oh ye of little faith.” His tone is chiding, but the truth is, Moz doesn’t quite know how to get around the problems Neal poses.

“You need to talk to Peter’s attorney. He’ll know what to do.”

“Don’t worry, mon frére, you and Peter will be out sooner than you think.”

Neal gets this terrible, hopeful look in his eyes. “You know where he is?”

“There have been … sightings.”

“Moz – don’t bullshit me.”

“I’m not – someone matching his description approached Ira about a rush job. Passport, license, birth certificate. Ira’s no friend of the Feds, but he does remember that you once stood up for him.”

“Have you talked with Jones or Diana?”

“Yeah – I’ve been in contact with the Demi-Suits. They aren’t happy people right now.”

“What’s wrong?”

“They are in a bad way with the Bad Suit. Neither would tell me much.” Moz is angry – he doesn’t trust the Feds (that goes without saying) – but these are good people and they are being made to pay for things they didn’t do. He doesn’t tell Neal about his conversation with the Old Gray Suit and just what else the scary bastard gave him. What he’s passed on to Jones and Diana.

“All the more reason to get Bennett into custody.” Neal looks like shit. Betrayal does that to a person. “You’ve got to get with Peter’s attorney right now. Peter will tell him to expect your call.”

“I’m not calling a land shark like that!” His paranoid reaction is second nature, and he flushes, embarrassed. “Don’t worry. I’ll talk to him within the hour.”

The silence becomes awkward. Moz wants to ask, but he doesn’t want to know. In the end, he’s a friend before anything else. “How bad?”

Neal just shakes his head.

“Okay.” There’s nothing more to say. Moz puts the gadgets in his briefcase. “Don’t lose hope, Neal. ‘Even in the inevitable moments when all seems hopeless, men know that without hope they cannot really live, and in agonizing desperation they cry for the bread of hope.’”

That gets a reaction from him. “When did you start quoting the Reverend King?”

“Would you prefer Aristotle? ‘Hope is a waking dream.’ ”

Neal smiles at him for the first time today. Moz takes hope in that.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“How much longer, do you think?” Clinton is uncharacteristically impatient.

“She’s going to make us wait until we’ve gone crazy.” Diana’s reply is full of venom. She makes no attempt to disguise how much she despises Calloway.

He doesn’t blame her. In the space of a week and a half, Amanda Calloway’s thoroughly destroyed the White Collar unit. Not only are Peter and Neal in prison, Flint and Wylie, two good agents who’ve worked in the division for over a decade, have put in for transfers. And the two of them are on the thinnest of ice. She didn’t take their badges after the debacle at the Empire State Building, when it became obvious that they had worked with Peter to misdirect the search for that damn box. But that decision is still pending.

“I’ve got a good lawyer, if you want to fight the suspension,” Diana tells him.

“You really think it’s inevitable?”

She nods, and Clinton has to agree.

“If Peter …” Diana doesn’t finish the thought.

“He’s not going to be convicted; this isn’t going to go to trial. We know where Bennett will be in a week. We’ll arrest him and even if I have to break his arms off, he’s going to confess.”

Diana gives him a tight smile. She’s not convinced. And truthfully, neither is he. Calloway’s blocked any release of the evidence that was in Ellen Parker’s box. She’s claiming that the chain of custody has been tainted and it’s now worthless. Besides, Pratt’s dead and smearing the distinguished career of that honorable corpse would serve no purpose. She’s not even interested in pursuing Neal’s father; she says that the evidence is too damning against Peter and there’s no point in wasting limited FBI resources. It doesn’t seem to matter anymore that Bennett was wanted in connection with an assault on Pratt, and Pratt’s bodyguard admits to taking the box and Bennett to Pratt before he was shot.

But Calloway’s stonewalling is not going to stop them. They’ll act on Mozzie’s tip from his friend, the guy who’s making a new identity for Bennett. They’ll arrest Neal’s father and they’ll bring him to justice, regardless of what Calloway says. And if she takes their badges, they are not without friends. A lot of people in the FBI are appalled at how Peter’s being treated, and Clinton’s inbox has been flooded with offers of assistance from every department, not to mention Peter’s contacts in the NYPD. Hell, even Ruiz cornered him this morning to ask what he could do.

It’s a weird feeling, to be sitting at his desk with nothing to do. Calloway’s confiscated all of their active files. He and Diana have been showing up and marking time, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Which is why he’s surprised when the mail clerk delivers a pair of inter-office envelopes; one for him and one for Diana. He opens his and grins at the contents. The little guy’s come through for all of them.

Before he gets a chance to share the information with Diana, who hasn’t opened hers yet, says, “Look who’s stepped out of her throne room.”

Clinton follows Diana’s gaze up to the balcony. Calloway is standing there, a cat-like grin of satisfaction on her face.

She gives him the double-fingered summons. “Agent Jones – my office, now.”

He’s nervous, but he has to smile. He’s just been handed the perfect trump card at the perfect time and he knows he’s only got one shot at playing it. He puts the flash drive in a desk drawer and locks it. But he’s going to bring the transcript with him and folds it up before sliding it into his jacket pocket.

He schools his face to disinterested blandness and goes into Calloway’s office and he’s almost grateful that it doesn’t feel like Agent Hughes’ anymore. The artwork on the walls is different, the old framed photos of New York City have been replaced by those of the modern Atlanta skyline, and there’s a football in a display box next to an Atlanta Falcons ball cap.

She’s made herself at home, apparently.

“Sit.” Her voice is hard; she’s commanding him like he’s a dog.

He’d prefer to stand, but there’s no point in antagonizing Calloway unnecessarily – or at least not until he’s ready to. So he sits.

Calloway leans back in her chair; she has a “concerned administrator” look on her face. Clinton’s familiar with that expression, he’d seen it enough in the Navy, usually on mid-level COs who were unsure of their command.

“I really don’t know what to do with you – you and Agent Berrigan.” Calloway flips open a file. Clinton sees that it’s his (he learned to read upside down in law school). “Your records are stellar – commendation after commendation. You’re apparently up for promotion.”

Clinton hopes his poker face is still in place. He hadn’t known that.

“So – I’m faced with a difficult choice. You’re one of the best two agents in this division, but you’re loyalty is questionable.”

That sets Clinton’s own back up, and his jaw clenches. How dare she question his loyalty when hers can be bought for a promotion?

“You foolishly stood by Peter Burke even as he set himself on a course of professional suicide.”

Clinton’s temper snaps. It’s almost audible. “Agent Burke was doing his job; he was investigating allegations of corruption –”

Calloway cuts him off. “Allegations made by a convicted cop killer.”

“Actually, no. Agent Burke began his investigation when Dennis Flynn, Jr., the prime suspect in the murder of Ellen Parker and two U.S. Marshals, was killed during a prison transfer. A transfer ordered by Senator Pratt.”

Calloway looks like she’s been slapped. It’s clear that this is something she’s not aware of. And her surprise makes her indiscreet. “Regardless, Burke was stupid to open the investigation. He should have known better that to pry into the Senator’s business. His days here were numbered, even with that stupid stunt at the Empire State Building.”

It’s as if all the air is sucked out of the room, then rushes back in, icy cold. Clinton doesn’t quite believe he heard what he thought he heard. And any worries he has about using the information that Mozzie provided evaporate. He feels like he’s just won the lottery, that it’s Christmas morning and his birthday all at once. He doesn’t care if that triumph shows on his face.

“It’s funny, Agent Calloway, that you question my honor, you question Agent Burke’s intelligence. But by your own words, your integrity is seriously deficient.” He tosses the transcript onto her desk.

“What is this?”

“Read it.”

Clinton watches her face. The emotions, outrage and fear, chase each other in quick succession.

“Where did you get this?” she demands.

He doesn’t bother to answer her. “That’s not your problem.” Clinton knows that the legal value of the recording is minimal, but it’s the thin edge of the wedge, and he’s going to use it to pry Peter and Neal out of jail, and hopefully Calloway out of this office. “You tipped off a suspect in a major corruption investigation. That alone warrants a full scale investigation by OPR. That you had been in contact with that suspect previously leads to a whole lot of other questions – like why you were selected to head up this division when there are agents with far more experience within this office. Or didn’t you get the FBI’s administration memo on the need to promote from within divisions?”

Clinton takes no small satisfaction when Calloway realizes that she’s royally screwed. As he hoped, she’s prepared to deal and she asks him, “What do you want?”

“Well, I want Reese Hughes back in charge and I want you to crawl back into whatever dank hole you occupied before you sold yourself to Pratt in exchange for this promotion. But since that’s not going to happen, I’ll settle for your sign-off to act on the tip on James Bennett’s location.” Clinton then adds, “You’ll stay out of the op and you’ll stay out of the interrogation.”

Calloway nods and then shuffles through some papers on her desk. She pulls out the operations request that he had filed earlier today. Her hand trembles as she scribbles a signature and gives it to him. “I don’t think we have anything more to discuss. This matter is closed?”

Clinton takes the paper but doesn’t say anything. He isn’t going to speak for what Diana plans to do with the information.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

This morning’s meeting with Claude doesn’t go well. Peter’s short tempered with him, but he takes it all with good grace.

“Danforth’s agreed to hear the reconsideration motion tomorrow afternoon. You may be out of here soon.”

Peter doesn’t know if he can believe that. Hope is a terrible thing. “Neal, too. I get bail, he gets released, back on the tracker.”

“I don’t think Judge Danforth has any jurisdiction over Caffrey. That’s up to the penal authorities.”

“I don’t want to hear that – if Neal has to stay here, I’m staying too.”

“Peter – don’t be foolish. Caffrey made a choice to surrender his liberty; you can’t tie your fate to his.”

Peter is immovable on this. “Neal did that to protect me. This has already cost him far too much.” He’s not telling Claude what Neal did last night; Claude doesn’t need to know that. “He’s in as much danger from MacLeish as I am, maybe more.”

Claude nods in reluctant agreement. “I’ll see what I can do. But I can’t make promises.”

Peter doesn’t accept that, but thanks his attorney anyway. “You’ll get in touch with Neal’s attorney?”

“Dante Havisham?”

“Yeah.”

“You know that there’s no attorney by that name listed in the State Bar directory.”

Peter really doesn’t want to get into that. “Look, don’t ask too many questions, okay? Just get in touch with him as soon as you can. He’s got proof that MacLeish has paid off some of the guards here.”

Claude sighs. “Okay – but I can’t perpetrate a fraud on the court. This evidence has to be solid.”

“Just get with him, please.”

“All right – but …”

“Claude.” Peter understands the man’s reluctance, but he needs him to do this.

They make their goodbyes, and Claude also promises to contact Elizabeth. “I’ll tell her you’re doing fine. No need for her to worry unnecessarily.”

Peter wants to laugh. Claude clearly doesn’t know Elizabeth at all.

Their timing is good; as Peter’s being escorted back to his cell, another guard is escorting Neal and they join up. One guard in front of him, Neal behind him, and another guard trailing them both. They pass another group of prisoners being marched down the same corridor.

Peter’s mind is caught up with the problems Claude raised when Neal screams, “Knife” and pushes him to the ground. There are shouts from the guards and whistles from the other prisoners. Neal is a dead weight across his back and he struggles to get up, desperate to see it Neal’s been hurt.

The commotion is over in a matter of seconds. Someone pulls Neal off of him and pulls him upright. The hallway’s been cleared. Someone else asks him if he’s okay. He’s shaken, a little bruised at his knees and shoulders from when he hit the floor, but otherwise he’s fine. He turns and looks for Neal, who’s being held by a guard. There’s a thick trail of blood trickling down his arm and his orange prison shirt is cut open across his belly, the ripped edges revealing a thin line of blood and skin.

Peter’s vision goes dark. He might cavalierly dismiss the threat against his life, but for someone, anyone, to harm Neal makes him crazy. He pulls out of the guard’s hold and goes to Neal, touching his injured arm, the wound on his belly. His fingers go slick, then sticky as the blood starts to dry.

The guard on Neal says he should go to the infirmary.

Neal refuses. He’s adamant. “No – and give someone another chance at Peter?” He stands up straight, smooths down his shirt like it’s a suit jacket. Peter’s seen that gesture a million times; it’s the prelude to some con. Neal gives him a tight smile.

The guard shrugs. “It’s your life. Hope your shots are up to date.”

They make it back to their cell without any further incident. The door slams shut behind them, and for the first time, the sound doesn’t make Peter sick. Now, it’s the sound of safety. No one will hurt them in here.

Neal starts to say something, but Peter quiets him. Words will wait.

He tugs off Neal’s shirt, and except for the blood on the sleeve and the front, it’s clean. Peter rips it apart and dampens one strip. He cleans the cut on Neal’s arm first. It’s not deep, but it’s ragged, as if the knife – the shiv – had a jagged edge. Peter hopes it doesn’t scar. He concentrates on cleaning up every speck of blood. It’s that concentration that lets him keep his temper. Peter finishes by wrapping another clean strip of orange fabric around it.

Nothing like being a Boy Scout.

He takes a deep breath and focuses on the cut across Neal’s belly. Peter pushes him down onto the mattress. “Shh, relax. Let me take care of you.” He dampens another piece of cloth and cleans away the blood. This cut is much shallower than the one on his arm. It looks like the knife snagged on the fabric, preventing a much greater injury.

The wound is no longer bleeding, but the edges are red and it’s going to hurt like hell. Neal sighs. He lifts a hand and briefly rests it against Peter’s head before letting it fall back to the mattress. “This is why I’m here.”

Peter’s mind rebels at that – it’s not supposed to be like this. He takes care of Neal, he takes care of Elizabeth. He’s supposed to watch over the people he loves.

This truth has always been easy in his mind, but acting on it has not, until now. Suddenly, there’s no need to keep these feelings hidden anymore. He presses a kiss on the wound, and another against the unmarked flesh. Then another over the shallow indentation of Neal’s navel. The skin is like hot velvet, the muscles twitching in reaction to his caresses. Other muscles are reacting too. But Neal struggles a bit, becoming restive against Peter’s mouth. He looks up at Neal and is shocked at the stricken expression on his face.

“Don’t, Peter – please. Don’t.” Neal’s plea all but breaks his heart.

“You don’t want this?” Has he misread Neal? Were all those years of flirting, of game playing, the heated looks, the silent communication – were Neal’s feelings strictly familial?

Neal’s laugh is painfully bitter. “I don’t want you to destroy your life. Any more than I already have. Elizabeth hates me enough as it is.”

Peter’s relieved – he hasn’t misread Neal. And he appreciates Neal’s resistance. They should have had this conversation a long time ago. He moves up Neal’s body, careful of the cut, until they are face-to-face. “If I say, don’t worry, will you just accept that?”

Part 3 - On DW | On LJ