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elrhiarhodanTitle: Even the Stars Are Not Safe in Heaven - Part II
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar; L&O: SVU
Rating: R (for off-camera violence)
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Peter/Elizabeth, Neal Caffrey. Also, Detective Olivia Benson, Detective John Munch
Spoilers: S3.10 – Countdown
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Off camera rape and assault, allusion to prior rape and assault. Physical and emotional hurt/comfort. Gen/Friendship, reconciliation.
Word Count: ~21,000 (Complete). This part: ~4600. Part I was published on Monday, December 5, and Part III (the conclusion) will be published Wednesday, December 7.
Summary: In the two years following Elizabeth Burke’s kidnapping and her safe recovery, Peter has cut Neal out of his life, unwilling to forgive his part in Elizabeth’s trauma or the betrayal of their own partnership. The story begins with Neal’s successful completion of his work-release, and he says goodbye. It is a moment of finality. But time passes, some wounds heal and tragedy brings them back together.
__________________
His world was reduced to a dark tunnel, and something was chasing him. No – not a tunnel, a maze. He tried to find his way out but the beast was always behind him, just a few steps from tearing him apart.
He couldn't scream. He was too afraid to make a sound, the monster would find him. He wanted to whisper a prayer for help – a simple prayer; all he wanted to ask for was someone to hear him in the darkness, someone to help him, someone to protect him.
But there was no one – no one who would come and save him. He learned that lesson so long ago. He could rely on no one. Calling out in the darkness was pointless and dangerous.
The beast was closer; he could feel its hot breath on his neck, its sharp claws as they skimmed down his back.
He ran through the maze, the beast dogging his every step, and he couldn’t stop – it would catch him, devour him. And even if it didn’t, he was lost here forever. This was prison of his own making, with walls that disappeared into the darkness, endless paths leading to nowhere. He could be moving in circles but there was no light, no way to see. There was no way out.
Maybe he should just give up.
He stopped moving, waiting for the beast to find him. But instead, he found something new, a thread of light. He reached out and the light grew stronger when he touched it. It was the only sensation that wasn’t pain, that wasn’t fear.
This thread – he carefully pulled on it. It was strong, he knew it wouldn’t break – not now, maybe not ever. The thread became a rope, gold and silver intertwined. It spoke to him, the voices were familiar, beloved. He couldn’t name them, though. It didn’t matter. As long as he held onto it, he knew he could hope.
There were words that sang along this rope, phrases that made him happy in inexplicable ways. They chased away the darkness, they banished the fear, they soothed the pain. The words kept the monster away.
The rope stretched out, and he started to follow it, never letting go. It was leading him home.
“Mr. Caffrey – you need to wake up now. Wake up, Mr. Caffrey.” The voice was loud, painful to his ears. He turned his head away from it.
Another voice, “Neal, come on, open your eyes. Please, baby?” The voice was familiar, a woman’s voice.
He didn’t want to get up – it was Saturday, he didn’t have to go to school. “No, five more minutes, mom. Please?” His voice sounded funny – deep and scratchy. Maybe that’s why someone was laughing.
“Neal, it’s time to wake up.”
That voice was implacable, irresistible. He tried to obey, but his eyelids felt glued shut. Someone wiped them with a warm liquid and then patted his face dry.
“Open your eyes, please.” The voice was now pleading. He didn’t like that and with a monumental effort, he raised his eyelids. There were people leaning over him, people he didn’t recognize. An older man with glasses and a stethoscope, flashed a light into his eyes, he turned away from it, irritated.
The man asked, in a loud voice, “Can you tell me your name?”
They called him Neal, so this must be a safe place. “Neal Caffrey?”
“Okay, Neal. Now, how many fingers am I holding up?” The man held up three and he instinctively said “four.”
“Neal?” That voice again.
“Three – three fingers.”
“Can you tell me what year it is?”
That one required some thinking. “2015?”
The man smiled, nodded and asked him to do a few more things: squeeze his fingers, touch his nose with his right hand, tell him if he could feel pinpricks, if he could wiggle his toes. He finally stepped back and made a pronouncement. “It seems that Mr. Caffrey will be fine.”
Was there something wrong with him?
All he wanted to do was close his eyes and go back to sleep.
“No, no – Mr. Caffrey – you need to stay awake for a little while longer.” Someone with warm hands was fiddling with his clothes.
“No – .” No one should be touching him – he didn’t want anyone touching him. Neal flung out a hand, but it felt strange and heavy. He opened his eyes again and looked at it. There was a cast wrapped around his left hand, up to the tips of his fingers. “Wha?”
“Neal – just relax, no one will hurt you.”
He knew that voice – he had heard it in the darkness, when he clung to that golden thread. But hands were on his body again and he was afraid. He needed to fight, to get away.
“Shh, Neal. Relax, I won’t let anyone hurt you now.”
He tried to find that voice, but he felt like he was swimming through molasses – everything was too dense. But he obeyed and the hands that were bothering his body were gentle and worked quickly. The air was cool against his skin when they lifted his – what – hospital gown? There were other voices, he wanted to retreat when something cold and wet touched him.
“Just an antiseptic wash on the incision. You’re doing just fine, Neal.”
Another set of hand rolled him over and he whimpered. “We’re almost done.” They did more things with the wet cold, and he sighed with relief when they covered him again and pulled up the covers.
“You’re chilled, aren’t you?”
He tried to nod, but his teeth were clattering too hard. Relief came quickly as he was tucked in with a deliciously warm blanket.
The voices grew indistinct as he drifted back to sleep.
“...hat – it’ll keep him warm.”
Neal smiled. He liked hats.
The next time Neal woke, there was daylight streaming into his eyes and Elizabeth Burke was sitting next to his bed.
“Hey there, sleepy head.”
He tried to reply but his lips were like parchment.
“Oh, hold on.” She reached for a cup and a white stick, swabbing his mouth with cool water. He opened his mouth and she gave his tongue a swipe and fed him a few chips of ice. They tasted … delicious.
“More?”
He nodded and Elizabeth gave him a few more.
“Enough? I don’t want you to get sick.”
“Thank you.” Was that his voice? Why was it so harsh? “What happened?” He knew he was in the hospital, but he didn’t know way. And why would Elizabeth Burke, of all people, be at his bedside?
“You were hurt.”
He didn’t like the way she said that. It stirred something dark and anxious in him.
“Hurt? How?”
Her lips tightened and she looked up, towards the door. Neal followed the path her eyes took. Peter was standing there.
Peter. He wanted to smile, but his face hurt too much.
Elizabeth brushed his hair off his brow, tucking it into a wool cap. She pressed a kiss on his cheek and left them. He wanted to call her back. And that was something he had no right to do.
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The only thing he could think of was that last awful moment when he said goodbye, he wanted to apologize again – and then, as now – the words stuck in his throat.
Then Peter smiled. “You’re awake.”
He nodded, like the village idiot.
“How do you feel?”
“I don’t know.” Three words. That was all he could manage at the moment.
“Are you in a lot of pain?”
He took stock of himself. His head ached, his belly and chest hurt, but the worst was his wrist and hand. His fingers were immobilized. He lifted it up.
“Broken?”
“Yes – there was a lot of damage there. It hurts?”
“Yeah.” Neal couldn’t remember anything except the dark. He started to panic. “What happened to me?” Shit, he was crying. “Sorry.”
Peter sat down in the chair El had vacated. “You were hurt. Someone attacked you.”
The geology of his soul shifted as a decade of hard-won security fell away. The edges of his vision turned black. Was that desperate sound coming out of his own throat? “No – no – no.” He began to struggle, something was pressing down on his chest, he couldn’t breath. “NO.” He had to get free, he had to find someplace safe.
“Neal – NEAL – look at me!”
Peter’s command cut through the adrenalin-fueled panic. Neal turned to him, helpless, despairing. “Please…” He reached through the bars. “Don’t leave me here – don’t let them hurt me again.”
Peter stood over him, a large, warm hand gently stroking his forehead, his cheek, wiping away his tears. “I’m here, I’ll keep you safe.” There was a catch in Peter’s voice, like he was crying too. “I’ll keep you safe.”
The wave of panic receded, leaving him drained, empty, weak. “You didn’t forget me?”
“No, Neal – I’ll never forget you, ever. Now, go back to sleep. I’ll watch out for you.”
He closed his eyes and trusted Peter to keep his word. He always did.
Peter sat and as he watched Neal fall back into a restless sleep, his heart shattered. How had he not known this? How had he never even guessed?
Would it have made a difference?
El came back in, a cup of coffee from the thermos she’d brought in her hands. “What happened?”
He shook his head. “Not now, I can’t talk about it. Just let me sit with him.”
She gave him the cup; he took a sip and grimaced. The coffee was good, but it didn’t mix well with the bile in his mouth. He handed her back the cup. Neal’s hand, the one without the cast, twitched restlessly on top of the blankets. Peter held on to it, but Neal started to shiver. He looked at Elizabeth, who knew just what to do.
An aide came in a few minutes later, with an armful of warm blankets and Peter thought he would never get the smell of cheap laundry soap and heated cotton out of his nose. The weight and the fresh warmth settled Neal down and he fell into a deeper, less agitated sleep, but he clung to his hand like it was a lifeline.
The sunlight was gone when Neal woke again. His head was clearer, and pain was still there, but so was Peter. It wasn’t a dream.
He watched the man who had been his lodestone for so long. Until he nearly destroyed everything that Peter loved, everything he stood for, everything that was right and good.
Neal didn’t understand why he was here now, with him. But that hand, warm and calloused was gently squeezed his in a slow, even rhythm, sweeping his thumb over his knuckles. The gesture was so comforting that Neal wanted to cry like a lost child now found.
He must have made a noise. Peter looked up, gave him a small smile.
“How are you now?”
“Okay, I think.”
Peter squeezed his hand again. “Good.”
“What happened to me, Peter? Why are you here?”
“Neal –”
He could hear the reluctance in that single syllable. “Please, Peter. Please.”
“I don’t think you’re ready.”
Neal felt the now familiar rising tide of panic, the darkness. “I need to know – I can’t bear not knowing.”
Peter licked his lips and swallowed. “The best the police can figure out is that you were jumped around midnight last Thursday –”
“Last Thursday? What day is it now?”
“It’s Wednesday evening.”
Almost a week – I’ve lost almost a week of my life. “What else?”
“You were found in a playground adjacent to Fort Tryon Park in Fort Washington.”
He nodded. “I’ve sublet a co-op at 189th and Fort Washington Boulevard.”
“Why?”
“Why, what?” Peter’s question confused him.
“Why did you leave June’s? I can’t think that she would have kicked you out.”
“No.” Memories ate at him. “I wanted to make a clean break from everything. To put it all behind me. The new place was only temporary – a few months until I ...” He paused, uncertain of his reasons.
“Until what?” The question was gentle, but Neal felt the weight of it.
“Until I decided if I was going to stay in New York.” He could see the million questions that Peter wanted to ask. “Who found me?”
“The police. You were spotted on a routine patrol.”
“How come you’re here? How did you know?”
“You kept my card. The police found your wallet in a trashcan, it was the only thing left in it.”
That piece of cardboard had been a talisman for the last year – he’d take it out, brush his thumb across the raised letters, as if they were Braille or a secret code or an ancient language whose meaning was just beyond his ken. Even now, he could feel the contrast of the slick lettering and paper on his fingers and wondered if he’d be able to get it back.
“The detectives assigned to your case came to the office; they wanted me to identify you.”
He should have kept his mouth shut, he should have just accepted this for what it was – but he couldn’t. “I’m surprised you didn’t tell them to piss off.”
The silence that followed echoed until he thought he’d shatter from it.
“I deserve that.”
“No – no you don’t. I’m –”
“Don’t you dare apologize to me, Neal. Don’t you fucking dare.” Peter squeezed his hand again. He didn’t let go. Neal wondered if he’d fall back it the darkness when Peter finally did.
“Okay – what else? What else happened?”
“Neal –” Peter took a deep breath.
“It was more than just a mugging, wasn’t it?” There was a sick familiarity to this. “What else happened to me?”
“You were raped.” The words fell like stones. Peter gripped his hand even tighter, as if to anchor him to the world.
He could hear his heart beat, the pulsing of blood in his veins. This was what he was afraid of – not the violation – but that he couldn’t remember that it happened. “Once – once I wished for such oblivion.”
Peter’s hand on his was the connection to the now. He focused on that.
“Neal – why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“There was nothing you could have done – it happened, I survived. I made sure it would never happen again.” He laughed, loud and bitter. “I got lazy, I forgot about staying safe.”
I forgot that you weren’t there to watch my back.
He pushed that thought out of his head – it was wrong, unfair. “What else – what else happened?”
“Do you want a list of your injuries?”
Neal swallowed against the sour taste of fear. “Yes. Please.”
He listened, appalled – head trauma and brain surgery, the collapsed lung, broken ribs, a ruptured spleen, internal bleeding, as well as the broken wrist and fingers.
“Neal – you okay?” Peter winced. “Sorry – that was a stupid question.”
A wave of exhaustion overtook him. Sleep seemed like a good idea, he could escape everything in sleep. That had always worked.
“No – it’s all right.” He closed his eyes. “Will you be here when I wake?”
“I’ll be here until they kick me out.”
“Okay – if I’m not up – wake me before you leave.” His voice was slurring.
“I’m here for you. You don’t have to be afraid.”
Peter stayed with Neal through the night, going home just to shower and change and check in with the team, a routine that continued for the next two days. Elizabeth spent time with him too. She stayed with Neal when Peter was gone, so he wouldn’t have to wake up alone, frightened.
There had been many terrible quiet moments in his life, and this one would rank as one of the worst, next to holding El as she woke up screaming in terror, and watching his father die slowly die from lung cancer.
And he didn’t know what was worse – telling Neal of his own violation or the dawning comprehension that Neal – bright and shining – had been hurt in prison. What did you expect? He didn’t spend four years in a country club.
Peter paced the length of the room, his eyes never leaving the still, bruised figure on the bed. He suspected that Neal would never talk to him about that, and would probably regret what he inadvertently told him. He had never met anyone who had a more impenetrable armor than Neal Caffrey. It took all his will to push aside the past.
His cell phone buzzed with an incoming call – it was Detective Benson. Peter stepped out of the room to answer it.
“How is he?”
“Awake.”
“And?”
“He doesn’t remember anything, so far.”
“Nothing?”
“He knew he was hurt, but nothing specific. I had to tell him –” He couldn’t finish that sentence.
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t know how you do this – day after day, Detective Benson.”
“It’s what I do.”
“Will you have enough evidence if Neal can’t ID his attacker?”
“The DNA from the rape kit was a match, but having the victim identification may be necessary. And your question about Neal’s missing hat gave us more evidence. We found a black fedora from Dobbs Fifth Avenue in the perp’s apartment.”
“Neal should be able to identify his own hat.”
“We’d like to talk to him. It would still be best if he could ID his attacker. Do you think he’ll be able to answer our questions today?”
“He’s sleeping now. Can you wait until tomorrow? Neal’s still processing what happened to him.”
There was a pause at the other end.
“Have you told him anything about the attack – other than it happened?”
Peter felt a flash of annoyance. “I may not work in violent crimes, but I know better than to tamper with a witness’ memory.”
“But he’s also your friend and someone you care about.”
“Sorry. All I told Neal was that he was attacked and a list of his injuries. Nothing more.”
“Good – and thank you, Agent Burke. If Neal starts remembering anything – call me or Munch immediately.”
“I will. Thank you.”
Peter ended the call and went back into Neal’s room. He was restless, but Neal was sleeping quietly. He picked up the copy of The Agony and the Ecstasy and noted with dismay that the binding was falling apart. He opened the book at a random point and smiled, Michelangelo was carving his David. He started reading aloud – keeping his voice soft. This was more for the enjoyment of the words than anything else.
An hour passed in easy pleasure, but his throat grew dry and his eyes, tired. He closed the book and stretched his legs.
“Why’d you stop?” Neal murmured, eyes still closed. “You were getting to the good part.”
“Playing possum, Neal?”
“Mmmm, yeah.”
“How are you doing?”
Neal opened his eyes and looked much more alert than he had each of the previous times he woke. “I think okay. They’re probably pumping me full of good stuff.”
“Probably.”
“What time is it?”
Peter checked his watch. “Around four, why?”
“You’ve been here all day.”
“Yeah, and?”
“Don’t you have to be at the office? It’s still a work day, right?”
“Don’t worry about that – I have a very competent staff. All of whom are very worried about you, by the way.”
Neal seemed to get agitated by that. “Does everyone know what happened?”
Peter understood what Neal was asking. “No – Diana and Clinton just spread the word that you were jumped and had your head coshed.”
“But those two know about everything else?”
Peter nodded. “They knew only because the detectives who are working your case are from Special Victims.”
“Sex crimes?”
“They’re a little more than that – but yeah.”
“They’ll want to talk with me, right?”
“Yep. Do you think you’ll be up to it tomorrow?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“You do, actually.”
Neal looked up, puzzled. “I do?”
“Yes – but you should.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing, Neal. I spoke with one of the detectives a little while ago – she’d like to stop by in the morning.”
“I’ll be here.”
“So will I.”
Neal looked at him, an odd expression on his face.
“What’s the matter?”
He sighed. “I guess I’m still trying to figure this out.”
“This?”
“Us – why you’re here. Why you’re doing this.”
Peter didn’t know how to answer that, but he had to try. “I was wrong – I should never have cut you out after you rescued Elizabeth. I was wrong from the beginning. If there was someone responsible for that mess – it was me.”
“Peter – no.”
He started this and couldn’t stop. “I never thought you could change. Deep down, I never believed you’d be anything more than what you already were. And then I set out to do everything to prove myself right.”
“A martyr complex doesn’t suit you, Peter. And you’re wrong.”
“I don’t think this is a discussion we should be having now – not when you’re less than three days out of a coma.”
“Then when? Are you doing this because you feel guilty?”
“Neal –”
“If you’re only here out of guilt, you can go.”
“I’m not going anywhere. And I’m not here out of guilt. I am here because I am your friend – something I forgot.”
Neal was quiet for a few moments. “I’m sorry.”
Peter knew that the apology was for a lot more than Neal’s outburst. “So am I.” He reached out and took Neal’s hand. He was the one who needed comfort this time and he was terrified that Neal was going to pull away.
He didn’t.
“You’re making excellent progress, Mr. Caffrey.” The doctor, whose name he didn’t get, flashed a light into his eyes a few times. “We’ll do another CT scan and start looking at your options for rehab.
“I’m more than ready to get out of here. The catheter came out this morning; I was beginning to feel like if I didn’t get to take a real piss, my dick was going to fall off.”
The doctor gave him a look and an uncertain smile.
“What, I can’t make jokes about my dick because of what happened to me?”
The man shrugged, apologized and quickly left the room.
“Some people get freaked out when dealing with victims of sexual assault – they have expectations.” A handsome woman with dangerous eyes and a gold shield on her belt stepped into his room.
“That I’m supposed to quiver and cower and cry at the least little thing?”
“Generally. But you’re a man who’s made a career out of defying expectations.” That came from a tall, cadaverously thin man – also wearing a gold shield.
“I guess you’re the detectives on my case?” Neal stretched his lips into something he hoped was close to the full Caffrey, but he suspected it was a creepy grimace.
“Olivia Benson – this is my partner, John Munch.”
“You want to ask me questions about the attack.”
Benson pulled up a chair – Peter’s chair. “Look – I know it will be difficult – but we need you to try to remember as much as possible.”
“It’s been a week. What are the odds of catching the guy?”
The two detectives looked at each other. Benson nodded at her partner.
“What?”
“We have a suspect already in custody; he was caught with your credit cards. His fingerprints were on your wallet. We found a vintage hat in his apartment and he’s not the vintage-hat-wearing type.”
She pulled out a photograph of it, and he nodded. “Yeah, that’s mine.”
“Good – and maybe you could try to identify the man who assaulted you.”
“I don’t remember what he looked like.” Neal felt himself trembling, a sick, anxious knot of fear building in his stomach. “I didn’t see his face, it was dark. I don’t remember anything. I can’t help you.” Go away – go away – go away.
“We have a photo array – maybe if you look at the pictures, it will jog your memory.”
“No – I said, I DON’T REMEMBER!” Neal shouted, the words a shield against the old terror.
“Detectives!” Peter stalked into the room. Peter was here, Peter had his back now. He’d make them understand.
“Damn it, I thought it was understood that I would be present when you questioned Neal.”
“Agent Burke –”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses – do you normally treat assault victims like criminals under interrogation? You’re supposed to be the top of your squad but this is like an amateur production of Dragnet.”
“Peter –” Neal thought it prudent to interrupt. Not that he wasn’t enjoying the scene of Peter ripping the detectives apart.
“Neal – you don’t have to say anything. They have no right to upset you.”
“Peter – it’s okay. I was overreacting.” He was a little embarrassed at his behavior.
“Neal – you don’t have to apologize.”
He couldn’t help but notice the two detectives watching them like this was a tennis match. What must they be thinking?
Munch cleared his throat. “Agent Burke – we were just asking if Mr. Caffrey could look at a photo array. If he can’t – we’ll have to hope his attorney doesn’t challenge the original DNA testing.”
“What?” Neal was confused. “What DNA test?”
Peter glared at Benson. “You didn’t tell him?”
“Tell me what?” He looked at each of the three people in the room.
Benson replied. “The DNA from the rape kit sample was a match for the suspect we have in custody.”
“I don’t understand why you need me to ID him. I though DNA evidence was conclusive proof.”
“Not unless the defendant challenges the lab work.” Peter replied with a bitter tone.
Munch explained, “We’ve had some trouble with the labs that have done DNA testing on convicted sex offenders as part of the city’s database. That’s not to say that this testing will be thrown out, but if that is the case, and we have to retest, it will be easier to get a warrant for the suspect’s DNA with a positive ID. He could always say that he found your wallet, and all we’d get him on would be the use of stolen credit cards..”
Neal thought for a moment and made a decision. “Give me the photo array.”
“Neal –”
“Peter – it’s okay, just let me get this over with.” He wasn’t sure he’d recognize anyone, but he had to try.
Benson pulled out a set of photos – head and profiles on individual cards. He laid them out as if he were dealing out a game of solitaire.
Three he immediately discarded. Then a fourth. The fifth could have been – and he picked it up, held it close to his face, then did the same to the sixth. He got nauseous and images started flickering behind his eyes like a flip book, starting slowing then moving to full speed. He dropped the picture back onto the table.
“This one – I’m positive.”
Munch made a few notes and Benson took the photos back. “Do you remember anything specific?”
“I’m not sure.” He squeezed his eyes shut. The images persisted. “He grabbed me, punched me and my keys went flying. I fought back, we were under a lamp pole – everything was colored orange. He laughed when I tried to hit him.” There were more memories than that, but he wasn’t sure if they were from last week or a decade ago. He scrubbed at his face, hating the ache from the bruises, the heavy scruff and the fragility of his emotions.
“I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
“It’s time you left.” That was Peter, and from under his eyelashes, he watched him herd the detectives out of the room.
End Part II - Go to Part III
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar; L&O: SVU
Rating: R (for off-camera violence)
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Peter/Elizabeth, Neal Caffrey. Also, Detective Olivia Benson, Detective John Munch
Spoilers: S3.10 – Countdown
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Off camera rape and assault, allusion to prior rape and assault. Physical and emotional hurt/comfort. Gen/Friendship, reconciliation.
Word Count: ~21,000 (Complete). This part: ~4600. Part I was published on Monday, December 5, and Part III (the conclusion) will be published Wednesday, December 7.
Summary: In the two years following Elizabeth Burke’s kidnapping and her safe recovery, Peter has cut Neal out of his life, unwilling to forgive his part in Elizabeth’s trauma or the betrayal of their own partnership. The story begins with Neal’s successful completion of his work-release, and he says goodbye. It is a moment of finality. But time passes, some wounds heal and tragedy brings them back together.
His world was reduced to a dark tunnel, and something was chasing him. No – not a tunnel, a maze. He tried to find his way out but the beast was always behind him, just a few steps from tearing him apart.
He couldn't scream. He was too afraid to make a sound, the monster would find him. He wanted to whisper a prayer for help – a simple prayer; all he wanted to ask for was someone to hear him in the darkness, someone to help him, someone to protect him.
But there was no one – no one who would come and save him. He learned that lesson so long ago. He could rely on no one. Calling out in the darkness was pointless and dangerous.
The beast was closer; he could feel its hot breath on his neck, its sharp claws as they skimmed down his back.
He ran through the maze, the beast dogging his every step, and he couldn’t stop – it would catch him, devour him. And even if it didn’t, he was lost here forever. This was prison of his own making, with walls that disappeared into the darkness, endless paths leading to nowhere. He could be moving in circles but there was no light, no way to see. There was no way out.
Maybe he should just give up.
He stopped moving, waiting for the beast to find him. But instead, he found something new, a thread of light. He reached out and the light grew stronger when he touched it. It was the only sensation that wasn’t pain, that wasn’t fear.
This thread – he carefully pulled on it. It was strong, he knew it wouldn’t break – not now, maybe not ever. The thread became a rope, gold and silver intertwined. It spoke to him, the voices were familiar, beloved. He couldn’t name them, though. It didn’t matter. As long as he held onto it, he knew he could hope.
There were words that sang along this rope, phrases that made him happy in inexplicable ways. They chased away the darkness, they banished the fear, they soothed the pain. The words kept the monster away.
The rope stretched out, and he started to follow it, never letting go. It was leading him home.
“Mr. Caffrey – you need to wake up now. Wake up, Mr. Caffrey.” The voice was loud, painful to his ears. He turned his head away from it.
Another voice, “Neal, come on, open your eyes. Please, baby?” The voice was familiar, a woman’s voice.
He didn’t want to get up – it was Saturday, he didn’t have to go to school. “No, five more minutes, mom. Please?” His voice sounded funny – deep and scratchy. Maybe that’s why someone was laughing.
“Neal, it’s time to wake up.”
That voice was implacable, irresistible. He tried to obey, but his eyelids felt glued shut. Someone wiped them with a warm liquid and then patted his face dry.
“Open your eyes, please.” The voice was now pleading. He didn’t like that and with a monumental effort, he raised his eyelids. There were people leaning over him, people he didn’t recognize. An older man with glasses and a stethoscope, flashed a light into his eyes, he turned away from it, irritated.
The man asked, in a loud voice, “Can you tell me your name?”
They called him Neal, so this must be a safe place. “Neal Caffrey?”
“Okay, Neal. Now, how many fingers am I holding up?” The man held up three and he instinctively said “four.”
“Neal?” That voice again.
“Three – three fingers.”
“Can you tell me what year it is?”
That one required some thinking. “2015?”
The man smiled, nodded and asked him to do a few more things: squeeze his fingers, touch his nose with his right hand, tell him if he could feel pinpricks, if he could wiggle his toes. He finally stepped back and made a pronouncement. “It seems that Mr. Caffrey will be fine.”
Was there something wrong with him?
All he wanted to do was close his eyes and go back to sleep.
“No, no – Mr. Caffrey – you need to stay awake for a little while longer.” Someone with warm hands was fiddling with his clothes.
“No – .” No one should be touching him – he didn’t want anyone touching him. Neal flung out a hand, but it felt strange and heavy. He opened his eyes again and looked at it. There was a cast wrapped around his left hand, up to the tips of his fingers. “Wha?”
“Neal – just relax, no one will hurt you.”
He knew that voice – he had heard it in the darkness, when he clung to that golden thread. But hands were on his body again and he was afraid. He needed to fight, to get away.
“Shh, Neal. Relax, I won’t let anyone hurt you now.”
He tried to find that voice, but he felt like he was swimming through molasses – everything was too dense. But he obeyed and the hands that were bothering his body were gentle and worked quickly. The air was cool against his skin when they lifted his – what – hospital gown? There were other voices, he wanted to retreat when something cold and wet touched him.
“Just an antiseptic wash on the incision. You’re doing just fine, Neal.”
Another set of hand rolled him over and he whimpered. “We’re almost done.” They did more things with the wet cold, and he sighed with relief when they covered him again and pulled up the covers.
“You’re chilled, aren’t you?”
He tried to nod, but his teeth were clattering too hard. Relief came quickly as he was tucked in with a deliciously warm blanket.
The voices grew indistinct as he drifted back to sleep.
“...hat – it’ll keep him warm.”
Neal smiled. He liked hats.
The next time Neal woke, there was daylight streaming into his eyes and Elizabeth Burke was sitting next to his bed.
“Hey there, sleepy head.”
He tried to reply but his lips were like parchment.
“Oh, hold on.” She reached for a cup and a white stick, swabbing his mouth with cool water. He opened his mouth and she gave his tongue a swipe and fed him a few chips of ice. They tasted … delicious.
“More?”
He nodded and Elizabeth gave him a few more.
“Enough? I don’t want you to get sick.”
“Thank you.” Was that his voice? Why was it so harsh? “What happened?” He knew he was in the hospital, but he didn’t know way. And why would Elizabeth Burke, of all people, be at his bedside?
“You were hurt.”
He didn’t like the way she said that. It stirred something dark and anxious in him.
“Hurt? How?”
Her lips tightened and she looked up, towards the door. Neal followed the path her eyes took. Peter was standing there.
Peter. He wanted to smile, but his face hurt too much.
Elizabeth brushed his hair off his brow, tucking it into a wool cap. She pressed a kiss on his cheek and left them. He wanted to call her back. And that was something he had no right to do.
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The only thing he could think of was that last awful moment when he said goodbye, he wanted to apologize again – and then, as now – the words stuck in his throat.
Then Peter smiled. “You’re awake.”
He nodded, like the village idiot.
“How do you feel?”
“I don’t know.” Three words. That was all he could manage at the moment.
“Are you in a lot of pain?”
He took stock of himself. His head ached, his belly and chest hurt, but the worst was his wrist and hand. His fingers were immobilized. He lifted it up.
“Broken?”
“Yes – there was a lot of damage there. It hurts?”
“Yeah.” Neal couldn’t remember anything except the dark. He started to panic. “What happened to me?” Shit, he was crying. “Sorry.”
Peter sat down in the chair El had vacated. “You were hurt. Someone attacked you.”
The geology of his soul shifted as a decade of hard-won security fell away. The edges of his vision turned black. Was that desperate sound coming out of his own throat? “No – no – no.” He began to struggle, something was pressing down on his chest, he couldn’t breath. “NO.” He had to get free, he had to find someplace safe.
“Neal – NEAL – look at me!”
Peter’s command cut through the adrenalin-fueled panic. Neal turned to him, helpless, despairing. “Please…” He reached through the bars. “Don’t leave me here – don’t let them hurt me again.”
Peter stood over him, a large, warm hand gently stroking his forehead, his cheek, wiping away his tears. “I’m here, I’ll keep you safe.” There was a catch in Peter’s voice, like he was crying too. “I’ll keep you safe.”
The wave of panic receded, leaving him drained, empty, weak. “You didn’t forget me?”
“No, Neal – I’ll never forget you, ever. Now, go back to sleep. I’ll watch out for you.”
He closed his eyes and trusted Peter to keep his word. He always did.
Peter sat and as he watched Neal fall back into a restless sleep, his heart shattered. How had he not known this? How had he never even guessed?
Would it have made a difference?
El came back in, a cup of coffee from the thermos she’d brought in her hands. “What happened?”
He shook his head. “Not now, I can’t talk about it. Just let me sit with him.”
She gave him the cup; he took a sip and grimaced. The coffee was good, but it didn’t mix well with the bile in his mouth. He handed her back the cup. Neal’s hand, the one without the cast, twitched restlessly on top of the blankets. Peter held on to it, but Neal started to shiver. He looked at Elizabeth, who knew just what to do.
An aide came in a few minutes later, with an armful of warm blankets and Peter thought he would never get the smell of cheap laundry soap and heated cotton out of his nose. The weight and the fresh warmth settled Neal down and he fell into a deeper, less agitated sleep, but he clung to his hand like it was a lifeline.
The sunlight was gone when Neal woke again. His head was clearer, and pain was still there, but so was Peter. It wasn’t a dream.
He watched the man who had been his lodestone for so long. Until he nearly destroyed everything that Peter loved, everything he stood for, everything that was right and good.
Neal didn’t understand why he was here now, with him. But that hand, warm and calloused was gently squeezed his in a slow, even rhythm, sweeping his thumb over his knuckles. The gesture was so comforting that Neal wanted to cry like a lost child now found.
He must have made a noise. Peter looked up, gave him a small smile.
“How are you now?”
“Okay, I think.”
Peter squeezed his hand again. “Good.”
“What happened to me, Peter? Why are you here?”
“Neal –”
He could hear the reluctance in that single syllable. “Please, Peter. Please.”
“I don’t think you’re ready.”
Neal felt the now familiar rising tide of panic, the darkness. “I need to know – I can’t bear not knowing.”
Peter licked his lips and swallowed. “The best the police can figure out is that you were jumped around midnight last Thursday –”
“Last Thursday? What day is it now?”
“It’s Wednesday evening.”
Almost a week – I’ve lost almost a week of my life. “What else?”
“You were found in a playground adjacent to Fort Tryon Park in Fort Washington.”
He nodded. “I’ve sublet a co-op at 189th and Fort Washington Boulevard.”
“Why?”
“Why, what?” Peter’s question confused him.
“Why did you leave June’s? I can’t think that she would have kicked you out.”
“No.” Memories ate at him. “I wanted to make a clean break from everything. To put it all behind me. The new place was only temporary – a few months until I ...” He paused, uncertain of his reasons.
“Until what?” The question was gentle, but Neal felt the weight of it.
“Until I decided if I was going to stay in New York.” He could see the million questions that Peter wanted to ask. “Who found me?”
“The police. You were spotted on a routine patrol.”
“How come you’re here? How did you know?”
“You kept my card. The police found your wallet in a trashcan, it was the only thing left in it.”
That piece of cardboard had been a talisman for the last year – he’d take it out, brush his thumb across the raised letters, as if they were Braille or a secret code or an ancient language whose meaning was just beyond his ken. Even now, he could feel the contrast of the slick lettering and paper on his fingers and wondered if he’d be able to get it back.
“The detectives assigned to your case came to the office; they wanted me to identify you.”
He should have kept his mouth shut, he should have just accepted this for what it was – but he couldn’t. “I’m surprised you didn’t tell them to piss off.”
The silence that followed echoed until he thought he’d shatter from it.
“I deserve that.”
“No – no you don’t. I’m –”
“Don’t you dare apologize to me, Neal. Don’t you fucking dare.” Peter squeezed his hand again. He didn’t let go. Neal wondered if he’d fall back it the darkness when Peter finally did.
“Okay – what else? What else happened?”
“Neal –” Peter took a deep breath.
“It was more than just a mugging, wasn’t it?” There was a sick familiarity to this. “What else happened to me?”
“You were raped.” The words fell like stones. Peter gripped his hand even tighter, as if to anchor him to the world.
He could hear his heart beat, the pulsing of blood in his veins. This was what he was afraid of – not the violation – but that he couldn’t remember that it happened. “Once – once I wished for such oblivion.”
Peter’s hand on his was the connection to the now. He focused on that.
“Neal – why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“There was nothing you could have done – it happened, I survived. I made sure it would never happen again.” He laughed, loud and bitter. “I got lazy, I forgot about staying safe.”
I forgot that you weren’t there to watch my back.
He pushed that thought out of his head – it was wrong, unfair. “What else – what else happened?”
“Do you want a list of your injuries?”
Neal swallowed against the sour taste of fear. “Yes. Please.”
He listened, appalled – head trauma and brain surgery, the collapsed lung, broken ribs, a ruptured spleen, internal bleeding, as well as the broken wrist and fingers.
“Neal – you okay?” Peter winced. “Sorry – that was a stupid question.”
A wave of exhaustion overtook him. Sleep seemed like a good idea, he could escape everything in sleep. That had always worked.
“No – it’s all right.” He closed his eyes. “Will you be here when I wake?”
“I’ll be here until they kick me out.”
“Okay – if I’m not up – wake me before you leave.” His voice was slurring.
“I’m here for you. You don’t have to be afraid.”
Peter stayed with Neal through the night, going home just to shower and change and check in with the team, a routine that continued for the next two days. Elizabeth spent time with him too. She stayed with Neal when Peter was gone, so he wouldn’t have to wake up alone, frightened.
There had been many terrible quiet moments in his life, and this one would rank as one of the worst, next to holding El as she woke up screaming in terror, and watching his father die slowly die from lung cancer.
And he didn’t know what was worse – telling Neal of his own violation or the dawning comprehension that Neal – bright and shining – had been hurt in prison. What did you expect? He didn’t spend four years in a country club.
Peter paced the length of the room, his eyes never leaving the still, bruised figure on the bed. He suspected that Neal would never talk to him about that, and would probably regret what he inadvertently told him. He had never met anyone who had a more impenetrable armor than Neal Caffrey. It took all his will to push aside the past.
His cell phone buzzed with an incoming call – it was Detective Benson. Peter stepped out of the room to answer it.
“How is he?”
“Awake.”
“And?”
“He doesn’t remember anything, so far.”
“Nothing?”
“He knew he was hurt, but nothing specific. I had to tell him –” He couldn’t finish that sentence.
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t know how you do this – day after day, Detective Benson.”
“It’s what I do.”
“Will you have enough evidence if Neal can’t ID his attacker?”
“The DNA from the rape kit was a match, but having the victim identification may be necessary. And your question about Neal’s missing hat gave us more evidence. We found a black fedora from Dobbs Fifth Avenue in the perp’s apartment.”
“Neal should be able to identify his own hat.”
“We’d like to talk to him. It would still be best if he could ID his attacker. Do you think he’ll be able to answer our questions today?”
“He’s sleeping now. Can you wait until tomorrow? Neal’s still processing what happened to him.”
There was a pause at the other end.
“Have you told him anything about the attack – other than it happened?”
Peter felt a flash of annoyance. “I may not work in violent crimes, but I know better than to tamper with a witness’ memory.”
“But he’s also your friend and someone you care about.”
“Sorry. All I told Neal was that he was attacked and a list of his injuries. Nothing more.”
“Good – and thank you, Agent Burke. If Neal starts remembering anything – call me or Munch immediately.”
“I will. Thank you.”
Peter ended the call and went back into Neal’s room. He was restless, but Neal was sleeping quietly. He picked up the copy of The Agony and the Ecstasy and noted with dismay that the binding was falling apart. He opened the book at a random point and smiled, Michelangelo was carving his David. He started reading aloud – keeping his voice soft. This was more for the enjoyment of the words than anything else.
An hour passed in easy pleasure, but his throat grew dry and his eyes, tired. He closed the book and stretched his legs.
“Why’d you stop?” Neal murmured, eyes still closed. “You were getting to the good part.”
“Playing possum, Neal?”
“Mmmm, yeah.”
“How are you doing?”
Neal opened his eyes and looked much more alert than he had each of the previous times he woke. “I think okay. They’re probably pumping me full of good stuff.”
“Probably.”
“What time is it?”
Peter checked his watch. “Around four, why?”
“You’ve been here all day.”
“Yeah, and?”
“Don’t you have to be at the office? It’s still a work day, right?”
“Don’t worry about that – I have a very competent staff. All of whom are very worried about you, by the way.”
Neal seemed to get agitated by that. “Does everyone know what happened?”
Peter understood what Neal was asking. “No – Diana and Clinton just spread the word that you were jumped and had your head coshed.”
“But those two know about everything else?”
Peter nodded. “They knew only because the detectives who are working your case are from Special Victims.”
“Sex crimes?”
“They’re a little more than that – but yeah.”
“They’ll want to talk with me, right?”
“Yep. Do you think you’ll be up to it tomorrow?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“You do, actually.”
Neal looked up, puzzled. “I do?”
“Yes – but you should.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing, Neal. I spoke with one of the detectives a little while ago – she’d like to stop by in the morning.”
“I’ll be here.”
“So will I.”
Neal looked at him, an odd expression on his face.
“What’s the matter?”
He sighed. “I guess I’m still trying to figure this out.”
“This?”
“Us – why you’re here. Why you’re doing this.”
Peter didn’t know how to answer that, but he had to try. “I was wrong – I should never have cut you out after you rescued Elizabeth. I was wrong from the beginning. If there was someone responsible for that mess – it was me.”
“Peter – no.”
He started this and couldn’t stop. “I never thought you could change. Deep down, I never believed you’d be anything more than what you already were. And then I set out to do everything to prove myself right.”
“A martyr complex doesn’t suit you, Peter. And you’re wrong.”
“I don’t think this is a discussion we should be having now – not when you’re less than three days out of a coma.”
“Then when? Are you doing this because you feel guilty?”
“Neal –”
“If you’re only here out of guilt, you can go.”
“I’m not going anywhere. And I’m not here out of guilt. I am here because I am your friend – something I forgot.”
Neal was quiet for a few moments. “I’m sorry.”
Peter knew that the apology was for a lot more than Neal’s outburst. “So am I.” He reached out and took Neal’s hand. He was the one who needed comfort this time and he was terrified that Neal was going to pull away.
He didn’t.
“You’re making excellent progress, Mr. Caffrey.” The doctor, whose name he didn’t get, flashed a light into his eyes a few times. “We’ll do another CT scan and start looking at your options for rehab.
“I’m more than ready to get out of here. The catheter came out this morning; I was beginning to feel like if I didn’t get to take a real piss, my dick was going to fall off.”
The doctor gave him a look and an uncertain smile.
“What, I can’t make jokes about my dick because of what happened to me?”
The man shrugged, apologized and quickly left the room.
“Some people get freaked out when dealing with victims of sexual assault – they have expectations.” A handsome woman with dangerous eyes and a gold shield on her belt stepped into his room.
“That I’m supposed to quiver and cower and cry at the least little thing?”
“Generally. But you’re a man who’s made a career out of defying expectations.” That came from a tall, cadaverously thin man – also wearing a gold shield.
“I guess you’re the detectives on my case?” Neal stretched his lips into something he hoped was close to the full Caffrey, but he suspected it was a creepy grimace.
“Olivia Benson – this is my partner, John Munch.”
“You want to ask me questions about the attack.”
Benson pulled up a chair – Peter’s chair. “Look – I know it will be difficult – but we need you to try to remember as much as possible.”
“It’s been a week. What are the odds of catching the guy?”
The two detectives looked at each other. Benson nodded at her partner.
“What?”
“We have a suspect already in custody; he was caught with your credit cards. His fingerprints were on your wallet. We found a vintage hat in his apartment and he’s not the vintage-hat-wearing type.”
She pulled out a photograph of it, and he nodded. “Yeah, that’s mine.”
“Good – and maybe you could try to identify the man who assaulted you.”
“I don’t remember what he looked like.” Neal felt himself trembling, a sick, anxious knot of fear building in his stomach. “I didn’t see his face, it was dark. I don’t remember anything. I can’t help you.” Go away – go away – go away.
“We have a photo array – maybe if you look at the pictures, it will jog your memory.”
“No – I said, I DON’T REMEMBER!” Neal shouted, the words a shield against the old terror.
“Detectives!” Peter stalked into the room. Peter was here, Peter had his back now. He’d make them understand.
“Damn it, I thought it was understood that I would be present when you questioned Neal.”
“Agent Burke –”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses – do you normally treat assault victims like criminals under interrogation? You’re supposed to be the top of your squad but this is like an amateur production of Dragnet.”
“Peter –” Neal thought it prudent to interrupt. Not that he wasn’t enjoying the scene of Peter ripping the detectives apart.
“Neal – you don’t have to say anything. They have no right to upset you.”
“Peter – it’s okay. I was overreacting.” He was a little embarrassed at his behavior.
“Neal – you don’t have to apologize.”
He couldn’t help but notice the two detectives watching them like this was a tennis match. What must they be thinking?
Munch cleared his throat. “Agent Burke – we were just asking if Mr. Caffrey could look at a photo array. If he can’t – we’ll have to hope his attorney doesn’t challenge the original DNA testing.”
“What?” Neal was confused. “What DNA test?”
Peter glared at Benson. “You didn’t tell him?”
“Tell me what?” He looked at each of the three people in the room.
Benson replied. “The DNA from the rape kit sample was a match for the suspect we have in custody.”
“I don’t understand why you need me to ID him. I though DNA evidence was conclusive proof.”
“Not unless the defendant challenges the lab work.” Peter replied with a bitter tone.
Munch explained, “We’ve had some trouble with the labs that have done DNA testing on convicted sex offenders as part of the city’s database. That’s not to say that this testing will be thrown out, but if that is the case, and we have to retest, it will be easier to get a warrant for the suspect’s DNA with a positive ID. He could always say that he found your wallet, and all we’d get him on would be the use of stolen credit cards..”
Neal thought for a moment and made a decision. “Give me the photo array.”
“Neal –”
“Peter – it’s okay, just let me get this over with.” He wasn’t sure he’d recognize anyone, but he had to try.
Benson pulled out a set of photos – head and profiles on individual cards. He laid them out as if he were dealing out a game of solitaire.
Three he immediately discarded. Then a fourth. The fifth could have been – and he picked it up, held it close to his face, then did the same to the sixth. He got nauseous and images started flickering behind his eyes like a flip book, starting slowing then moving to full speed. He dropped the picture back onto the table.
“This one – I’m positive.”
Munch made a few notes and Benson took the photos back. “Do you remember anything specific?”
“I’m not sure.” He squeezed his eyes shut. The images persisted. “He grabbed me, punched me and my keys went flying. I fought back, we were under a lamp pole – everything was colored orange. He laughed when I tried to hit him.” There were more memories than that, but he wasn’t sure if they were from last week or a decade ago. He scrubbed at his face, hating the ache from the bruises, the heavy scruff and the fragility of his emotions.
“I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
“It’s time you left.” That was Peter, and from under his eyelashes, he watched him herd the detectives out of the room.
End Part II - Go to Part III
Tags:
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: peter burke,
- crossover: law and order: svu,
- genre: angst,
- genre: crossover,
- genre: future fic,
- genre: gen,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- pairing: peter/elizabeth,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- white collar,
- written for: angst bingo,
- year: 2011
