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elrhiarhodanTitle: The Next Six Days – Part Two of Two
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R (For Violence)
Characters/Pairings: Mozzie, Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, Reese Hughes, Diana Berrigan, Clinton Jones, Kyle Collins, Henry Dobbs, OMC, OFC
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Reference to torture, rape, electrocution, attempted murder. On-camera violence. Medical procedures.
Word Count: ~16,700 (both parts)
Beta Credit:coffeethyme4me (And to jrosemary for cheerleading and just being awesome credit, too)
Summary: Completely A/U from the start of S4.02 - Most Wanted (Henry Dobbs is no one special). The “Comfort” sequel to the “Hurt” in Six Hours to Freedom. What happens after Neal is rescued - Peter calls in an old favor to save Neal’s life, to keep them safe, and to get them home. Moz is a badass to end all badasses, except that Reese Hughes is also seriously badass. So are Jones and Diana.
A/N: At the end, Mozzie’s thinking of Francis Bacon’s statement: “Revenge is a kind of wild justice, which the more a man's nature runs to, the more ought law to weed it out.” My fandoms pollinate each other.
Go to Part One: On LJ | On DW
__________________
Peter did what he could to keep himself busy, straightening up the bedroom where Neal had been, checking the perimeter, and finally, when it was late enough, he called Elizabeth.
They had spoken briefly after he made the call to Ze’ev, but not since then. He needed to hear her voice; he needed her to anchor him.
“How is he?”
He didn’t have to tell her not to use names. El understood that there were people listening. “Holding his own – they’re operating now.”
“How are YOU doing, honey?”
“Other than angry, worried, and frightened, just fine.” The last two words tasted sour.
She didn’t try to reassure him – such platitudes would be worthless. “Have you slept at all? Eaten?”
“No, and no. Maybe when it’s over – when I know what his status is. Right now, I’m too wound up. In truth, the thought of food made him sick and sleep was an unaffordable luxury.
They chatted about meaningless things. Peter just needed to hear her voice.
“Call me when you have news, okay?”
“I will. I love you. Thank you.”
“I love you too, and take care of yourself.”
They ended the call and Peter found himself pacing the room, then the courtyard. He checked the perimeter again, the third time in as many hours. He disassembled the Glock, cleaned it and put it back together. The familiar actions, the familiar smell of gun oil, did not provide the familiar sense of peace.
Peter was only cognizant that it was dawn when the birds started singing. There was too much forest for a dramatic sunrise transition. He must have slept – an hour – or maybe it wasn’t so much sleep as just a state of not being awake. A quick check of his watch … it had been over four hours since Eli had taken Neal into the kitchen to operate.
How much longer was he going to have to wait?
He scrubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and went to wash up, to find some coffee. To find some patience.
To find some hope.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Hughes had stormed into the conference room, gun in one hand, the envelope with the photos in the other. Moz followed on his heels.
“Kyle Collins, you are under arrest. Surrender your weapon and your badge, now.”
“What’s the charge?” Collins stood up and Hughes raised his weapon into a ready-to-fire position.
“Charges. For starters: kidnapping, false imprisonment, assault, battery –” Hughes gave a rough bark of laughter and shook his head. “Rape and attempted murder.”
Collins looked shaken. He had licked his lips – a nervous tell, then gathered himself. “Kidnapping, false arrest? Neal Caffrey was a fugitive, I was pursuing him. I took him into custody.”
“Your right to detain him ended when you assaulted him while he was in your custody, while he was in handcuffs.” Moz watched in fascination as Hughes, without taking his eyes off of Collins, without lowering his gun, pushed the envelope across the table.
The other agent picked up the envelope, open it and pulled out the contents. It was interesting to watch a human being turn grey. He put the pictures down and pulled his gun from his holster. Moz actually thought that Collins was going to surrender, but instead of putting his gun on the table, he held it on Hughes, on him.
Strangely, Moz wasn’t frightened.
“Put down your weapon, Collins.” Hughes didn’t quite shout, but the words resonated like bells.
The man gave them all a twisted smile. “Not going to happen.”
Moz had never wanted to witness suicide by cop, but in this case, he was thinking he could be happy to make an exception. Except that the Demi-Suits interfered. Collins had been so focused on Hughes that he didn’t realize that Jones was moving closer. He was quicker than Moz would have expected for a man his size. He grabbed Collins’ gun and the Lady Suit and his own personal Israeli-made Suit put the son of a bitch face down on the table and cuffed him.
It went without saying that Collins started screaming for a lawyer and for some reason, all of the other Suits in the room looked at him. Did they think he was going to…? No – they were waiting for him to step aside. He was blocking the door.
He waited in the conference room and watched as Jones and Diana looked at the photographs. He watched their faces, saw curiosity turning to anger turning to rage. Jones was trembling. He wiped his forehead, his mouth with a shaking hand. “I should have shot the bastard instead.”
His personal Suit gathered up the pictures and went to put them away. Diana grabbed her hand. “And just who the hell are you?”
She reached into her pants pocket and pulled out an ID folder. “Rachel Dayan, Interpol – Tel Aviv.”
Moz wanted to laugh – a name, at last. But it was probably as real as his own.
Diana wasn’t backing down. “And what is your involvement? Last I heard, Tel Aviv has no jurisdiction over Cape Verde.”
Whatever answer she was about to give got cut off when Hughes came back into the room. He took the photos away from Rachel. She surrendered them easily and moved to the far end of the conference table. She clearly knew this wasn’t her show and wasn’t going to get involved if she didn’t have to.
“Havisham.” Hughes said his name and looked at him. “Do you have anything more than the photographs?”
In that gaze, Mozzie felt an unexpected connection. He reached into his satchel and pulled out the stack of DVDs – the copies he had made during the flight from Cape Verde. “They weren’t photos; they were stills from six hours of surveillance video. I hope you all have very strong stomachs.”
Jones loaded the disc and at his suggestion, advanced it to the point when Collins started beating Neal.
They were waiting, but Moz wasn’t sure for whom. He got his answer soon enough.
A trio of Suits clattered in – a matched set in navy blue Brooks Brothers. They introduced themselves, but Moz simply thought of them as Moe, Larry, and Curly. They were from the Justice Department, and demanded to know where Neal Caffrey was and why their golden boy, Collins, was currently on ice in a holding cell.
Hughes told them to shut up and watch.
And listen. It wasn’t until Diana took the remote and turned up the volume that Moz realized there was audio to go along with the torture.
Moz didn’t watch the screen – he watched the Suits – particularly the lawyer Suits. The one he privately called “Curly” – she was young and pretty and blonde – gasped when Collins started slicing up Neal’s face and throat. The leader, who looked to be as old as Hughes and just as stone-faced, glared at her.
Diana upped the audio again as Collins thrashed Neal, each punch, each slap echoing against the glass walls. The video came to an end, and Moe – Stoneface – whatever his name was – started to say something.
Hughes lifted a hand, cutting him off. “We’re not done yet.”
Jones put in the next disc. Moz thought that having seen this already would have inured him to the horror of it, but it didn’t. Watching Neal being tortured with electric shocks, hearing his screams and worse – Collins crooning words of justification – made him as sick as he got the first time he saw it.
Sitting there, Moz tried not to lose control. A hand covered his fist and he looked up. Rachel, her face stark white, looked close to breaking, too.
So did everyone else in the room. Hughes finally directed Diana to pause the playback. She turned it off. A few tense seconds passed and no one spoke. Moz realized that once again, he was the cynosure of all eyes.
He swallowed and organized his thoughts before speaking. “This isn’t the worst of it – not by far.”
“Moe” spoke, unconsciously echoing Diana’s question to Rachel. “And who the hell are you?”
Hughes replied. “This is Mr. Caffrey’s lawyer. That’s all you need to know, Walter.”
Moz continued. “Neal Caffrey was tortured for almost six hours straight. You’ve seen the beating and the torture that FBI Agent Kyle Collins administered to him – under color of authority from the United States Justice Department.”
The Three Stooges fidgeted with their pens and legal pads. None of them would meet his eyes.
“Over the course of the next three hours, Collins whipped Neal Caffrey with his belt, left him hanging from his arms because he was unable to stand on feet that were blistered from sustained contact with electric shock paddles.” Moz took a deep breath. “Collins returned to Neal’s cell, cut his pants off him and raped him.”
That finally got a reaction.
“Rape – you have got to be kidding? FBI Agents don’t go around raping people!” The man Hughes called Walter practically shouted.
“They also don’t go around beating and torturing people, either. But this one did.” Hughes pushed the folder with the stills over to him. “If you can’t stomach watching what an agent of this country did to one of its citizens - to another human being, you might want to consider a career change.”
Walter ignored Hughes. “Do you know if Caffrey is still alive?”
“He is. No thanks to Collins. Peter Burke found Neal just as Collins was about to shoot him.”
Hughes extracted the damning photo of Collins - dick hanging out of his pants, gun pointed at the base of Neal’s spine - and handed it to Walter. He looked at it, shook his head and asked, “What do you want.”
Crunch time. “The FBI – the U.S. Government – owes Neal Caffrey for what Kyle Collins did to him. What Philip Kramer was going to do to him.”
Walter interrupted. “Neal Caffrey is a criminal – throughout his work-release he was involved in dozens of crimes. I’ve seen Agent Kramer’s files and his report.”
“Kramer had no proof – his actions were petty and vindictive – and they were in clear violation of my client’s civil rights.”
“Then he should have filed a claim with the Justice Department, not run away.” Walter’s tone was angry, combative, like a man cornered.
Moz steadied himself. Arguing like this was not relevant or helpful. “I can’t change the past, Walter, but the Government is going to recompense my client for the damage done to him. There is precedent, case law. And unless you want me to take this to the media, you’re going to do everything you can to make this right.”
He stared at Walter, for once in his life, the alpha dog in the room.
Walter blinked and dropped his eyes. “I’ll have to get sign off on any monetary settlement – do you have an amount in mind?”
Moz snagged a legal pad and wrote down a number. He passed the folded sheet to Jones, who handed it over to Walter. Walter looked at it, and before he said anything, Moz casually noted, “When the media gets hold of Kyle Collins’ employment history before he joined the FBI, you all better get yourselves some really strong umbrellas. The shit that’s going to rain down will stick to you for decades.”
The middle stooge opened his mouth, but Walter cut him off. “What else?”
“My client comes home, resumes his life in New York without any further interference from the FBI.”
“I won’t be able to get the rest of Caffrey’s sentence vacated – that’s not within my authority.”
Moz laughed, the sound felt good in his lungs, in his throat. He liked the way it just hung in the air. “You can get the U.S. government to pony up six million dollars for a fugitive, tax free, but you can’t get his sentence commuted? Try again, Walter.”
“If this happened to Caffrey when he was in custody of the Federal Prison System, I could – but this – this …” Walter waved his hands over the pictures. “It would take months to unravel this. But I can reinstate Caffrey’s deal with this office, and have his contract modified to reflect that no other office or agency has the right to interfere with Caffrey without his handler’s express permission.”
Moz nodded. “He comes back to New York and it’s as if he was never gone.” That got every set of eyebrows raised.
“You’re asking us to count the time he was on the run as part of his sentence? You’re really pushing it.”
Moz just stared at Walter, no smile, no expression at all. Walter looked around the room, to Hughes particularly, for support. He didn’t find any. “Okay – okay. We’ll have a memo outlining everything to you before the end of the day.” The three stooges prepared to leave.
Hughes spoke up. “You’re not going anywhere until Caffrey’s lawyer signs off on the deal. Walter – you can use my office to get approval from DC. Diana – take these two into the bullpen – they can use Caffrey’s desk to write everything up.” He directed Jones to collect the DVDs, which he added to the envelope with the stills. “I’ll hold on to these, just in case.”
Moz watched the Suits leave. It was just him and Rachel, and he collapsed back into a chair.
“That was some performance … ” she commented.
There were a million ways he could have responded, but he just said, “Thanks.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Day Four
There wasn’t a word for how tired Peter was. Exhaustion didn’t begin to cover it. He tried to remember the last time he slept. Maybe a few hours on the flight from Newark to Lisbon. He closed his eyes, just to rest them. That was all he needed…
“Peter? Peter?”
The voice calling his name was not as familiar as it should have been. He opened his eyes. A man in surgical scrubs was rubbing his shoulder, trying to wake him up.
Everything came back in a rush.
“Neal?”
Eli smiled. “Your friend will be fine. The damage was limited to his spleen, and we removed it. His breathing’s fine, too.”
Peter pushed himself upright. “Where is he?”
“Come with me.” Eli led him back to Neal’s bedroom. And there he was, with a nurse sitting next to him. She looked up as they entered, a smile on her lips. “I think he’s ready to wake up.”
Eli bent over Neal, and just as he had with Peter, he gently rubbed his shoulder. “Neal – Mr. Caffrey – Neal, it’s time to wake up. Open your eyes, Neal.” Eli kept at it, calling to Neal, gently shaking his shoulder, until Neal obeyed.
“Whu?” Neal smacked his lips together and the nurse swabbed them. “What happened?”
Eli explained in low, measured tones what he had done, but Neal wasn’t listening. His head was whipping around, looking for something, someone. Looking for Peter. Their eyes met and Neal settled down.
“I’m here – I’m not going anywhere, okay?”
Neal actually smiled.
The nurse shooed them off, and Eli took him by the arm, into the far corner of the room. “Neal’s strong, he’s on antibiotics, and barring anything unforeseen, he’ll make a full recovery from the surgery.”
Peter was picking up clues that Eli was telegraphing. “But that’s not the whole story, right?”
“At this point, I’m most worried about his feet. There’s nerve damage there and he’ll probably need skin grafts. We debrided the dead skin, but some of the blisters went through all the dermal layers. He has to stay off his feet. Caring for him will be difficult.”
Peter nodded in understanding. Eli didn’t look convinced that he understood the importance of these instructions. “I’ve got to get home – but I am leaving nurses and aides behind with the security team.” When Peter started to say that he didn’t need them, Eli cut him off. “You will need them – you’ll need every bit of help you can get, and then some.”
Peter took a deep breath, “Okay – so we’re not out of the woods yet.”
“Well, let’s just say that the forest edge is in sight. Just tread carefully. And don’t forget to take care of yourself.
Peter scrubbed at his face. He had a few things he needed to do before he could rest. “Are you ready to leave now?”
Eli nodded. “Equipment’s been packed up and I’ve contacted my pilot at the airport to get the jet ready. Rachel – ”
“Rachel?”
“Ah – my minder never fully introduced herself. She’s probably on her way back to Tel Aviv with the other plane. When you’re ready to go back to New York, call my father. He’ll arrange for your transportation home.”
Peter was about to say something to the effect that he could never repay either Eli or Ze’ev, but Eli gave Peter a broad, genuine smile. “And before you start talking about debts and favors and shit like that, I want to show you something.” He pulled out his cell phone and launched a photo app. “These are my children.” Two dark-haired, dark-eyed girls were carefully holding a fat, happy six-month old.
“They’re beautiful.”
“My eldest’s name is Maialen Petra.”
Peter met Eli’s eyes, simply shocked. Eli’s people didn’t generally name their children after the living.
“She was named after my grandmother, who died just a few weeks before she was born. And she was named after you, too. There is no debt between us, Peter Burke. We do this because we are family.”
Peter nodded, speechless.
Eli hugged him. “I’ll be in touch when I get back home – but Gada and Livia are very competent nurses. Neal’s in good hands.”
Peter blinked against the tears, swallowed hard against the lump in his throat and wrapped his arms around Eli, hugging him back. “Thank you.” Two simple words had to convey all the gratitude he felt.
Eli checked on Neal once more before leaving. The nurse, who introduced herself as Livia, walked out with him. He was alone with Neal for the first time in what felt like an eternity.
Someone had brought in a lounge chair and placed it next to the bed. Peter sat down – or more accurately collapsed into it. He needed to call home and hear Elizabeth’s voice, he had to call Ze’ev, to catch up with Moz, who was probably somewhere over the Atlantic by now.
But he didn’t do any of those things. He simply rested his hand over Neal’s, found the strong, steady rhythm of his pulse, and closed his eyes.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal woke, but he didn’t open his eyes, a habit ingrained since prison. He was in pain – but not terrible agony – which meant he was alive and not in Hell. The air was warm on his face and there were the unfamiliar sounds of steady mechanical beeps punctuated by bird song. There were other sounds too, rhythmic and dissonant. Someone was close by, sleeping. And snoring. Neal turned his head in that direction and slowly, carefully lifted his eyelids.
It was Peter, almost horizontal in a lounge chair, his head tilted back, mouth opened, and sawing enough wood to build a cabin. Neal relaxed. If Peter was here, he wasn’t in danger.
At that thought, everything came rushing back. Peter’s arrival, their reunion, his capture.
What Collins did to him.
Neal dug around in his memories – it was all there. The beating, the electrocution, the whipping. The rape.
And oddly, he didn’t feel stained by any of it. Maybe it was a combination of the painkillers and the lingering effects of the anesthesia. Or maybe it was knowing that in some way, he was responsible for everything. He had goaded Collins into the beating, to get it on record and use it for leverage. Everything that happened after that was an extension of his original decision. He could live with that.
And just maybe the anger and the shame and the trauma would hit him tomorrow, or the next day – or maybe a week or month or a year of days later.
Neal sighed, and the noise brought Peter to instant and full wakefulness. It was fascinating to watch.
“Hey, there – how are you feeling? Do you need anything? Are you in a lot of pain?” Peter’s questions flew out faster than Neal could answer.
“I’m okay – I think.” He tried to sit up. That hurt, that seriously hurt. And there was something on his legs, squeezing.
“Shhh – take it easy.” Peter got up and helped him into a semi-sitting position, tucking a cushion from the chair behind him for support. The pressure from the dense cushion made the wounds on his back ache, the new angle made his belly and ribs ache. His head hurt, his face hurt and Neal wondered why he wanted to sit up, after all.
And then he realized he had to pee. “Ummm, Peter?” He looked up at his friend and felt himself flushing bright red. It made the cuts and bruises ache worse.
Thankfully Peter understood the problem. “I’ll be right back.”
A nurse and a male aide came in and Peter stepped out. The nurse explained that they didn’t want to cath him and risk infection, so he’d need to use the bottle. It was … unpleasant. She also upped the painkillers and he started feeling better almost immediately. If everything stayed on track, it would be just another twelve hours and they’d take out the N-G tube and his IV fluids.
By the time they finished with him, changing bandages, applying all sorts of creams and ointments, even sponge bathing him, Neal was exhausted, but he didn’t want to go back to sleep, not just yet.
The nurse gave the all clear, and Peter came back in. He looked almost as bad as Neal felt. Truthfully, he had never seen Peter look this bad – the stain across the front of his shirt was probably his own blood. Neal had a very clear memory of being cradled in Peter’s arms, of leaning his head on Peter’s shoulder, of apologizing for the damage.
“When was the last time you slept in a real bed?”
Peter shrugged. “That doesn’t matter. I had more important things to take care of.”
Neal smiled faintly. Typical Peter. “Maybe you need to take care of yourself now?”
Peter raised an eyebrow at him.
Changing the subject, Neal had to ask, “Where’s Moz?”
Peter looked at his watch. “In New York by now, probably raising havoc with the Justice Department. I’ll give him another two hours and call.”
“Do you really think he’s going to be able … ?” He couldn’t bring himself to say it; he didn’t want to jinx it.
“To get you home? Absolutely.”
Neal admired Peter’s conviction – he wasn’t sure he shared it, though. “I think I want to go back to sleep – maybe you should too? I mean – go to bed?”
Peter’s smile touched something in him, that same warm spark he had felt when they first faced each other in Praia.
“Okay, but don’t go anywhere. I am a little worn out from chasing you.”
Neal smiled and gave a huff of laughter. It hurt just a bit too much.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The water, almost scaldingly hot, felt like heaven. Peter let it pound on his back, washing away the sweat and fear from the last four days. He scrubbed his skin clean and wished he could wash the stains off of his soul just as easily.
So much of this was his fault. The memories cascaded like the water.
A scrap of burning canvas flutters to his feet and he turns on Neal like a rabid dog. What came after was predestined from that moment:
Neal begs for an explanation, trying to understand why they went from friends willing to die for each other to cold war combatants.
Neal meeting all of his veiled – and not so veiled – accusations with that perfectly guileless smile, the one he had learned to trust the least.
Neal standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him, and then the look of betrayal when he told him that he’d never be anything more than a con.
Neal telling him he hadn’t hit rock-bottom yet, and his own wondering if Neal believes that he’ll bounce.
Neal dodging and sparring with Kramer, making his mentor look an old fool.
Neal, ashen – stricken, taking him to the treasure, promising him that he’d get it back, promising him his life.
Neal telling him he didn’t want to leave with Mozzie because he didn’t want to leave *him*.
Neal walking into the conference room, prepared to surrender, prepared to spend his life behind bars because he had to make things right.
Neal carefully walking away from what should have been the proudest moment of his life because Peter had once wanted to feel vindicated.
So many moments – all wrong because there was one time that he didn’t think – he reacted. Guilt and shame roiled though him. He turned off the shower and fought against the nausea. And lost.
Peter heaved over the toilet until he could barely move. When he finally stood up, he felt old – ancient – like something that should have been buried and forgotten a long time ago.
He rinsed his mouth, made his way into a bedroom and fell into a thankfully dreamless sleep.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Day Five
The morning brought many things, chief amongst them, news.
Moz called, triumphant. Of course, he insisted on hearing about Neal first. When Peter told him that their friend was well on the road to recovery, Moz still refused to divulge any information. If Neal was awake, he was going to tell him directly. If he wasn’t, then Peter would just have to wait.
The logical compromise was to put the phone on speaker and let them both hear at the same time.
Strangely, Peter was more interested in seeing Neal’s reactions than hearing about the deal that Moz struck on their friend’s behalf.
“Your ‘deal’ is intact, mon frère. They’ll give you your jewelry back, and no added time.”
Neal’s smile was like the dawn over the desert – instantaneously brilliant. And when he looked up at Peter, the joy was incandescent. Like someone had just fulfilled every dream he ever had. The guilt Peter felt last night morphed into to something sharp and bitter and dangerous.
“And that’s not all.”
Both of them looked at the phone, as if Moz was materializing out of the speakers. Peter spoke. “You got him an increase in his radius?”
“Drat – I didn’t think of that.”
“Then what?” Neal grinned at Peter, shaking his head in amusement, as if nothing could be better than what Moz already told them.
“Your rainy day fund just got a whole lot wetter.”
“You got him a raise?” Peter thought that was a little out of character for Moz, who so clearly disdained the trappings of a work-a-day life.
“Not hardly, Suit. The U.S. Government is compensating Neal for the damage done to him by Agent Collins. They’ve settled at six million dollars – tax free, which has already been deposited into a special account.”
Both men stilled. Neal in shock, Peter in something less easy to define. Neal spoke first. “That wasn’t necessary, Moz.”
“I beg to differ. Someone needs to pay …”
“Neal – he’s right.” Peter spoke, the words an absolute truth. “Collins is wrong – twisted – and the Bureau knew that when they sent him after you. This doesn’t make things right, but it may make things better.”
“Okay – then thanks, Moz.” Neal acceded. “You’ll take your cut?”
Moz shocked them again. “On this one, I think not. Watching Hughes take down Collins was payment enough.”
Peter and Neal clamored for that story, but Moz wouldn’t give in. “Something to look forward to when you get home. Speaking of which – now that you can, when can we expect you?”
“Eli said that if there were no further complications, Neal would be cleared to travel tomorrow. But it’s not going to be as simple as telling June to have the covers taken off the furniture in the apartment.” Peter explained about the deep damage to Neal’s feet and Moz promised to arrange for a space at an appropriate private medical facility. On the Government’s dime, of course.
They talked a bit more, and no matter how much Neal and Peter wheedled, Moz refused to give up the story of Hughes and Collins, it was just too good to share over the phone. He did say, though, that Collins would not be a problem anymore. Or more specifically – ever again. That set Peter to wondering if the rogue agent was still alive.
Moz hung up. The sudden silence was awkward.
“Peter?” Neal had that look on his face – the one that Peter could never quite resist.
“You know what? I’m hungry – I’ll be back in a few.” He left Neal sitting there, mouth agape at his sudden departure. He was hungry, but what he really needed was distance, perspective, time to process his feelings.
A cup of coffee helped with all of that. Of course, there was happiness – pure, unadulterated joy that Neal was going to be able to come home. He had missed his friend; the past six weeks had felt like years. But underneath the happiness was still the guilt and the shame. Peter couldn’t forget Neal’s halting confession about breaking into his home. The logic was undeniable, that action – like so many that preceded it, that followed it, was ultimately his fault.
Fruit of the poisonous tree.
Coffee finished, he made himself some eggs. They tasted like crap. He washed his dishes, cleaned up the countertops and made sure everything was properly put away. Peter knew what he was doing – these were all delaying tactics. And he couldn’t delay any longer.
Back in Neal’s room, the nurses were working on their patient. While the bruises on his face weren’t anywhere near close to fading, the swelling had gone down. As Peter watched, Neal flirted with the nurses, charming them to the extent they allowed themselves to be charmed.
He cleared his throat and everyone looked at him – Gada with a blush tinting her cheeks. “We’re about to take out Neal’s N-G tube.”
Of course Neal chimed in. “Which means I can eat – ”
“Only clear food until tomorrow.” Livia tried to be repressive, but Neal’s happiness was too infectious.
Peter stepped out of the room – not so much to give Neal some privacy, but to save his own stomach. Gada came out with a sealed bag of medical waste and told him with a smile that Neal was “ready for his close-up.”
Livia followed, and it there was no avoiding what he needed to do. What he needed to say.
Neal was propped up on pillows, eyes closed, but a smile curving his lips. It was amazing how good he looked, after everything. Peter couldn’t help but sigh.
“What’s the matter? You’ve been acting strange.”
Peter sat down, tried to compose his thoughts, and failed miserably. He scrubbed at his face, grimacing.
“What’s going on? You’re scaring me, Peter.”
“Neal – I’m sorry. All of this is my fault.”
Neal snapped his eyes open and levered himself upright. Peter immediately got up to help, but Neal pushed him away. “What do you mean? Of course it’s not!”
“If I hadn’t accused you of stealing the treasure …”
“You really think I would have come to you when I found out what Moz had done?”
Peter wasn’t at all willing to be absolved so easily.
“I set Kramer on you.”
“And I lied to you for months.”
“You didn’t lie – ” Technically.
“Peter – are you kidding me?”
He brushed Neal off. “There’s something I need to tell you – something I should have done, something that might have prevented this.”
“No – there’s was nothing that could have stopped this. Kramer was going to take me away from you, and you couldn’t have stopped him. Telling me to run was the best thing you did for me. If Kramer took me to DC, I would never have gotten away. You would have burned yourself out trying to free me.”
“And if I had spoken up when I should have, if I came to you – trusted you – Kramer never would have had the leverage he needed.”
Neal finally seemed to get that there was something that he didn’t know about – something that he hadn’t planned on. “What are you saying?”
“Remember the night after we got Taylor’s crew – I came over to your apartment…”
“Yeah – you wanted to ask me something, but then you said it wasn’t important. We ended up at Yankee Stadium that night.” Neal grinned at the memory. “You pitched from the mound.”
Peter refused to let himself be distracted. “I knew that Kramer had figured out something about the Raphael. He had broken your coded letter to Kate. Diana passed me a copy. I was going to ask you about it – if I had …” You wouldn’t have ended up beaten and broken.
“If you had, we both would have ended up in prison, Peter. If I told you about the Raphael and you helped me move it – Kramer would have found out. It would have been ten times worse.” Neal took his hand, gripping it hard. “Don’t ever forget what you told me, when Moz and I were trying to take the blame for Elizabeth’s kidnapping – you said, ‘Keller kidnapped Elizabeth, you didn’t. Remember that.’ Collins hurt me, you didn’t. Unless you really want to wallow in useless guilt, you’ll remember that, too.”
Peter shook his head, he remembered telling Neal that he wasn’t the one responsible for what happened to Elizabeth. He believed it then, he still believed it. The logic was inescapable. He wasn’t responsible for what happened to Neal - except that it was hard to shake that guilt.
Neal squeezed his hand. “I need you, Peter - it’s not going to be easy going back.”
That sharp, painful knot began to ease. It wasn’t going to go away so quickly, but it wasn’t going to destroy him - them - either.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal suspected that everything would hit him soon. It hadn’t yet because he was still a bit floaty from the anesthesia and the pain killers. Given time, it would come crashing in and he’d be an emotional wreck. That reality would arrive with a vengeance was a certainty.
But for now, everything was good. In a day or two, he’d be able to go back to New York, pick up the threads of his life again. He would have been happy here on Cape Verde, but there was always going to be a part of him that longed for New York, that longed for the life he left behind. He wondered if there going to now be a part of him that would dream of coming back here, living as James Maine.
Unlikely.
He looked up as Peter came back into the room. Judging by the contents in each hand, he had found Mozzie’s secret stash of romance novels. He held up the one in his right hand. “You’ve got your choice - a long-haired Viking about to ravish a brunette in a nineteenth century riding habit?” And the one in his left, “Or a long-haired Scotsman in a kilt carrying off a redhead in an equally ahistorical ball gown?” Peter compared both covers. “Oddly enough, the Viking looks like he could be the Scotsman’s twin brother.”
Neal chuckled, which hurt his belly. “What can I say, Moz has very eclectic tastes in reading material. And under different circumstances, I think I’d enjoy having you read some of the more, ah - interesting - passages aloud.”
Peter laughed at that, but Neal could still hear the strain in his voice. He could understand the guilt, more than understand it. Particularly in a man with such an over-developed sense of responsibility. Like so many things, it was just going to take time.
“Then what can I do for you?”
“You know, it would be nice to sit outside. Maybe we can relax in the courtyard?”
Neal thought that Peter would get one of the aides and maybe a chair, but he was wrong. Neal watched wide-eyed as Peter bent over and scooped him up, like a bride.
“Ooof, Caffrey - you are a lot heavier than you look.”
But Peter was strong, strong enough to carry him out to the patio and deposit him on one of the sun-warmed loungers without staggering, without even raising a sweat or getting breathless. Neal couldn’t remember when he had felt quite so cherished and he hoped like hell that he wasn’t blushing.
“My hero,” he commented - only half-joking.
Peter stood over him, hands on his hips. “Now what?”
Neal waved to the other lounge chair. “How about sitting down and taking it easy? We can pretend we’re on vacation.”
“Caffrey…”
“Come on, Peter. I’m not going anywhere and why shouldn’t you take a few minutes and relax? Collins is out of the picture, Dobbs isn’t going to come after us and there are still the guards on the perimeter.” He looked around the courtyard, Gada and Livia were at the far end, also relaxing. “Why don’t you tell me how you got an Israeli medical team and a bunch of mercenaries to fly to my rescue? I’m sure it must be a fascinating story.”
Peter’s face got that closed-in look, so familiar when he didn’t want to reveal something. Neal wondered if he was similarly expressive when playing poker.
“Come on, tell me.”
“It’s not that exciting, really.”
“Peter …” Neal knew he was wheedling.
“Okay - okay.” Peter pitched his voice low, so it wouldn’t carry. “About ten years ago, I was working on a case - pharmaceutical forgeries. It involved a dozen companies, here, in Europe, in Israel - and it looked like the connection was medical students and residents. They had access, were poorly paid, vulnerable to inducements.”
“And I’m guessing that Eli was one of those you targeted.”
Peter nodded in agreement. “But he wasn’t involved - not really. He had gotten caught up unwittingly and the US Attorney’s office was looking for an easy closure. If the case had gotten media exposure, it could have undermined the faith in the whole pharmaceutical industry. Eli was looking at serious jail time. My gut told me that this kid wasn’t involved, that he was being set up.”
“And Peter Burke’s gut is never wrong.” Neal had to comment.
“As you well know. Anyway, I pushed back on the US Attorney’s office, and kept digging. We eventually found the right connections. Eli testified as a Government witness, we got convictions across the board and shut down one of the most dangerous organized crime rings that no one had ever heard of. About a week afterwards, I was leaving the office and found a man sitting in my car. Middle-aged, harmless-looking, until you met his eyes.” Peter shook his head at the memory. “It was Eli’s father - and no, you don’t need to know his name. He wanted to express his gratitude for my diligence. If I was ever in serious trouble, I should call him. He’d do whatever he could to help.”
Neal whistled, knowing just how much ‘help’ had been provided. “He must have a lot of juice.”
Peter just gave him The Look. Then laughed and asked, “Your mother isn’t Jewish, perchance?”
Neal was thoroughly puzzled. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
And got The Look again.
His gaze dropped to his groin and the light went on. “Ah. No. Were you really thinking about …” Neal was stunned. “You really would have lied about that for me?”
Peter shrugged. “Yeah - I wanted legal sanctuary for you. I was talked out of it, though. And you know how everything else worked out, anyway.”
Neal universe just shifted. He knew that when Peter came to Cape Verde to warn him about Collins, he was probably risking his career for him. But this - to actively consider lying and involve nation-states in those lies was a contradiction of everything he knew about Peter Burke. Or thought he knew.
Peter relaxed against the lounger. “I’ve spoken with … my contact. Since you’re cleared for travel tomorrow, he’s sending the jet to Praia. We’ll be back in New York on Saturday evening.”
“I can’t wait.”
Peter looked at him, his gaze searching. “Really?”
“Yeah, really.” Neal felt it in his bones.
“And what about Maya?”
Peter’s odd tone surprised him. It sounded a bit too much like jealousy. “We’ve already said our goodbyes. I don’t want her to see me like this.” But there was no reason why he couldn’t keep in touch with her when he got back to New York - if just to make certain that there were no repercussions. Of any kind. “I just want to go home. I want to be Neal Caffrey again. I want my life back.”
“Good, because I want Neal Caffrey back too.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Day Six
The first call came a little before ten AM. He didn’t recognize the number, but he recognized the voice.
“Sir?”
“Burke - you sound appropriately humbled.” He knew he was barking at Peter. He had a reputation to maintain, after all. “I trust you’re calling to tell me when you’ll be back in New York.”
“We’ll be landing in Teterboro about six PM, New York time. We’re in Lisbon now, refueling.”
“Good. How’s Caffrey?”
“Anxious to get home.”
Reese let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “He’s doing … okay?”
“Yeah.” There was a wealth of information in that single syllable.
“Tell Neal that we all look forward to seeing him.”
“I will.”
“Do you want me to call Elizabeth?”
“Already spoken to her - but if you wouldn’t mind …”
“I’ll have a car sent for her. Believe me, we all want to be there to roll out the red carpet for you and Neal.” He wasn’t being sarcastic. Not really.
Hughes hung up, satisfied. Peter was going to have a bit of a rocky road ahead of him - even if the results of his little jaunt off the reservation were unquestionable, he did violate a direct order. His head wasn’t going to roll - especially since Burke wasn’t bound to keep his mouth shut about Collins - but he was going to have to lay low for a while.
And he knew just the place to put him for the duration.
The second call came about three hours later. It was, in retrospect, not unexpected.
Kyle Collins was dead. Shot by a fellow agent during his transfer to the Manhattan Correctional Facility.
According to the agent in charge of the transfer, Collins - who was given a little too much consideration of his status and was not put into handcuffs during his transfer - grabbed a gun. He fired one, missed, and the other agents fired back. Collins was dead before he hit the ground.
He deplored this perversion of justice - the man deserved much worse. He deserved to spend the rest of his life behind bars. Suffering.
But in a way, Reese knew that this was also for the best. It closed the book on something dark and disgusting - both for Caffrey and for the Bureau.
It was definitely better this way.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Moz was more than a little leery of hopping into the big black SUV with dark tinted windows and US Government plates on it. It was only Elizabeth’s presence that got him inside the vehicle.
“Relax, Moz. You’ve braved the FBI, you’ve faced down the Justice Department, surely a forty-minute ride to the airport isn’t that much of a problem?”
“More like ninety minutes - with traffic.” He grumbled, but climbed into the back seat and tried not to huddle too closely to Mrs. Suit. He didn’t want her to get the wrong ideas - she was a married woman, after all.
“So, how does it feel to be the hero of the moment?”
He squinted at her. “Hmm, not sure if I’m really a hero. Neal’s getting his shackle back.”
“But he’s coming home … ” El countered. “Because of you.”
“You do know what happened to him?” And Moz wished he hadn’t asked that.
“Yes, I do.” Her answer was sober, measured. “Peter told me - and not just in broad strokes.”
“Your husband was the real hero. Or maybe Neal was.” For enduring.
El leaned over and kissed his pate. “Let’s just say you were all heroes and leave it at that.”
Mozzie figured that the driver had violated all sorts of traffic laws because they were pulling into Teterboro Airport much sooner than expected. Driving up to a private hanger, he was struck by a moment of déjà vu. Not that that was particularly unexpected.
The Demi-Suits were there, of course. And so was Hughes, even more grim-faced than he was accustomed to. He left El in Jones and Diana’s good hands and went over to Peter’s boss.
“Problems?”
Hughes gave him a dyspeptic look. “Collins is dead.”
“Ah.”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
“It makes things less … complicated.”
Hughes kept his eyes on the aircraft that was rolling to a stop at the front of the hanger. “That it does.”
Moz thought about wild justice and how one could get revenge without anyone else being the wiser. Francis Bacon wasn’t always right.
The engines were cut, the airplane door opened, and customs officials climbed the staircase. They seemed to take an awfully long time. El, and Diana and Clinton joined them. Mrs. Suit was practically dancing in excitement.
Finally, the customs people left the plane, clipboards tucked away. They nodded and that seemed a signal for everyone to rush out to the aircraft.
Moz didn’t recognize the first person to duck his head out the door, and his heart sank. Were they at the wrong place? The man walked down the first three steps and turned around to face the door. The end of a bulky wheelchair popped out of the hatch, and the man caught and lifted it. Moz sighed in relief. It was Neal.
They descended slowly and only Hughes’ hand on his shoulder stopped him from interfering. But at last, Neal was on the ground, looking a hell of a lot better than Moz expected.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
They were about an hour outside of New York airspace when everything hit Neal.
It wasn’t a dramatic collapse, not like when he sat alone in his apartment looking at bullets and Moz’s ineffectual attempts to decipher the music box code. He didn’t sweep things onto the floor in a fit of rage or grief or whatever emotion best suited the moment. No, he just lost it.
He wanted to tell the pilot to turn the jet around. He didn’t want to do this. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t face what was waiting for him there.
It wasn’t the tracker, or coming to terms with the fact that he still had two more years of his sentence to serve, or anything like that. He had always been prepared for the commutation board to say “No.” He meant what he said that day - that yea or nay, come Monday morning, he’d be at his desk, doing the work he’d come to love.
It was seeing their faces, seeing the pity, the compassion. The knowledge that they've seen the terrible things done to him. Things that could never be unseen, never be forgotten now.
He was probably going to have to face Collins, too. There was certainly going to be a trial, he’d have to testify. They’d play the recordings. Of the beatings, the electric shocks, the rape.
Neal swallowed, nauseous. He was sweating and cold and he needed to get up, get away, get out of here. He couldn’t do this. No. No. No. No. No.
He didn’t realize he was saying those words out loud until Peter was kneeling next to his seat.
“Shh, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” Those arms were around him, lifting him up, holding him. “I’ve got you.”
Somehow, he was back on Peter’s lap - the position sparked the memory of Peter rescuing him, holding him, keeping him safe.
It didn’t feel weird at all to be sitting like this, clinging to him like a limpet. Peter was cradling him so carefully, like he was rare and fragile. He tried to get some control over his emotions, but the harder he tried, the worse he felt.
“I can’t - I can’t go back. I’m sorry - but I can’t.”
“We’ll have to land, we’ll have to refuel. Maybe we can land in Greenland. Where do you want to go?”
Peter’s voice, so calm, so matter-of-fact, so practical, was the anchor he needed. Neal took a deep, shuddering breath and lifted his head off of Peter’s shoulder. “You’d do that? You’d let me go?”
“Neal - I want what’s best for you - I always have. But if you can’t face New York, at least, just yet, we’ll make arrangements. I can tell them that you need specialized treatment, and the best doctors for that are in - I don’t know - Brazil? Japan? London? Wherever you want to go.”
The panic receded. Peter was giving him a choice without counting the cost to himself. Of everything that Peter had done for him, this was the greatest gift of all.
He took a deep, shuddering breath and rested his head on Peter’s shoulder.
“Well, what should I tell the pilot?”
“Nothing. I want to go home.”
“You sure?” Peter’s breath was warm against his forehead.
“Yeah. It’ll be fine.”
Although his arms probably went numb, and his back must have been aching, Peter held him until they had to buckle in for landing.
Back in his seat, he over at looked at Peter, his friend - so careworn and tired. Neal thought that he was the luckiest man in the world.
He must have sighed, because Peter looked up and smiled. “You okay?”
“I think so.”
“Not too late to change your mind. I can make a call and you won’t have to get off this plane until you want to.”
It was still so tempting - but it would be running. And Neal was tired of running. He never wanted to run in the first place. “No, let’s go home.”
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: R (For Violence)
Characters/Pairings: Mozzie, Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, Reese Hughes, Diana Berrigan, Clinton Jones, Kyle Collins, Henry Dobbs, OMC, OFC
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Reference to torture, rape, electrocution, attempted murder. On-camera violence. Medical procedures.
Word Count: ~16,700 (both parts)
Beta Credit:
coffeethyme4me (And to jrosemary for cheerleading and just being awesome credit, too)Summary: Completely A/U from the start of S4.02 - Most Wanted (Henry Dobbs is no one special). The “Comfort” sequel to the “Hurt” in Six Hours to Freedom. What happens after Neal is rescued - Peter calls in an old favor to save Neal’s life, to keep them safe, and to get them home. Moz is a badass to end all badasses, except that Reese Hughes is also seriously badass. So are Jones and Diana.
A/N: At the end, Mozzie’s thinking of Francis Bacon’s statement: “Revenge is a kind of wild justice, which the more a man's nature runs to, the more ought law to weed it out.” My fandoms pollinate each other.
Go to Part One: On LJ | On DW
Peter did what he could to keep himself busy, straightening up the bedroom where Neal had been, checking the perimeter, and finally, when it was late enough, he called Elizabeth.
They had spoken briefly after he made the call to Ze’ev, but not since then. He needed to hear her voice; he needed her to anchor him.
“How is he?”
He didn’t have to tell her not to use names. El understood that there were people listening. “Holding his own – they’re operating now.”
“How are YOU doing, honey?”
“Other than angry, worried, and frightened, just fine.” The last two words tasted sour.
She didn’t try to reassure him – such platitudes would be worthless. “Have you slept at all? Eaten?”
“No, and no. Maybe when it’s over – when I know what his status is. Right now, I’m too wound up. In truth, the thought of food made him sick and sleep was an unaffordable luxury.
They chatted about meaningless things. Peter just needed to hear her voice.
“Call me when you have news, okay?”
“I will. I love you. Thank you.”
“I love you too, and take care of yourself.”
They ended the call and Peter found himself pacing the room, then the courtyard. He checked the perimeter again, the third time in as many hours. He disassembled the Glock, cleaned it and put it back together. The familiar actions, the familiar smell of gun oil, did not provide the familiar sense of peace.
Peter was only cognizant that it was dawn when the birds started singing. There was too much forest for a dramatic sunrise transition. He must have slept – an hour – or maybe it wasn’t so much sleep as just a state of not being awake. A quick check of his watch … it had been over four hours since Eli had taken Neal into the kitchen to operate.
How much longer was he going to have to wait?
He scrubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and went to wash up, to find some coffee. To find some patience.
To find some hope.
Hughes had stormed into the conference room, gun in one hand, the envelope with the photos in the other. Moz followed on his heels.
“Kyle Collins, you are under arrest. Surrender your weapon and your badge, now.”
“What’s the charge?” Collins stood up and Hughes raised his weapon into a ready-to-fire position.
“Charges. For starters: kidnapping, false imprisonment, assault, battery –” Hughes gave a rough bark of laughter and shook his head. “Rape and attempted murder.”
Collins looked shaken. He had licked his lips – a nervous tell, then gathered himself. “Kidnapping, false arrest? Neal Caffrey was a fugitive, I was pursuing him. I took him into custody.”
“Your right to detain him ended when you assaulted him while he was in your custody, while he was in handcuffs.” Moz watched in fascination as Hughes, without taking his eyes off of Collins, without lowering his gun, pushed the envelope across the table.
The other agent picked up the envelope, open it and pulled out the contents. It was interesting to watch a human being turn grey. He put the pictures down and pulled his gun from his holster. Moz actually thought that Collins was going to surrender, but instead of putting his gun on the table, he held it on Hughes, on him.
Strangely, Moz wasn’t frightened.
“Put down your weapon, Collins.” Hughes didn’t quite shout, but the words resonated like bells.
The man gave them all a twisted smile. “Not going to happen.”
Moz had never wanted to witness suicide by cop, but in this case, he was thinking he could be happy to make an exception. Except that the Demi-Suits interfered. Collins had been so focused on Hughes that he didn’t realize that Jones was moving closer. He was quicker than Moz would have expected for a man his size. He grabbed Collins’ gun and the Lady Suit and his own personal Israeli-made Suit put the son of a bitch face down on the table and cuffed him.
It went without saying that Collins started screaming for a lawyer and for some reason, all of the other Suits in the room looked at him. Did they think he was going to…? No – they were waiting for him to step aside. He was blocking the door.
He waited in the conference room and watched as Jones and Diana looked at the photographs. He watched their faces, saw curiosity turning to anger turning to rage. Jones was trembling. He wiped his forehead, his mouth with a shaking hand. “I should have shot the bastard instead.”
His personal Suit gathered up the pictures and went to put them away. Diana grabbed her hand. “And just who the hell are you?”
She reached into her pants pocket and pulled out an ID folder. “Rachel Dayan, Interpol – Tel Aviv.”
Moz wanted to laugh – a name, at last. But it was probably as real as his own.
Diana wasn’t backing down. “And what is your involvement? Last I heard, Tel Aviv has no jurisdiction over Cape Verde.”
Whatever answer she was about to give got cut off when Hughes came back into the room. He took the photos away from Rachel. She surrendered them easily and moved to the far end of the conference table. She clearly knew this wasn’t her show and wasn’t going to get involved if she didn’t have to.
“Havisham.” Hughes said his name and looked at him. “Do you have anything more than the photographs?”
In that gaze, Mozzie felt an unexpected connection. He reached into his satchel and pulled out the stack of DVDs – the copies he had made during the flight from Cape Verde. “They weren’t photos; they were stills from six hours of surveillance video. I hope you all have very strong stomachs.”
Jones loaded the disc and at his suggestion, advanced it to the point when Collins started beating Neal.
They were waiting, but Moz wasn’t sure for whom. He got his answer soon enough.
A trio of Suits clattered in – a matched set in navy blue Brooks Brothers. They introduced themselves, but Moz simply thought of them as Moe, Larry, and Curly. They were from the Justice Department, and demanded to know where Neal Caffrey was and why their golden boy, Collins, was currently on ice in a holding cell.
Hughes told them to shut up and watch.
And listen. It wasn’t until Diana took the remote and turned up the volume that Moz realized there was audio to go along with the torture.
“I wonder if that pretty café owner will still like you with your face all cut up. Or the insurance investigator back in New York. You think they’d give you the time of day when you look like Frankenstein’s monster? But you know what, they don’t matter. You’re never going to see them again. Maybe I’ll be doing you a favor by cutting you up? The scum in Sing-Sing might just leave you alone. But then, maybe not? It’s not like they’re going to be looking at your face while taking turns with your ass.”
Moz didn’t watch the screen – he watched the Suits – particularly the lawyer Suits. The one he privately called “Curly” – she was young and pretty and blonde – gasped when Collins started slicing up Neal’s face and throat. The leader, who looked to be as old as Hughes and just as stone-faced, glared at her.
Diana upped the audio again as Collins thrashed Neal, each punch, each slap echoing against the glass walls. The video came to an end, and Moe – Stoneface – whatever his name was – started to say something.
Hughes lifted a hand, cutting him off. “We’re not done yet.”
Jones put in the next disc. Moz thought that having seen this already would have inured him to the horror of it, but it didn’t. Watching Neal being tortured with electric shocks, hearing his screams and worse – Collins crooning words of justification – made him as sick as he got the first time he saw it.
Sitting there, Moz tried not to lose control. A hand covered his fist and he looked up. Rachel, her face stark white, looked close to breaking, too.
So did everyone else in the room. Hughes finally directed Diana to pause the playback. She turned it off. A few tense seconds passed and no one spoke. Moz realized that once again, he was the cynosure of all eyes.
He swallowed and organized his thoughts before speaking. “This isn’t the worst of it – not by far.”
“Moe” spoke, unconsciously echoing Diana’s question to Rachel. “And who the hell are you?”
Hughes replied. “This is Mr. Caffrey’s lawyer. That’s all you need to know, Walter.”
Moz continued. “Neal Caffrey was tortured for almost six hours straight. You’ve seen the beating and the torture that FBI Agent Kyle Collins administered to him – under color of authority from the United States Justice Department.”
The Three Stooges fidgeted with their pens and legal pads. None of them would meet his eyes.
“Over the course of the next three hours, Collins whipped Neal Caffrey with his belt, left him hanging from his arms because he was unable to stand on feet that were blistered from sustained contact with electric shock paddles.” Moz took a deep breath. “Collins returned to Neal’s cell, cut his pants off him and raped him.”
That finally got a reaction.
“Rape – you have got to be kidding? FBI Agents don’t go around raping people!” The man Hughes called Walter practically shouted.
“They also don’t go around beating and torturing people, either. But this one did.” Hughes pushed the folder with the stills over to him. “If you can’t stomach watching what an agent of this country did to one of its citizens - to another human being, you might want to consider a career change.”
Walter ignored Hughes. “Do you know if Caffrey is still alive?”
“He is. No thanks to Collins. Peter Burke found Neal just as Collins was about to shoot him.”
Hughes extracted the damning photo of Collins - dick hanging out of his pants, gun pointed at the base of Neal’s spine - and handed it to Walter. He looked at it, shook his head and asked, “What do you want.”
Crunch time. “The FBI – the U.S. Government – owes Neal Caffrey for what Kyle Collins did to him. What Philip Kramer was going to do to him.”
Walter interrupted. “Neal Caffrey is a criminal – throughout his work-release he was involved in dozens of crimes. I’ve seen Agent Kramer’s files and his report.”
“Kramer had no proof – his actions were petty and vindictive – and they were in clear violation of my client’s civil rights.”
“Then he should have filed a claim with the Justice Department, not run away.” Walter’s tone was angry, combative, like a man cornered.
Moz steadied himself. Arguing like this was not relevant or helpful. “I can’t change the past, Walter, but the Government is going to recompense my client for the damage done to him. There is precedent, case law. And unless you want me to take this to the media, you’re going to do everything you can to make this right.”
He stared at Walter, for once in his life, the alpha dog in the room.
Walter blinked and dropped his eyes. “I’ll have to get sign off on any monetary settlement – do you have an amount in mind?”
Moz snagged a legal pad and wrote down a number. He passed the folded sheet to Jones, who handed it over to Walter. Walter looked at it, and before he said anything, Moz casually noted, “When the media gets hold of Kyle Collins’ employment history before he joined the FBI, you all better get yourselves some really strong umbrellas. The shit that’s going to rain down will stick to you for decades.”
The middle stooge opened his mouth, but Walter cut him off. “What else?”
“My client comes home, resumes his life in New York without any further interference from the FBI.”
“I won’t be able to get the rest of Caffrey’s sentence vacated – that’s not within my authority.”
Moz laughed, the sound felt good in his lungs, in his throat. He liked the way it just hung in the air. “You can get the U.S. government to pony up six million dollars for a fugitive, tax free, but you can’t get his sentence commuted? Try again, Walter.”
“If this happened to Caffrey when he was in custody of the Federal Prison System, I could – but this – this …” Walter waved his hands over the pictures. “It would take months to unravel this. But I can reinstate Caffrey’s deal with this office, and have his contract modified to reflect that no other office or agency has the right to interfere with Caffrey without his handler’s express permission.”
Moz nodded. “He comes back to New York and it’s as if he was never gone.” That got every set of eyebrows raised.
“You’re asking us to count the time he was on the run as part of his sentence? You’re really pushing it.”
Moz just stared at Walter, no smile, no expression at all. Walter looked around the room, to Hughes particularly, for support. He didn’t find any. “Okay – okay. We’ll have a memo outlining everything to you before the end of the day.” The three stooges prepared to leave.
Hughes spoke up. “You’re not going anywhere until Caffrey’s lawyer signs off on the deal. Walter – you can use my office to get approval from DC. Diana – take these two into the bullpen – they can use Caffrey’s desk to write everything up.” He directed Jones to collect the DVDs, which he added to the envelope with the stills. “I’ll hold on to these, just in case.”
Moz watched the Suits leave. It was just him and Rachel, and he collapsed back into a chair.
“That was some performance … ” she commented.
There were a million ways he could have responded, but he just said, “Thanks.”
Day Four
There wasn’t a word for how tired Peter was. Exhaustion didn’t begin to cover it. He tried to remember the last time he slept. Maybe a few hours on the flight from Newark to Lisbon. He closed his eyes, just to rest them. That was all he needed…
“Peter? Peter?”
The voice calling his name was not as familiar as it should have been. He opened his eyes. A man in surgical scrubs was rubbing his shoulder, trying to wake him up.
Everything came back in a rush.
“Neal?”
Eli smiled. “Your friend will be fine. The damage was limited to his spleen, and we removed it. His breathing’s fine, too.”
Peter pushed himself upright. “Where is he?”
“Come with me.” Eli led him back to Neal’s bedroom. And there he was, with a nurse sitting next to him. She looked up as they entered, a smile on her lips. “I think he’s ready to wake up.”
Eli bent over Neal, and just as he had with Peter, he gently rubbed his shoulder. “Neal – Mr. Caffrey – Neal, it’s time to wake up. Open your eyes, Neal.” Eli kept at it, calling to Neal, gently shaking his shoulder, until Neal obeyed.
“Whu?” Neal smacked his lips together and the nurse swabbed them. “What happened?”
Eli explained in low, measured tones what he had done, but Neal wasn’t listening. His head was whipping around, looking for something, someone. Looking for Peter. Their eyes met and Neal settled down.
“I’m here – I’m not going anywhere, okay?”
Neal actually smiled.
The nurse shooed them off, and Eli took him by the arm, into the far corner of the room. “Neal’s strong, he’s on antibiotics, and barring anything unforeseen, he’ll make a full recovery from the surgery.”
Peter was picking up clues that Eli was telegraphing. “But that’s not the whole story, right?”
“At this point, I’m most worried about his feet. There’s nerve damage there and he’ll probably need skin grafts. We debrided the dead skin, but some of the blisters went through all the dermal layers. He has to stay off his feet. Caring for him will be difficult.”
Peter nodded in understanding. Eli didn’t look convinced that he understood the importance of these instructions. “I’ve got to get home – but I am leaving nurses and aides behind with the security team.” When Peter started to say that he didn’t need them, Eli cut him off. “You will need them – you’ll need every bit of help you can get, and then some.”
Peter took a deep breath, “Okay – so we’re not out of the woods yet.”
“Well, let’s just say that the forest edge is in sight. Just tread carefully. And don’t forget to take care of yourself.
Peter scrubbed at his face. He had a few things he needed to do before he could rest. “Are you ready to leave now?”
Eli nodded. “Equipment’s been packed up and I’ve contacted my pilot at the airport to get the jet ready. Rachel – ”
“Rachel?”
“Ah – my minder never fully introduced herself. She’s probably on her way back to Tel Aviv with the other plane. When you’re ready to go back to New York, call my father. He’ll arrange for your transportation home.”
Peter was about to say something to the effect that he could never repay either Eli or Ze’ev, but Eli gave Peter a broad, genuine smile. “And before you start talking about debts and favors and shit like that, I want to show you something.” He pulled out his cell phone and launched a photo app. “These are my children.” Two dark-haired, dark-eyed girls were carefully holding a fat, happy six-month old.
“They’re beautiful.”
“My eldest’s name is Maialen Petra.”
Peter met Eli’s eyes, simply shocked. Eli’s people didn’t generally name their children after the living.
“She was named after my grandmother, who died just a few weeks before she was born. And she was named after you, too. There is no debt between us, Peter Burke. We do this because we are family.”
Peter nodded, speechless.
Eli hugged him. “I’ll be in touch when I get back home – but Gada and Livia are very competent nurses. Neal’s in good hands.”
Peter blinked against the tears, swallowed hard against the lump in his throat and wrapped his arms around Eli, hugging him back. “Thank you.” Two simple words had to convey all the gratitude he felt.
Eli checked on Neal once more before leaving. The nurse, who introduced herself as Livia, walked out with him. He was alone with Neal for the first time in what felt like an eternity.
Someone had brought in a lounge chair and placed it next to the bed. Peter sat down – or more accurately collapsed into it. He needed to call home and hear Elizabeth’s voice, he had to call Ze’ev, to catch up with Moz, who was probably somewhere over the Atlantic by now.
But he didn’t do any of those things. He simply rested his hand over Neal’s, found the strong, steady rhythm of his pulse, and closed his eyes.
Neal woke, but he didn’t open his eyes, a habit ingrained since prison. He was in pain – but not terrible agony – which meant he was alive and not in Hell. The air was warm on his face and there were the unfamiliar sounds of steady mechanical beeps punctuated by bird song. There were other sounds too, rhythmic and dissonant. Someone was close by, sleeping. And snoring. Neal turned his head in that direction and slowly, carefully lifted his eyelids.
It was Peter, almost horizontal in a lounge chair, his head tilted back, mouth opened, and sawing enough wood to build a cabin. Neal relaxed. If Peter was here, he wasn’t in danger.
At that thought, everything came rushing back. Peter’s arrival, their reunion, his capture.
What Collins did to him.
Neal dug around in his memories – it was all there. The beating, the electrocution, the whipping. The rape.
And oddly, he didn’t feel stained by any of it. Maybe it was a combination of the painkillers and the lingering effects of the anesthesia. Or maybe it was knowing that in some way, he was responsible for everything. He had goaded Collins into the beating, to get it on record and use it for leverage. Everything that happened after that was an extension of his original decision. He could live with that.
And just maybe the anger and the shame and the trauma would hit him tomorrow, or the next day – or maybe a week or month or a year of days later.
Neal sighed, and the noise brought Peter to instant and full wakefulness. It was fascinating to watch.
“Hey, there – how are you feeling? Do you need anything? Are you in a lot of pain?” Peter’s questions flew out faster than Neal could answer.
“I’m okay – I think.” He tried to sit up. That hurt, that seriously hurt. And there was something on his legs, squeezing.
“Shhh – take it easy.” Peter got up and helped him into a semi-sitting position, tucking a cushion from the chair behind him for support. The pressure from the dense cushion made the wounds on his back ache, the new angle made his belly and ribs ache. His head hurt, his face hurt and Neal wondered why he wanted to sit up, after all.
And then he realized he had to pee. “Ummm, Peter?” He looked up at his friend and felt himself flushing bright red. It made the cuts and bruises ache worse.
Thankfully Peter understood the problem. “I’ll be right back.”
A nurse and a male aide came in and Peter stepped out. The nurse explained that they didn’t want to cath him and risk infection, so he’d need to use the bottle. It was … unpleasant. She also upped the painkillers and he started feeling better almost immediately. If everything stayed on track, it would be just another twelve hours and they’d take out the N-G tube and his IV fluids.
By the time they finished with him, changing bandages, applying all sorts of creams and ointments, even sponge bathing him, Neal was exhausted, but he didn’t want to go back to sleep, not just yet.
The nurse gave the all clear, and Peter came back in. He looked almost as bad as Neal felt. Truthfully, he had never seen Peter look this bad – the stain across the front of his shirt was probably his own blood. Neal had a very clear memory of being cradled in Peter’s arms, of leaning his head on Peter’s shoulder, of apologizing for the damage.
“When was the last time you slept in a real bed?”
Peter shrugged. “That doesn’t matter. I had more important things to take care of.”
Neal smiled faintly. Typical Peter. “Maybe you need to take care of yourself now?”
Peter raised an eyebrow at him.
Changing the subject, Neal had to ask, “Where’s Moz?”
Peter looked at his watch. “In New York by now, probably raising havoc with the Justice Department. I’ll give him another two hours and call.”
“Do you really think he’s going to be able … ?” He couldn’t bring himself to say it; he didn’t want to jinx it.
“To get you home? Absolutely.”
Neal admired Peter’s conviction – he wasn’t sure he shared it, though. “I think I want to go back to sleep – maybe you should too? I mean – go to bed?”
Peter’s smile touched something in him, that same warm spark he had felt when they first faced each other in Praia.
“Okay, but don’t go anywhere. I am a little worn out from chasing you.”
Neal smiled and gave a huff of laughter. It hurt just a bit too much.
The water, almost scaldingly hot, felt like heaven. Peter let it pound on his back, washing away the sweat and fear from the last four days. He scrubbed his skin clean and wished he could wash the stains off of his soul just as easily.
So much of this was his fault. The memories cascaded like the water.
A scrap of burning canvas flutters to his feet and he turns on Neal like a rabid dog. What came after was predestined from that moment:
Neal begs for an explanation, trying to understand why they went from friends willing to die for each other to cold war combatants.
Neal meeting all of his veiled – and not so veiled – accusations with that perfectly guileless smile, the one he had learned to trust the least.
Neal standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him, and then the look of betrayal when he told him that he’d never be anything more than a con.
Neal telling him he hadn’t hit rock-bottom yet, and his own wondering if Neal believes that he’ll bounce.
Neal dodging and sparring with Kramer, making his mentor look an old fool.
Neal, ashen – stricken, taking him to the treasure, promising him that he’d get it back, promising him his life.
Neal telling him he didn’t want to leave with Mozzie because he didn’t want to leave *him*.
Neal walking into the conference room, prepared to surrender, prepared to spend his life behind bars because he had to make things right.
Neal carefully walking away from what should have been the proudest moment of his life because Peter had once wanted to feel vindicated.
So many moments – all wrong because there was one time that he didn’t think – he reacted. Guilt and shame roiled though him. He turned off the shower and fought against the nausea. And lost.
Peter heaved over the toilet until he could barely move. When he finally stood up, he felt old – ancient – like something that should have been buried and forgotten a long time ago.
He rinsed his mouth, made his way into a bedroom and fell into a thankfully dreamless sleep.
Day Five
The morning brought many things, chief amongst them, news.
Moz called, triumphant. Of course, he insisted on hearing about Neal first. When Peter told him that their friend was well on the road to recovery, Moz still refused to divulge any information. If Neal was awake, he was going to tell him directly. If he wasn’t, then Peter would just have to wait.
The logical compromise was to put the phone on speaker and let them both hear at the same time.
Strangely, Peter was more interested in seeing Neal’s reactions than hearing about the deal that Moz struck on their friend’s behalf.
“Your ‘deal’ is intact, mon frère. They’ll give you your jewelry back, and no added time.”
Neal’s smile was like the dawn over the desert – instantaneously brilliant. And when he looked up at Peter, the joy was incandescent. Like someone had just fulfilled every dream he ever had. The guilt Peter felt last night morphed into to something sharp and bitter and dangerous.
“And that’s not all.”
Both of them looked at the phone, as if Moz was materializing out of the speakers. Peter spoke. “You got him an increase in his radius?”
“Drat – I didn’t think of that.”
“Then what?” Neal grinned at Peter, shaking his head in amusement, as if nothing could be better than what Moz already told them.
“Your rainy day fund just got a whole lot wetter.”
“You got him a raise?” Peter thought that was a little out of character for Moz, who so clearly disdained the trappings of a work-a-day life.
“Not hardly, Suit. The U.S. Government is compensating Neal for the damage done to him by Agent Collins. They’ve settled at six million dollars – tax free, which has already been deposited into a special account.”
Both men stilled. Neal in shock, Peter in something less easy to define. Neal spoke first. “That wasn’t necessary, Moz.”
“I beg to differ. Someone needs to pay …”
“Neal – he’s right.” Peter spoke, the words an absolute truth. “Collins is wrong – twisted – and the Bureau knew that when they sent him after you. This doesn’t make things right, but it may make things better.”
“Okay – then thanks, Moz.” Neal acceded. “You’ll take your cut?”
Moz shocked them again. “On this one, I think not. Watching Hughes take down Collins was payment enough.”
Peter and Neal clamored for that story, but Moz wouldn’t give in. “Something to look forward to when you get home. Speaking of which – now that you can, when can we expect you?”
“Eli said that if there were no further complications, Neal would be cleared to travel tomorrow. But it’s not going to be as simple as telling June to have the covers taken off the furniture in the apartment.” Peter explained about the deep damage to Neal’s feet and Moz promised to arrange for a space at an appropriate private medical facility. On the Government’s dime, of course.
They talked a bit more, and no matter how much Neal and Peter wheedled, Moz refused to give up the story of Hughes and Collins, it was just too good to share over the phone. He did say, though, that Collins would not be a problem anymore. Or more specifically – ever again. That set Peter to wondering if the rogue agent was still alive.
Moz hung up. The sudden silence was awkward.
“Peter?” Neal had that look on his face – the one that Peter could never quite resist.
“You know what? I’m hungry – I’ll be back in a few.” He left Neal sitting there, mouth agape at his sudden departure. He was hungry, but what he really needed was distance, perspective, time to process his feelings.
A cup of coffee helped with all of that. Of course, there was happiness – pure, unadulterated joy that Neal was going to be able to come home. He had missed his friend; the past six weeks had felt like years. But underneath the happiness was still the guilt and the shame. Peter couldn’t forget Neal’s halting confession about breaking into his home. The logic was undeniable, that action – like so many that preceded it, that followed it, was ultimately his fault.
Fruit of the poisonous tree.
Coffee finished, he made himself some eggs. They tasted like crap. He washed his dishes, cleaned up the countertops and made sure everything was properly put away. Peter knew what he was doing – these were all delaying tactics. And he couldn’t delay any longer.
Back in Neal’s room, the nurses were working on their patient. While the bruises on his face weren’t anywhere near close to fading, the swelling had gone down. As Peter watched, Neal flirted with the nurses, charming them to the extent they allowed themselves to be charmed.
He cleared his throat and everyone looked at him – Gada with a blush tinting her cheeks. “We’re about to take out Neal’s N-G tube.”
Of course Neal chimed in. “Which means I can eat – ”
“Only clear food until tomorrow.” Livia tried to be repressive, but Neal’s happiness was too infectious.
Peter stepped out of the room – not so much to give Neal some privacy, but to save his own stomach. Gada came out with a sealed bag of medical waste and told him with a smile that Neal was “ready for his close-up.”
Livia followed, and it there was no avoiding what he needed to do. What he needed to say.
Neal was propped up on pillows, eyes closed, but a smile curving his lips. It was amazing how good he looked, after everything. Peter couldn’t help but sigh.
“What’s the matter? You’ve been acting strange.”
Peter sat down, tried to compose his thoughts, and failed miserably. He scrubbed at his face, grimacing.
“What’s going on? You’re scaring me, Peter.”
“Neal – I’m sorry. All of this is my fault.”
Neal snapped his eyes open and levered himself upright. Peter immediately got up to help, but Neal pushed him away. “What do you mean? Of course it’s not!”
“If I hadn’t accused you of stealing the treasure …”
“You really think I would have come to you when I found out what Moz had done?”
Peter wasn’t at all willing to be absolved so easily.
“I set Kramer on you.”
“And I lied to you for months.”
“You didn’t lie – ” Technically.
“Peter – are you kidding me?”
He brushed Neal off. “There’s something I need to tell you – something I should have done, something that might have prevented this.”
“No – there’s was nothing that could have stopped this. Kramer was going to take me away from you, and you couldn’t have stopped him. Telling me to run was the best thing you did for me. If Kramer took me to DC, I would never have gotten away. You would have burned yourself out trying to free me.”
“And if I had spoken up when I should have, if I came to you – trusted you – Kramer never would have had the leverage he needed.”
Neal finally seemed to get that there was something that he didn’t know about – something that he hadn’t planned on. “What are you saying?”
“Remember the night after we got Taylor’s crew – I came over to your apartment…”
“Yeah – you wanted to ask me something, but then you said it wasn’t important. We ended up at Yankee Stadium that night.” Neal grinned at the memory. “You pitched from the mound.”
Peter refused to let himself be distracted. “I knew that Kramer had figured out something about the Raphael. He had broken your coded letter to Kate. Diana passed me a copy. I was going to ask you about it – if I had …” You wouldn’t have ended up beaten and broken.
“If you had, we both would have ended up in prison, Peter. If I told you about the Raphael and you helped me move it – Kramer would have found out. It would have been ten times worse.” Neal took his hand, gripping it hard. “Don’t ever forget what you told me, when Moz and I were trying to take the blame for Elizabeth’s kidnapping – you said, ‘Keller kidnapped Elizabeth, you didn’t. Remember that.’ Collins hurt me, you didn’t. Unless you really want to wallow in useless guilt, you’ll remember that, too.”
Peter shook his head, he remembered telling Neal that he wasn’t the one responsible for what happened to Elizabeth. He believed it then, he still believed it. The logic was inescapable. He wasn’t responsible for what happened to Neal - except that it was hard to shake that guilt.
Neal squeezed his hand. “I need you, Peter - it’s not going to be easy going back.”
That sharp, painful knot began to ease. It wasn’t going to go away so quickly, but it wasn’t going to destroy him - them - either.
Neal suspected that everything would hit him soon. It hadn’t yet because he was still a bit floaty from the anesthesia and the pain killers. Given time, it would come crashing in and he’d be an emotional wreck. That reality would arrive with a vengeance was a certainty.
But for now, everything was good. In a day or two, he’d be able to go back to New York, pick up the threads of his life again. He would have been happy here on Cape Verde, but there was always going to be a part of him that longed for New York, that longed for the life he left behind. He wondered if there going to now be a part of him that would dream of coming back here, living as James Maine.
Unlikely.
He looked up as Peter came back into the room. Judging by the contents in each hand, he had found Mozzie’s secret stash of romance novels. He held up the one in his right hand. “You’ve got your choice - a long-haired Viking about to ravish a brunette in a nineteenth century riding habit?” And the one in his left, “Or a long-haired Scotsman in a kilt carrying off a redhead in an equally ahistorical ball gown?” Peter compared both covers. “Oddly enough, the Viking looks like he could be the Scotsman’s twin brother.”
Neal chuckled, which hurt his belly. “What can I say, Moz has very eclectic tastes in reading material. And under different circumstances, I think I’d enjoy having you read some of the more, ah - interesting - passages aloud.”
Peter laughed at that, but Neal could still hear the strain in his voice. He could understand the guilt, more than understand it. Particularly in a man with such an over-developed sense of responsibility. Like so many things, it was just going to take time.
“Then what can I do for you?”
“You know, it would be nice to sit outside. Maybe we can relax in the courtyard?”
Neal thought that Peter would get one of the aides and maybe a chair, but he was wrong. Neal watched wide-eyed as Peter bent over and scooped him up, like a bride.
“Ooof, Caffrey - you are a lot heavier than you look.”
But Peter was strong, strong enough to carry him out to the patio and deposit him on one of the sun-warmed loungers without staggering, without even raising a sweat or getting breathless. Neal couldn’t remember when he had felt quite so cherished and he hoped like hell that he wasn’t blushing.
“My hero,” he commented - only half-joking.
Peter stood over him, hands on his hips. “Now what?”
Neal waved to the other lounge chair. “How about sitting down and taking it easy? We can pretend we’re on vacation.”
“Caffrey…”
“Come on, Peter. I’m not going anywhere and why shouldn’t you take a few minutes and relax? Collins is out of the picture, Dobbs isn’t going to come after us and there are still the guards on the perimeter.” He looked around the courtyard, Gada and Livia were at the far end, also relaxing. “Why don’t you tell me how you got an Israeli medical team and a bunch of mercenaries to fly to my rescue? I’m sure it must be a fascinating story.”
Peter’s face got that closed-in look, so familiar when he didn’t want to reveal something. Neal wondered if he was similarly expressive when playing poker.
“Come on, tell me.”
“It’s not that exciting, really.”
“Peter …” Neal knew he was wheedling.
“Okay - okay.” Peter pitched his voice low, so it wouldn’t carry. “About ten years ago, I was working on a case - pharmaceutical forgeries. It involved a dozen companies, here, in Europe, in Israel - and it looked like the connection was medical students and residents. They had access, were poorly paid, vulnerable to inducements.”
“And I’m guessing that Eli was one of those you targeted.”
Peter nodded in agreement. “But he wasn’t involved - not really. He had gotten caught up unwittingly and the US Attorney’s office was looking for an easy closure. If the case had gotten media exposure, it could have undermined the faith in the whole pharmaceutical industry. Eli was looking at serious jail time. My gut told me that this kid wasn’t involved, that he was being set up.”
“And Peter Burke’s gut is never wrong.” Neal had to comment.
“As you well know. Anyway, I pushed back on the US Attorney’s office, and kept digging. We eventually found the right connections. Eli testified as a Government witness, we got convictions across the board and shut down one of the most dangerous organized crime rings that no one had ever heard of. About a week afterwards, I was leaving the office and found a man sitting in my car. Middle-aged, harmless-looking, until you met his eyes.” Peter shook his head at the memory. “It was Eli’s father - and no, you don’t need to know his name. He wanted to express his gratitude for my diligence. If I was ever in serious trouble, I should call him. He’d do whatever he could to help.”
Neal whistled, knowing just how much ‘help’ had been provided. “He must have a lot of juice.”
Peter just gave him The Look. Then laughed and asked, “Your mother isn’t Jewish, perchance?”
Neal was thoroughly puzzled. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
And got The Look again.
His gaze dropped to his groin and the light went on. “Ah. No. Were you really thinking about …” Neal was stunned. “You really would have lied about that for me?”
Peter shrugged. “Yeah - I wanted legal sanctuary for you. I was talked out of it, though. And you know how everything else worked out, anyway.”
Neal universe just shifted. He knew that when Peter came to Cape Verde to warn him about Collins, he was probably risking his career for him. But this - to actively consider lying and involve nation-states in those lies was a contradiction of everything he knew about Peter Burke. Or thought he knew.
Peter relaxed against the lounger. “I’ve spoken with … my contact. Since you’re cleared for travel tomorrow, he’s sending the jet to Praia. We’ll be back in New York on Saturday evening.”
“I can’t wait.”
Peter looked at him, his gaze searching. “Really?”
“Yeah, really.” Neal felt it in his bones.
“And what about Maya?”
Peter’s odd tone surprised him. It sounded a bit too much like jealousy. “We’ve already said our goodbyes. I don’t want her to see me like this.” But there was no reason why he couldn’t keep in touch with her when he got back to New York - if just to make certain that there were no repercussions. Of any kind. “I just want to go home. I want to be Neal Caffrey again. I want my life back.”
“Good, because I want Neal Caffrey back too.”
Day Six
The first call came a little before ten AM. He didn’t recognize the number, but he recognized the voice.
“Sir?”
“Burke - you sound appropriately humbled.” He knew he was barking at Peter. He had a reputation to maintain, after all. “I trust you’re calling to tell me when you’ll be back in New York.”
“We’ll be landing in Teterboro about six PM, New York time. We’re in Lisbon now, refueling.”
“Good. How’s Caffrey?”
“Anxious to get home.”
Reese let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “He’s doing … okay?”
“Yeah.” There was a wealth of information in that single syllable.
“Tell Neal that we all look forward to seeing him.”
“I will.”
“Do you want me to call Elizabeth?”
“Already spoken to her - but if you wouldn’t mind …”
“I’ll have a car sent for her. Believe me, we all want to be there to roll out the red carpet for you and Neal.” He wasn’t being sarcastic. Not really.
Hughes hung up, satisfied. Peter was going to have a bit of a rocky road ahead of him - even if the results of his little jaunt off the reservation were unquestionable, he did violate a direct order. His head wasn’t going to roll - especially since Burke wasn’t bound to keep his mouth shut about Collins - but he was going to have to lay low for a while.
And he knew just the place to put him for the duration.
The second call came about three hours later. It was, in retrospect, not unexpected.
Kyle Collins was dead. Shot by a fellow agent during his transfer to the Manhattan Correctional Facility.
According to the agent in charge of the transfer, Collins - who was given a little too much consideration of his status and was not put into handcuffs during his transfer - grabbed a gun. He fired one, missed, and the other agents fired back. Collins was dead before he hit the ground.
He deplored this perversion of justice - the man deserved much worse. He deserved to spend the rest of his life behind bars. Suffering.
But in a way, Reese knew that this was also for the best. It closed the book on something dark and disgusting - both for Caffrey and for the Bureau.
It was definitely better this way.
Moz was more than a little leery of hopping into the big black SUV with dark tinted windows and US Government plates on it. It was only Elizabeth’s presence that got him inside the vehicle.
“Relax, Moz. You’ve braved the FBI, you’ve faced down the Justice Department, surely a forty-minute ride to the airport isn’t that much of a problem?”
“More like ninety minutes - with traffic.” He grumbled, but climbed into the back seat and tried not to huddle too closely to Mrs. Suit. He didn’t want her to get the wrong ideas - she was a married woman, after all.
“So, how does it feel to be the hero of the moment?”
He squinted at her. “Hmm, not sure if I’m really a hero. Neal’s getting his shackle back.”
“But he’s coming home … ” El countered. “Because of you.”
“You do know what happened to him?” And Moz wished he hadn’t asked that.
“Yes, I do.” Her answer was sober, measured. “Peter told me - and not just in broad strokes.”
“Your husband was the real hero. Or maybe Neal was.” For enduring.
El leaned over and kissed his pate. “Let’s just say you were all heroes and leave it at that.”
Mozzie figured that the driver had violated all sorts of traffic laws because they were pulling into Teterboro Airport much sooner than expected. Driving up to a private hanger, he was struck by a moment of déjà vu. Not that that was particularly unexpected.
The Demi-Suits were there, of course. And so was Hughes, even more grim-faced than he was accustomed to. He left El in Jones and Diana’s good hands and went over to Peter’s boss.
“Problems?”
Hughes gave him a dyspeptic look. “Collins is dead.”
“Ah.”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
“It makes things less … complicated.”
Hughes kept his eyes on the aircraft that was rolling to a stop at the front of the hanger. “That it does.”
Moz thought about wild justice and how one could get revenge without anyone else being the wiser. Francis Bacon wasn’t always right.
The engines were cut, the airplane door opened, and customs officials climbed the staircase. They seemed to take an awfully long time. El, and Diana and Clinton joined them. Mrs. Suit was practically dancing in excitement.
Finally, the customs people left the plane, clipboards tucked away. They nodded and that seemed a signal for everyone to rush out to the aircraft.
Moz didn’t recognize the first person to duck his head out the door, and his heart sank. Were they at the wrong place? The man walked down the first three steps and turned around to face the door. The end of a bulky wheelchair popped out of the hatch, and the man caught and lifted it. Moz sighed in relief. It was Neal.
They descended slowly and only Hughes’ hand on his shoulder stopped him from interfering. But at last, Neal was on the ground, looking a hell of a lot better than Moz expected.
They were about an hour outside of New York airspace when everything hit Neal.
It wasn’t a dramatic collapse, not like when he sat alone in his apartment looking at bullets and Moz’s ineffectual attempts to decipher the music box code. He didn’t sweep things onto the floor in a fit of rage or grief or whatever emotion best suited the moment. No, he just lost it.
He wanted to tell the pilot to turn the jet around. He didn’t want to do this. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t face what was waiting for him there.
It wasn’t the tracker, or coming to terms with the fact that he still had two more years of his sentence to serve, or anything like that. He had always been prepared for the commutation board to say “No.” He meant what he said that day - that yea or nay, come Monday morning, he’d be at his desk, doing the work he’d come to love.
It was seeing their faces, seeing the pity, the compassion. The knowledge that they've seen the terrible things done to him. Things that could never be unseen, never be forgotten now.
He was probably going to have to face Collins, too. There was certainly going to be a trial, he’d have to testify. They’d play the recordings. Of the beatings, the electric shocks, the rape.
Neal swallowed, nauseous. He was sweating and cold and he needed to get up, get away, get out of here. He couldn’t do this. No. No. No. No. No.
He didn’t realize he was saying those words out loud until Peter was kneeling next to his seat.
“Shh, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” Those arms were around him, lifting him up, holding him. “I’ve got you.”
Somehow, he was back on Peter’s lap - the position sparked the memory of Peter rescuing him, holding him, keeping him safe.
It didn’t feel weird at all to be sitting like this, clinging to him like a limpet. Peter was cradling him so carefully, like he was rare and fragile. He tried to get some control over his emotions, but the harder he tried, the worse he felt.
“I can’t - I can’t go back. I’m sorry - but I can’t.”
“We’ll have to land, we’ll have to refuel. Maybe we can land in Greenland. Where do you want to go?”
Peter’s voice, so calm, so matter-of-fact, so practical, was the anchor he needed. Neal took a deep, shuddering breath and lifted his head off of Peter’s shoulder. “You’d do that? You’d let me go?”
“Neal - I want what’s best for you - I always have. But if you can’t face New York, at least, just yet, we’ll make arrangements. I can tell them that you need specialized treatment, and the best doctors for that are in - I don’t know - Brazil? Japan? London? Wherever you want to go.”
The panic receded. Peter was giving him a choice without counting the cost to himself. Of everything that Peter had done for him, this was the greatest gift of all.
He took a deep, shuddering breath and rested his head on Peter’s shoulder.
“Well, what should I tell the pilot?”
“Nothing. I want to go home.”
“You sure?” Peter’s breath was warm against his forehead.
“Yeah. It’ll be fine.”
Although his arms probably went numb, and his back must have been aching, Peter held him until they had to buckle in for landing.
Back in his seat, he over at looked at Peter, his friend - so careworn and tired. Neal thought that he was the luckiest man in the world.
He must have sighed, because Peter looked up and smiled. “You okay?”
“I think so.”
“Not too late to change your mind. I can make a call and you won’t have to get off this plane until you want to.”
It was still so tempting - but it would be running. And Neal was tired of running. He never wanted to run in the first place. “No, let’s go home.”
Tags:
- character: clinton jones,
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: kyle collins,
- character: mozzie,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: ofc,
- character: omc,
- character: peter burke,
- character: reese hughes,
- genre: alternative universe,
- genre: angst,
- genre: badassery,
- genre: friendship,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- white collar,
- year: 2012
