White Collar Fic - A Life Less Ordinary - Part Three

[elrhiarhodan]

Neal didn’t sleep after he got home from the Burkes’. His brain was filled with the taste and scent of Peter and Elizabeth. He could still feel their hands on him, hot and strong. He rolled over, trying to erase the lingering sensations. It didn’t help.

He screwed his eyes shut, like a child afraid of the monster in the closet, except that this wasn’t precisely a monster, just something that terrified him.

It would be so easy to give his heart, his whole being over to the Burkes. He actually believed that they were wise enough, strong enough, not to damage him. But he’d been there before – he’d given himself over to someone – someone who he believed was good and strong and wise – and that nearly destroyed him.

The memories rushed back, obliterating the sweet joy of his evening with Peter and Elizabeth. They were bitter, like burnt coffee. They fouled him, tainting his hopes, staining his dreams.

Maybe if he wasn’t still grieving for his mother, maybe if his best friend, Moz, hadn’t taken off for parts unknown, maybe if he hadn’t felt so adrift, despite a grueling schedule. Maybe, just maybe he would have been a little wiser, a little less needy. Maybe he would have seen things as they were, and not how he wanted them to be.

He wasn’t a naive young thing. He’d done this dance before, he flirted like an expert and the response he got was gratifying. Matthew was dark, but he wasn’t tall, he wasn’t conventionally handsome. But there was something about him that intrigued Neal. His gut told him to run, but other organs – the ones directly north and south of the gut – overruled.

He should have listened to his gut.

Neal fell for Matthew Keller and fell hard. He was starting his third year of veterinary school, living on Riverside Drive, not that far from school. His landlady, June, didn't like Matthew. It wasn't that Neal was in a sexual relationship with another man – not in the least. June was as open-minded and as accepting as they came, but she just didn't like him. She thought he was sly, deceitful, that he was totally wrong for Neal.

He had stars in his eyes and disagreed.

"Matthew's an FBI agent – he's as upright as they come."

June shook her head. "In my world, the FBI is not populated by shining knights on horseback – they lie and cheat and steal worse than the NYPD – and get away with it more because they're Feds."

"Matthew's not like that." Neal had insisted.

June just smiled sadly. "I hope you're right."

He wasn't.

They’d been together for about three months, and if Neal wasn’t blissfully happy, he still wasn’t ready to see the warning signs. Matthew’s need to control his every moment, his obsessive jealousy were not the indications of an abusive controller, but of a man totally in love.

The first time Matthew hit him, Neal couldn't believe it. In a way, he still couldn't.

He had come home, which was no longer the penthouse apartment on Riverside, but a third-floor walk-up in Washington Heights. Neal spoke Spanish, and had spent a few minutes chatting with Marco, a young gay man who worked days at the hospital and spent his nights cruising the local clubs. It was a little after six when he let himself into the apartment.

Matthew was sitting at the kitchen table, drumming his fingers. "Where the hell were you?" His tone was low and vicious, unlike anything he had ever heard come out of his lover's mouth.

"Just downstairs, Marco was telling me about …" The rest of the sentence was lost when Matthew struck him. Hard, across the face.

"I told you to stay away from that little slut. Did he blow you under the stairs, or did you suck him off?"

Neal couldn't say anything – he was in too much shock. He stood there, a hand on his aching cheek. He was dazed, not from the pain. Finally, the words came back. "Matthew. You hit me." He sounded like a five year-old, stating the obvious.

His lover was instantly contrite and took him in his arms. "I'm sorry, so very sorry. I was worried, and I guess I'm a little jealous." His lips ghosted over the blossoming bruise. "I promise, this will never happen again."

That night, Matthew lavished love and attention on Neal, cared for him with a laser-like focus and by the time they were ready for bed, Neal not only forgave Matthew, he even apologized for being late, for letting Marco way-lay him. "But you have to know, there's no one for me but you."

Matthew's eyes glowed as he leaned over Neal. "You're damn right – you're mine, and you better never forget that. You're mine forever."

He shivered. At the time, it was a thrilling statement, a declaration of love and commitment. He should have known better.

It was two weeks before Matthew struck him again, hitting him for no apparent reason.

This time, he didn't hit him on the face – those bruises Matthew’s fist had left took weeks to fade and caused too many questions. Instead, Matthew punched him in the stomach. When Neal was doubled over in pain, he kicked him. And kept on kicking him.

Neal passed out from the agony.

When he came to, Matthew was fucking him, holding him in his arms, telling him how much he loved him, but that he shouldn't do that again.

"Do what? What did I do?" Neal whimpered, confused and helpless.

Matthew didn't answer. He pressed his hands into the bruises and came.

The beatings became a regular thing. Neal would do something that pissed Matthew off, and he'd pay for it. Or even nothing at all. Of course, Matthew was sorry afterwards, he'd shower him with love and praise, he'd tell him he was the most precious thing in the world. But there was no love there, just a sick sort of dependency.

Neal tried to leave once, a week after his graduation from Columbia Veterinary School. They'd been together for two years and Neal didn't think he'd survive another two months. He made it as far as the last exit on the New Jersey Turnpike, but Matthew had simply contacted the State Troopers and had him pulled over. He had used his badge – abused his badge and told them that Neal was a material witness and needed to be held until he could be transported back to New York by Matthew himself.

"Sweetheart …"

Neal hated when Matthew used that tone of voice – that false affection. "Let me go, please." He begged and pulled away, but Matthew just tightened his grip, squeezing his wrist hard enough to leave bruises. But Neal kept tugging and Matthew gripped him harder until something snapped. He didn’t remember much about the drive back to New York except that he vomited at least once from the pain.

With his broken wrist, there was no way he could start work. He had a job lined up at an emergency clinic on Riverside, not too far from where he used to live. Of course, Matthew wasn’t happy that he had gotten the job because of his friendship with June. He didn’t like that Neal was still in contact with her and after Matthew dragged him back, Neal figured it would be wise not to talk to her anymore.

He called his would-be employers and explained what happened – that he broke his wrist roller-blading. He would need follow-up surgery – possibly pins – and he wouldn’t be able to start work for at least two months. They were most regretful, but they wouldn’t be able to keep the slot open for him. They wished him well, though.

“It’s for the best, sweetheart. I don’t like the idea of you working for such a low-class outfit. You deserve better.” Matthew stroked his head, tangling his fingers in his curls.

Neal didn’t say anything. These days, it was just easier not to. He didn’t understand how this happened, how he just became this passive thing, this punching bag. What happened to his sense of self? What happened to his will?

The memories wouldn’t stop coming, the poison was still as potent, still as destructive. Neal got out of bed and made his way into the kitchen. Ellen had left the contents of her liquor cabinet behind, and if ever there was a need for scotch, this was it. He poured himself two fingers, and would have downed it in a single gulp but he remembered that this wasn’t his life anymore. He had paid for his bad choices already, and he wasn’t going to keep paying.

Neal emptied the scotch down the sink, carefully washed and rinsed the glass, positioning it on the drain board as if his life depended on it. The bottle of Johnny Walker was returned to the cabinet. He made a cup of coffee instead. It wasn’t as if he was going to get any sleep tonight.

The brew was bitter, distinct from the excellent espresso that Elizabeth Burke gave him just a few hours ago.

If he sat and concentrated on the sounds of the Brooklyn neighborhood, the way the streetlights cast their thin shadows, the aroma of bad coffee and old house, he could remember the feel of the Burkes – their gentle hands, their cautious need, their undeniable hunger.

Matthew had never touched him in Brooklyn; he never hurt him under this moon.

“Neal?”

That was his name, and the voice was familiar.

Without a job, with nothing to do but wait for Matthew to come home, Neal had taken to filling his days with trips to the Cloisters. It was within walking distance and a long ago gift of a life membership meant he didn’t need to pay for admission. Matthew didn’t let him have any money, except for what was needed for groceries, and every penny of that had to be accounted for. Otherwise …

Neal looked away from the Unicorn Tapestries to find an old friend. His oldest friend. Mozzie.

“Hey there.” His voice was hoarse – Matthew had choked him last night. It was just rough sex. “When did you get back to New York?”

“About a week ago. Bern was boring, and there’s only so much chocolate a man can eat.”

They went way back. Moz had been his first college roommate. It was an odd pairing – a graduate student in molecular chemistry and a too-young, very naïve sixteen year-old college freshman. On paper, it shouldn’t have worked, but in reality, it did. Mozzie was, he admitted, more than slightly paranoid. He had no intention of working for the government or their stooges/controllers – the big corporations. But it never hurt to know how things worked, and he made a point of taking Neal under his wing and giving him an education that the professors at Harvard never could.

“But you, mon frère, look like shit.”

Neal shrugged. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re lying.”

Even though Mozzie’s tone was joking, he flinched at the accusation. He couldn’t stop himself. And Moz saw it. His face, round as an egg, smooth as a baby’s bottom, turned impossibly hard. He all but lifted Neal to his feet; his anger growing more obvious when he took in the cast around Neal’s wrist. "Who did this to you?"

Neal didn't answer. He flinched again, though, when Moz lifted his chin with two gentle fingers to examine the bruises on his throat.

"Neal." Moz didn't say anything else.

"Don't pity me, Moz. Don't fucking pity me."

"What's his name? That's all I need."

"You can't help me. He'll only hurt you, or worse."

"Have I taught you nothing?"

"Moz – he's a Suit. A powerful one. Why do you think I haven't left him? I've tried. He dragged me back, and he had help. He'll always have help."

"He's in the police?"

Neal snorted. "Worse. He's FBI. The king of Suits."

Moz helped him to his feet. "Let's walk. You never know what ears these walls have."

They wandered down to the Heather Garden, to a secluded wall overlooking the Hudson River. Neal watched the gulls swooping down out of the clear summer sky and wished he could be just as free. But freedom was impossible – unless death was freedom. And that was a step he wasn't prepared to take. Not yet.

"His name, Neal." Moz's implacable tone broke through Neal's dark thoughts.

"Matthew Keller. He's a special agent with the Organized Crime unit. He doesn't regularly work out of the field office downtown, though – he's a street agent."

"I don't want you to go home tonight – I don't want you to go back home at all."

"Moz, you don't know what he's capable of. He'll hurt you, he'll kill you and make it look like an accident. Or worse – he'll implicate you in something and you'll never be able to get out from under it. He'll destroy your life."

His friend laughed, it wasn't a happy sound. "I've been off the grid for too long for anyone to get their claws into me." Moz pulled out a pad and pencil, wrote something down and handed it to Neal. It was an address in Long Island City, and a string of numbers. "It's a safe house and the code for the security system. You'll go there now and you'll stay there until I tell you that it's all right to leave, got it?"

Neal shook his head. "Moz – I'll be living there forever. It will never be safe."

"Trust me, Neal. Have I ever steered you wrong?"

Neal ducked his head and allowed himself a small smile. "There was that time, with the thing in the place – you remember?"

"Yeah." Moz looked pleased that he could still joke. "You need money?"

He flushed, his humor chased away by embarrassment. He didn't answer.

Moz handed him a wad of cash. "Take a cab to Penn Station. Then get on the subway to Jamaica. Take the Air Train to LaGuardia and then get a cab to the corner of Steinway Street and Astoria Boulevard. Walk to the safe house, it's three blocks north of the factory." Moz pulled out a cell phone and handed it to him. "It's a burner. I'll call you when it's safe."

They walked down to the traffic circle at the base of Fort Tryon Park. Moz hailed a cab for him and all but pushed him into it. "Remember what I told you, okay?"

Neal nodded and as the car pulled away from the curb and headed down Fort Washington Avenue, he turned to look back at Moz, standing like a sentinel, resolute. He hoped against hope that Moz could actually do something, that he convince Matthew to let him go.

But in his heart, he knew that Moz was only going to put himself in danger and Neal just wished he was strong enough, brave enough to have told his friend, no. But he wasn't – and he'd pay for this defiance, and Matthew would find a way to destroy Moz, too.

It was almost dawn, and Neal felt as wasted as if he spent the night on a bender. He had his share of those. But no amount of alcohol could help him forget two years in hell.

Ten days after he locked the door of Mozzie's safe house – an abandoned piano factory – Mozzie called him. Neal had been ready to leave, worried beyond measure about his friend. Only the thought of what could be waiting outside stopped him.

"It's done." That was all Moz would tell him. "You're safe."

"Did you … kill him?"

Moz didn’t answer that question. "Neal, you're safe. But I'd leave New York for a while. Take the train somewhere that’s not here. Set yourself up in another city. New York isn't the best place for you right now."

As much as he pressed, Moz wouldn't tell him what he did to get Matthew Keller to let him go. He watched the news obsessively; there was nothing about the death of an FBI agent, or any news about any FBI agent, for that matter.

Later that afternoon, he met Moz at a busy diner off of Grand Central Parkway. Moz handed him a small duffle bag. "I think you'll need this."

Neal looked inside – there was a change of clothes and more importantly, his driver's license and his passport, two things that Matthew had taken from him. There was also a thick envelope which Neal opened. It contained an inch-high stack of hundred dollar bills and a key.

"I've had your things put into storage at the usual place in Armonk. It's paid up for ten years.”

"Moz …"

"Don't say another word, Neal. We're friends. This is what friends do for each other."

Neal wanted to cry.

"Keep in touch – and if you need me, call." Moz dropped a twenty on the table – a generous tip for two cups of coffee – and left.

Neal sat there, stunned, unwilling to believe that the long nightmare was over.

It was still hard to believe. Neal had spent eight years running from evil, looking over his shoulder, being afraid. And he was still afraid – not that Matthew Keller would come back, but that he’d find himself in the same hell that Mozzie had rescued him from. He wanted Peter and Elizabeth too much – he wanted to take what they offered with his whole heart. He was terrified that if he walked into their arms, he'd lose everything again.

And that was unbearable.

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

A week passed, and then another. There was no word from Neal.

They did get a postcard from the veterinary practice, reminding them that Satchmo was scheduled for his surgery on the fourteenth, and he was not to have anything to eat or drink at least twelve hours before the surgery.

El pinned it to the bulletin board with a mournful sigh. “He seemed so … interested.”

Peter took a sip of his coffee and shook his head. “I know – but …” He didn’t complete the thought.

“Yeah. Poly relationships aren’t for everyone.” Especially for someone who was not part of the life. “Asking him, on our very first date, was probably too much, too soon."

“He could have at least called to say he wasn’t interested, instead of leaving us hanging. That would have been the right thing to do.”

El shrugged. “Maybe he’s just too embarrassed – there are people who go for that whole avoidance thing, you know.”

Peter looked as sad and disappointed as she felt. “I know we didn’t give him a timeline – we told him the invitation was open-ended. But still…”

“Maybe when I bring Satch in, I can talk with him, find out what went wrong.” Elizabeth mused.

“If you want to try, that’s fine. But don’t push it. We don’t have to beg anyone.”

“No, we don’t. But I still think that Neal was very interested – maybe all he needs is a little nudge.”

Peter heaved himself up and out of his chair. “Work your wiles on him, then.” He bent a little and kissed her. “But don’t be too hurt if he turns you down.”

“No one turns Elizabeth Burke down and lives to tell the tale.” She strived for a lighthearted tone, but there was definitely a thread of steel there.

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

Peter saw Neal one evening, three weeks after their date and a few days before Satchmo's surgery. He was walking the dog, feeling strong and healthy. His cane was relegated to the back of the front hall closet and his physical therapist was almost ready to sign off on his readiness to commence a back-to-duty fitness routine.

Satch spotted Neal first, barking and pulling at the leash. Peter looked across the street, the direction where the dog was pulling. Neal was sitting at a table at a trendy cafe that had opened earlier this year. He was smiling at the server and looking just as gorgeous as Peter remembered. Satchmo barked again, and Neal looked up, spotting Peter.

Peter smiled and waved, but before he could cross the street, Neal got up and left the table. He thought that Neal was coming around to meet him. By the time he got to the cafe, Neal had disappeared. He had left a few dollars on the table, and when Peter questioned his server, the young man had said that patron, Neal, had gotten an urgent call and had to leave.

Peter supposed there could have been an emergency with a patient, but Neal had seen him and left right away. The message was clear – he didn't want to know them. For whatever reason, Neal decided that he and Elizabeth, their offer of friendship, companionship – even without any physical relationship – was not something he wanted. And apparently, he didn't want to face them.

Peter understood avoidance; he dealt with all the time. Suspects and witnesses were rarely eager to talk to the FBI and tried to dodge him whenever possible. He just hadn't expected this behavior from Neal.

Satchmo let out a disappointed whimper.

Peter looked at his dog. “Yeah – that could have gone better.” He gave a gentle tug on the leash and headed home, disappointed and humiliated.

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

Neal was appalled at his own behavior.

He spotted Peter and Satchmo before they had seen him. It had only been three weeks since he had dinner with the Burkes, but in that time, it looked like Peter had regained his health. Even from a distance, he could see how his chest and arms had filled out, his shoulders seems broader, stronger. There was no sign of his cane either; he walked with the assurance of a man who was comfortable in his world.

For the first time in half a lifetime, Neal found himself longing for a sketchpad and sharpened pencil. He had some artistic talent. He was, after all, his mother’s son. He might have even made a career of it, except that he could do only one thing really well – reproduce other artists’ works. Give him an easel and set him in front of an Old Master, and he could copy it brushstroke for brushstroke. Ask him to create something original, and he failed miserably.

He had always enjoyed sketching, random faces and street scenes. He just hadn’t – not since Matthew, who hadn't liked him doing anything that wasn't focused on him. The familiar feeling of self-disgust that accompanied those memories rose in his gorge.

He heard Satchmo bark and looked across the street. Peter waved. He wanted to wave back, he wanted to sit with Peter and have a cup of coffee and talk about the news of the world, talk about the day-to-day trials and tribulations of being a small business owner. He wanted to ask Peter how his rehab was going, tell him that he looked really good.

He wanted to fall to his knees in front of Peter and rest his head on his thigh, feel Peter's hands stroking his head, soothing away all his hurt, making him feel safe, loved. Giving him a place where he belonged. He wanted to submit to this man, give himself over to him.

And that would be disastrous.

Self-disgust gave way to fear, and he took to his feet. Dropping a few dollars on the table to compensate the waiter, Neal fled – back through the cafe and then out the side door, disappearing into the foot traffic, away from Peter Burke.

He needed to call Mozzie. He needed the sanity check that only his oldest friend could provide. He needed to be reminded how dangerous it was to give himself over like that.

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

Elizabeth was furious at Neal Caffrey. Not for ignoring them, for having a lack of good manners to call or send a note telling them that he wasn’t interested. Not even that he was such a goddamned coward. She was angry that he hurt and humiliated Peter.

“It’s okay, hon. We put him on the spot – and he’s just too embarrassed to face us.”

She hrumphed, “It’s still not acceptable – no one does that to you.”

Peter smiled. “No one puts Baby in the corner?”

She had to grin back. “Okay – okay. But if I ever see Doctor Symmetrical again, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.”

“Well, one of us will see him. Satchmo’s surgery is the day after tomorrow.”

“Hmmm, you’re right. But I’m going to bring him in. You’re too soft-hearted.”

Peter raised an eyebrow at her. “I might be a little insulted …”

El finished that thought. “If that wasn’t true.” Her husband might be relentless when it came to the pursuit of lawbreakers, but he wasn’t ruthless. He understood that justice wasn’t just about enforcing the cold, black letter of the law. El was never sure if that approach spilled over and colored his civilian life, or if this worldview was what made him such a stellar agent.

It didn’t matter – Peter was inclined to be fair, and when it came to matters of the heart, a little too fair. He’d probably end up apologizing to Neal, when Neal Caffrey needed a good telling off instead.

All of her plans to lay into Neal Caffrey – in the most civilized fashion – were for naught. Elizabeth brought Satchmo to the vet’s office at three PM as instructed and asked if she could speak with Dr. Caffrey. Donna, the receptionist, was doubtful that the doctor would have time today; he had a full schedule. Elizabeth could wait if she wanted, but there was no guarantee.

She sat in the waiting room, watching the last patients of the day – a poodle with gas, and an enormously pregnant collie – were escorted into examination rooms. She watched as other animals and their owners came out, mostly happy. Even the gassy poodle seemed less gassy and the collie was still pregnant.

El waited and waited, looking up at Donna, a question in her eyes. The receptionist disappeared into the back of the clinic and came out five minutes later, a rueful smile on her lips. “I’m afraid that Doctor Caffrey won’t be able to see you today. He’s scrubbing up for surgery.”

She did her best to curb her annoyance.

Donna asked, “Is there a problem with Satchmo?”

A little late to be asking that, Elizabeth thought. “No, it’s a private matter. I’ll try to catch Dr. Caffrey when I pick Satch up tomorrow.”

Donna nodded. “I’ll tell the doctor that you want to talk with him. Maybe he’ll have time tomorrow.”

El nodded, but she figured that Neal would be just as busy no matter what time of day she came to see him. She’d pick Satchmo up and ask her dog-owning friends if they could recommend a vet. There was no way she’d be bringing Satchmo back here. Not after this.

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

Three days after Neal had neutered Satchmo Burke and hid out in his office while the dog’s owners both came to pick him up, Mozzie arrived, ready to do battle on his behalf. The email that he sent a few days after dodging Peter had been short and to the point:

I think I’m in trouble. Can you come to Brooklyn?

Mozzie’s response was swift:

I’ll be there as soon as possible.

He came home late to find Moz waiting for him in the deepening shadows of his dining room, enjoying his last bottle of Brunello and some particularly fine aged parmesan.

“You okay?”

Neal didn’t bother with the lights. He poured himself a glass and sat down. “Yeah – I think.”

“What’s going on?”

Trust Moz to get right to the heart of the matter. “I – I met someone.”

“I gathered, from your email. Has he hurt you?”

Neal shook his head, embarrassed now. “No. I haven’t given them a chance.”

“Them?”

He bit his lip; he hadn’t intended to tell Mozzie that quite so soon.

“Spill, Neal.”

He took a deep breath and plunged in. “They are the owners of a patient of mine. A yellow Labrador named Satchmo.”

Moz raised an eyebrow at this irrelevant bit of information.

“Peter and Elizabeth Burke. They …” Neal wasn’t sure how to put this. “They want me …”

“They’re swingers?” Moz sounded more curious than shocked.

“No – they hate that word. They’re polyamorous.”

Moz continued to surprise him. He leaned back in his chair and simply said, “Ah.”

“And he’s an FBI agent.”

“Ah.” This time, Moz invested that single syllable with understanding. “You’re afraid that somehow you’ll get back on Matthew Keller’s radar, right? Well, trust me – that won’t happen.”

Neal frowned. “No – that isn’t the reason.” That had never occurred to him. “I still don’t understand why won’t you tell me what you did to make Keller let me go?”

“It’s called ‘plausible deniability,’ my friend. The less you know, the better off you are.”

“Even now – eight years later?”

Moz diverted him back to the problem at hand. “Tell me about this Suit – why are you frightened of him? Has he threatened you?”

“No! It’s …” Neal felt himself flushing and was glad for the shadows. “He’s – they’ve been – perfect.”

“Perfect?” One eyebrow went up.

“They’re everything I’d ever want.”

Mozzie blinked. “So what’s the problem?”

“I’m terrified. What if I’m wrong about them, what if they’re just like Matthew Keller?”

“Tell me, Neal – in the last eight years, have you been involved with anyone? Has there been anyone since Keller?”

Neal opened his mouth; the words “Of course I have” were stuck on his tongue. That was a lie, certainly. “There have been people in my life,” was the best he could come up with.

“But no one you’ve really cared about – no one who you wanted to share your life with, right?”

Neal shook his head.

“Maybe you’re not really afraid of them? Maybe you’re afraid of yourself? That you’re making the wrong choice again.”

"You think I don't know that? That I have serious trust issues? That I'm afraid to enter into a meaningful relationship because I once made a terrible mistake?" Neal scrubbed at his face. "Did you ever think that I might have issues because I don't know what happened to Keller, that I'm worried that he's going to find me, he's going to hurt me again, hurt the people I've come to care for?" Neal realized he was shouting at Moz, venting years of worry, of shame.

Moz took off his glasses and wiped them before carefully putting them back on. "Maybe you're right – maybe ignorance isn't bliss."

"In this case, it never was." Neal sighed, calmer. "Tell me what happened."

"After I put you in the cab, I went digging. You know how much I enjoy research."

"Moz…"

His friend smiled. "Even for an FBI agent, Matthew Keller was exceedingly dirty. He had fingers in several very sticky, very lucrative pies. It didn't take much to get some of the Russian wiseguys he was sweating to talk."

"And you confronted Matthew with this? He could have killed you!" Neal breathed, shocked at the danger Moz put himself in.

"Nah – he may have been corrupt, but he wasn't stupid. I told him that I had multiple failsafes set up – if I didn't call in, the complete file would be transmitted to OPR within the hour."

"OPR?" Neal wasn't familiar with the term.

"Office of Professional Responsibility – the FBI equivalent of Internal Affairs."

"And that was enough to get Matthew off my back for good?" Neal was skeptical.

"Well, I may have told Keller that the price of my silence was your freedom, but I am not such a Boy Scout. OPR had the file before I met with him. I suspect that your former boyfriend is doing very hard time in a solitary cell in a Federal Supermax."

"Or the FBI could have simply swept the whole thing under the rug, and Keller's still out there," Neal replied, tone bleak.

Moz split the last of the bottle between them. "I don't think so. But I could find out, if you want."

Neal sipped and contemplated the offer. Instead of agreeing, he shocked himself, "I think I'd rather you turned your attentions to the Burkes."

"Really? You want me to investigate your would-be lovers?"

"I don't know if we'll ever get that far – but I need to know about Peter. I need to know if I'm right about him, if I can trust myself."

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

Elizabeth was more than ready to put Neal Caffrey behind her. She had a glowing recommendation for a vet from Yvonne, her assistant. The doctor's office was just a few blocks south – within walking distance. Calling for an appointment was on her list of things to do this week.

More important than a new veterinarian was the new opportunity that unexpectedly presented itself that afternoon.

A former partner, Asher Ben-Gali was back in New York after a three-year stay in London. Their relationship with Asher was hard to describe: both casual and committed. There was an intensity to Asher that appealed more to Peter than to Elizabeth, but El couldn’t help but appreciate the man’s dedication to her husband. At the time, she had worried that Asher was a little too possessive to fit comfortably into their lives. But like the contradictory nature of their relationship, he was equally committed to his own career and was the one to make the break.

When the opportunity to take over as executive chef at a highly rated London restaurant presented itself, the three of them amicably parted company. They had talked about getting together in England, but those plans never coalesced. Still, Asher remained close enough that when Peter was shot, he came back to New York to see them.

Now, Asher was once again permanently based in New York. He had stopped by her office in lower Manhattan with an extravagant bouquet of tulips and dahlias and an invitation for her and Peter to dine at his chef’s table that Saturday night.

“I’m not taking ‘No’ for an answer, Elizabeth.” Asher always called her Elizabeth, never El.

“What if we already have plans for Saturday?”

“You’ll just have to cancel them.” Asher grinned at her, mischief glinting in his eyes.

“What if we wanted to bring a third? Is there room at the table?”

The light dimmed, just a little. “I hadn’t heard that you’re involved with anyone. Not since Peter was shot.”

“You’ve been keeping up with all the local news?”

“You would have told me if there was someone new in your life.” And then Asher seemed a little less confident. “Wouldn’t you?”

El smiled, relenting. “Yes, I would have. And no, right now, there isn’t anyone else.”

“But at one point, there might have been?”

She shrugged, unwilling to say anything more. The abortive relationship with Neal, his inexplicable avoidance of them was still surprisingly painful. Maybe it was the lack of closure. “I’ll tell Peter that you’re back, and that you’ve reserved the best seats in the house for us. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to have dinner at your new place.”

Asher kissed her, first on both her cheeks in the Continental fashion, then he tilted her chin up, smiled and swooped in for a light but passionate kiss.

It was a good kiss, a little playful, a little masterful, intense enough to set the blood thrumming in her veins. Asher stepped back and smiled. “I’ve missed that.”

She wanted to say, ‘Me, too” but the words weren’t there. Instead, she smiled back and shooed him out of her office.

He left with a jaunty little bow and El stood there, bemused and amused. She wondered if she should call Peter now or wait until she got home tonight to tell him.

A panicked client made the decision for her, and the rest of the afternoon was spent reorganizing the seating arrangements for three hundred wedding guests. It was close to six by the time she locked the door behind her and called Peter to ask what he wanted for dinner.

“I’m too exhausted to cook, hon. You have a choice of takeout. Italian, Chinese or Thai, again.”

“Had the leftover Thai for lunch and Chinese …” Peter made that noncommittal sound that meant ‘I’ll have Chinese if that’s what you really want.’

“How does Chicken Marsala and a Caprese salad from La Donna Bella with a nice red wine sound?”

“Delicious. But I think we finished the last bottle of red the other night.”

“Not a problem, there’s a liquor store a few doors down from the restaurant. I’ll pick up something.”

Peter said he’d call in their order and disconnected, leaving her alone with her thoughts. They circled not so much around Asher but on the imaginary conversation she wanted to have with Neal Caffrey. She knew she was being ridiculous, obsessing over him like a spurned teenage girl, but she couldn’t help it. Thoughts of Neal and what she’d say to him if she ever saw him again followed her out of the city and across the bridge, circling around her brain as she circled the block, looking for a parking spot.

There was one, right between the wine store and the restaurant. Perfect. She picked up dinner and put it in the car before going to get the wine.

El deliberately put the thoughts of Neal out of her head and concentrated on finding a nice red to go with their dinner. She would have been successful, except for an all-too familiar voice in the next aisle.

“Moz – you opened my last bottle of Brunello, you’re going to replace it.”

The reply was slightly nasal and slightly offended. “And you drank about half of what was left.”

“You let yourself into my house and you opened a hundred dollar bottle of wine. That takes balls.”

“And I was only there because you asked me to come.”

Unable to restrain her curiosity any longer, El walked around the display of mid-priced Spanish reds to find Neal and the man he was complaining to. “Neal?”

His immediate expression was one of surprised pleasure, and Elizabeth might have taken encouragement from that, except that it was quickly schooled into bland disinterest.

“Ah, hi – Elizabeth.”

They stood there awkwardly, until El remembered that she wanted to give Neal a piece of her mind. “You never called.”

The man shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged.

“You’ve been dodging us.”

Neal must have found the pattern in the store’s worn linoleum floor fascinating, because he wouldn’t look up from it. His friend, though, looked keenly interested.

El was embarrassed now. “Why? Were we too much? Did we offend you? Peter and I thought …” Her voice trailed off, she stood there, on the verge of tears.

Neal finally replied. “I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have left you hanging. You see, I …” Neal grimaced, he still wouldn’t meet her eyes. He looked to his friend and bit his lip before continuing. “You see –Mozzie here – he just came back to town. He and I, we’re … well, together.” As if to prove his point, Neal took the older man’s hand and planted a gentle kiss on the back of it.

The man pulled his hand free and glared at Neal.

Elizabeth blinked and nodded. Okay, if this was how Neal wanted to play it that was fine with her. She started to walk away. Then turned back, because it wasn’t fine and it wasn’t okay. She was going to have her say and then it would be done.

“You know, Neal – it’s a good thing you have someone else, because you’re not what Peter and I need in our lives.” Her tone was cutting, she hoped she drew blood. “We don’t ask much of our partners, but we do expect one thing – honesty, which is something you seem incapable of providing.”

El lifted her chin and delivered her coup de grâce. “We don’t need a coward in our lives, either.” She turned on her heel and walked out.

Go to Part Four: On DW | On LJ

Comments

[joy2190.livejournal.com]

Oh no, I know El felt justified in her choice of words but that must have cut poor Neal to the quick. Hopefully, with Moz back in town to help him things will be sorted out soon.

[elrhiarhodan]

Thank you! And yes, as you know - things do get sorted out ... eventually!