elrhiarhodan

A Life More Ordinary – Part One

Eight Years Ago

He felt guilty about leaving Neal and taking off for Europe for so long. But the offer from the University in Bern was too good to pass up. Besides, Neal was pretty well settled in veterinary school, he had a good place to live and it was way past time that the kid stood on his own two feet.

But for the past few months, Moz couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. He’d been busy and he sort of dropped off the face of the earth, but he did remember to send Neal the occasional email. And of late, those emails had gone unanswered.

Okay, so maybe Neal was pissed at him. They’d been so close for so long – like brothers – and when he didn’t come back to New York after Neal’s mother died, maybe the kid figured that he’d washed his hands of him.

But that didn’t explain why his emails were getting bounced back. Each one of Neal’s email accounts were reported as "not a registered user" or "mailbox full" or simply non-existent. And the one that Moz had insisted that Neal set up on a private darknet server, the one he made Neal promise to check every day, was getting no response.

He might have been a chemist, but Moz had contacts of all sorts. Friends in many places, both high and low, and he could have them investigate and report, but he needed to check on Neal himself. He needed to be a better friend. Of course, the university officials weren’t happy that he was not renewing his contract. They were worried that he was going to take their sensitive information and work for one of the big corporations. Clearly, they didn’t know him very well.

He sent another message to Neal just before his flight left, telling him that he was on his way back home. No surprise, there was no reply waiting for him when he landed in New York. Instead of heading to one of his remaining safe houses, Moz told gave the cabbie the address for Neal’s apartment on Riverside. The sense of dread increased with each mile, and he was almost ill by the time the taxi dropped him off in front of the old mansion where Neal was renting a room.

Three years ago, when he was getting ready to leave, Moz had spent some time getting to know June, Neal’s landlady. She seemed the motherly sort, in a rarified society grand dame way. Neal’s mother was more peripatetic than motherly – traveling the world in search of the perfect photograph and Neal needed someone to rely on. June seemed to fit the bill and Moz hadn’t worried about leaving Neal, at least not until Neal went dark on him.

He rang the bell and a maid answered. When he asked for Neal, all he got was a puzzled look.

"You know, Neal Caffrey? Tall, blue-eyed brunet, nice smile? Lives on the fourth floor?"

"No, no one lives on the fourth floor, mister. Maybe you’ve got the wrong address?"

The dread was sickening.

"Who is it, Marta?" A voice that Moz recognized called out from inside the house.

"Someone looking for someone named Neal. Says he lives here, but no one lives on the fourth floor, right."

June came into the foyer, holding a small dog. She was still beautiful, still had that society grand dame look about her. But her face was cast into a worried frown.

"I don’t know if you remember me…"

"Yes – you were Neal’s friend."

"I’m looking for him, but he doesn’t live here anymore?"

June sighed. "You should come in." She showed him into the front parlor and gestured for him to sit down. She closed the doors behind them and Moz wondered why they needed privacy.

"Do you know where Neal is?"

"Yes." Just a word, no other explanation offered. But her expression spoke volumes.

"Neal – is he … dead?"

"No." Again, a single word.

Moz wanted to be relieved by June’s denial, but her flat tone told him that where ever Neal was, she wasn’t happy about it.

"Will you at least tell me what’s going on?"

June took off the gloves, so to speak, dropping the polite society grand dame demeanor. "You just show up and demand answers? Where were you when Neal’s mother died? Where were you when he got involved with that son of a bitch? If you’re supposed to be Neal’s friend, you’ve been a pretty terrible one."

Moz looked at his hands. "I guess I deserve that. But I don’t know what’s going on. I can’t help him if you won’t tell me what’s happened."

June sat down next to him. Her anger gone, leaving only weariness. "You’re right, what’s important is Neal."

"Then tell me what’s going on. What do you need me to do?"

"Neal’s involved with someone. I’m afraid this man is going to kill him."

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

Mozzie always loved The Cloisters. This hushed bit of Europe at the northern end of Manhattan. He always loved the Unicorn Tapestries and the Medieval art – the combination of the divine and the mundane, the holy and the profane.

Neal did too.

June told him that The Cloisters was one of the very few places where Neal could go by himself these days, and it was one of the few places that he was willing to meet June. Neal was terrified that his lover (and Moz cringed at the word – no one who loved someone would do what the guy had done to Neal) would know if he went back to the house on Riverside and he'd punish him for that. Neal was also frightened that the guy would take it out on June. She was feisty but she wasn’t young and she lived alone. Neal had told her it was far too easy for her to be hurt and he wasn’t willing to risk that.

So, once every few weeks, they arranged to meet at the Cloisters, in the gallery with the famous tapestries. But today, Moz was going to meet Neal instead of June. He had everything prepared – the safe house, money, the escape route. And he also had a preliminary work up on the guy – Matthew Keller – and from what he'd learned in a few short days, Keller wasn't just abusive. He was evil.

According to the information June had provided, Keller fit the classic pattern of an abusive controller. She said that from the first, he had all but overwhelmed Neal with his attentions. They’d dated for just a few weeks before he was urging Neal to move in with him. June didn’t know why she disliked the man from the moment she’d met him – but she said her antipathy was almost instantaneous. Maybe it was that Keller was supposed to be an FBI agent, and her own interactions with law enforcement over the years were coloring her perceptions. So she kept her own counsel, and now regretted it. Neal had given into Keller's pressure to move out of his apartment in her house. Once that happened, Keller had started isolating Neal – from the little they had spoken before things turned violent – he was only allowed out to go to his classes. Keller needed to know where he was nearly every minute of the day. All his friends – and there were a precious few of those – were cut off.

At first, Neal wouldn’t hear anything bad about him; he had told her she was worried for nothing. Matthew loved him, he wanted to care for him and be with him and Neal was so very happy. That lasted for all of three months. But June refused to let Neal disappear out of her life, and had suggested that they meet one afternoon at the Cloisters. When Neal had refused to take off his sunglasses inside the dimly lit gallery, she knew what was happening to him. It took months of gentle pressure to just get him to admit that Matthew was hitting him, and at first he kept saying that he deserved it, that it was all his fault. Finally, he had told her that he was afraid that Matthew would kill him if he left.

Moz figured that Neal hadn’t told June everything – but he was grateful that Neal had at least admitted that the relationship had gone sour. It would be much more difficult to extract him if he thought he still loved the man. When he talked to Neal, he’d be able to judge just how much damage the guy had caused.

He had to be careful, though. If Neal thought he was being set up, that Moz was trying to stage an intervention, he just might run back to his abuser. His friend wasn’t stupid, but if he’d been brainwashed, anything was possible.

The gallery was dimly lit and Moz took up a position that gave him a good view of the bench where Neal was supposed to meet June. A little after two, Neal showed up, a cast on his hand and looking nothing like the vibrant young man that Moz had left behind two and a half years ago. He was poorly groomed, his hair long and greasy. Neal had always been slim, but now even the oversized sweater he was wearing couldn’t disguise the skeletal thinness of his body. What was worse was the way Neal moved, as if he were afraid of his own shadow, always looking over his shoulder.

Moz casually wandered over to bench where Neal was sitting. As he approached, he saw the bruises on Neal’s face. He swallowed his rage and pretended that this was a meeting of pure chance.

"Neal?"

His friend looked up, eyes wide, like a startled deer before they clouded in shame. "Hey, there." Neal’s voice was hoarse, as if he had a bad cold. "When did you get back to New York?"

Somehow, Moz didn’t think that Neal was sick. But he answered casually. "About a week ago. Bern was getting boring and there’s only so much chocolate a man can eat."

That barely got a smile out of Neal. "You’re looking prosperous, Moz."

"I’m okay. But you, mon frère look like shit."

Neal, of course, denied that anything was wrong. Moz knew better. He carefully lifted Neal to his feet and pulled at his sweater, exposing finger-shaped bruises around his throat. Even though he knew the answer, Moz still had to ask. "Who did this to you?"

Shame washed across Neal’s face. He didn’t answer.

"Neal…"

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

Moz knew the details, but he needed to get them from Neal, too. It was a horrible thing to force his friend to say what was happening to him out loud, but unless he did, Moz couldn’t be positive that Neal wouldn’t go back to that bastard. Not that he wasn’t going to do everything possible to prevent that, but it meant different plans, different safeguards.

Neal started to talk, his voice raw. Even though he could barely speak above a whisper, Moz didn’t trust that there weren’t people listening, and he herded Neal out of the museum, towards the Heather Gardens.

His interrogation was gentle but relentless. It was so difficult not to give vent to his own anger, to keep pretending that this was just a chance meeting and that he was acting on the instant opportunity. By the time Neal had finished his recitation, Moz knew that Neal wasn’t going to go back to Keller if he had the chance to escape.

Things became a lot easier.

He gave Neal instructions on how to travel to the safe house he had set up, grateful that his friend didn’t think to ask why, after over two years in Europe, he had one ready and waiting. He gave him money, the security code and a burner phone before hustling him into a cab. Moz wasn’t sure that sending Neal off alone was the best thing to do, but he didn’t have a choice. He needed to meet with some friends who would help him start the process of destroying Matthew Keller, FBI agent.

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

Guns weren’t ordinarily his thing. But that didn’t mean that he couldn’t find a use for them. Waiting for Matthew Keller to come home, he checked and re-checked the Ruger. Full magazine – check. One round chambered – check. Silencer attached – check. Sights aligned – check. Safety off – check.

Moz didn’t like the idea of killing a Fed, and not because he had any respect for the Bureau or its agents. But if ever there was a Fed that needed killing, his name was Matthew Keller.

Sallie came up aces, hacking into the Bureau computers and put her network of fellow information brokers at his disposal. In the five days since Moz had set Neal on the path to freedom, he’d amassed a dossier on Keller that should give the Suits nightmares for decades. Copies of the data were already landing on desks in New York and D.C., and his own people had instructions to release the information to certain other people – of the Russian persuasion – if Moz himself disappeared. Of course, Moz might just decide to give them the information anyway.

It was a good thing he was a patient man, because Matthew Keller didn’t come home for another two hours. Moz had used the time well, though. He’d retrieved Neal’s driver’s license and passport and other important papers. He also helped himself to most – but not all – of the cash he found under the floorboard. Twenty grand would go a long way in financing Neal’s new life.

He also prepped the room for a potential disposal.

Spread out on the floor was a brand new plastic tarp and there was a roll of duct tape in the backpack resting against the chair. Amazing stuff, duct tape. So useful. There was also a spray bottle of bleach in case it got messy.

A little after six, Keller burst into the apartment and slammed the door behind him. From his vantage point in the bedroom, Moz watched Keller take off his holster, and in an extremely bizarre move, put the gun in the fridge and take out a beer. He waited as Keller checked the answering machine, listening to him as he cursed that there were no messages on it. Presumably the crash and clatter was the poor, blameless machine being flung across the room.

It was actually kind of surreal listening to Keller rage about Neal, how he was going to take him apart piece by piece, how he’d beg for death once he was done with him. But if only he’d come home.

The tantrum went on for another ten, fifteen minutes. Keller finally calmed down, and Moz could hear him panting like an overheated dog. He hoped that Keller would finally come into the bedroom – he was getting bored waiting.

And at last, he did.

The man was not only evil, but surprisingly careless as well. He didn’t even turn the light on and check the shadows. Moz made no attempt to hide, but it took Keller more than a few seconds to realize he wasn’t alone. His reaction to stepping on the plastic tarp would have been amusing if not for the fact that Moz was ready to kill him.

"What the fuck?"

Moz turned on the floor lamp, erasing the shadows. The gun stayed in his lap, for the moment.

"Who the hell are you?"

"My name isn’t important." Moz got down to business. "What’s important is that you are going to forget you ever met Neal Caffrey or that you ever met any of his friends or relations. He doesn’t exist for you, and from this moment forward, he never did."

"And why is that?" Keller didn’t sound quite like a mad dog now. More like a wolf before it ripped your throat out.

"Because if you don’t, this – " Moz tossed a file onto the floor. "Will end up in the hands of OPR within the hour."

Keller bent down and picked up the file, keeping his eyes on Moz; Moz didn’t break eye contact. Keller finally looked down – not as a gesture of submission – instead to examine the contents. The man had a terrible poker face – or maybe he simply wasn’t bothering to hide his emotions.

"You think you’ve won something, sweetheart?"

"Well, you’re certainly no prize."

"You’re a dead man, you know that?"

"No, actually you are. You’re about as close to death as you’ve ever been in your entire life." Moz lifted the gun. "I could kill you now and save myself a lot of heartache."

Keller sneered, and one hand started to disappear behind his back.

"Your hands stay where I can see them." Moz kept the gun steady.

"And if I agree to forget about Caffrey? What then?"

"You live, I burn all my copies of that file, and we never see each other again."

"Why should I trust your word?"

Moz snapped back, "Why should I trust you at all? It’s quite a philosophical problem, isn’t it? The classic ethical dilemma. We both have something the other wants, but unless we trust each other, neither of us will be satisfied." Moz paused for effect, and then sighted the gun at Keller’s chest. "Or I could kill you like the vermin you are, roll you up in the plastic and dump your body where it would never be found. Did you know that the continental shelf drops to a half mile deep just thirty miles out? That’s a long, long way down. Of course, it’s possible that the sharks would get to your body before it settled."

He must have been convincing as a hit man, because Keller gave in. "So kill me and be done with it." There was actually a touch of fear under the bravado. Good.

"I think not. At least, not today. But I’ll be watching and listening. You make a move towards Neal or anyone he’s associated with, and I won’t give you the courtesy of a warning. I’ll drop you where you stand and be done with it." Moz meant every word. He’d never killed a man, but he could end this bastard without losing a moment’s sleep.

Keller gave him a brief nod and Moz stood up. But he wasn’t a fool; he kept the gun pointed at him. "So, we have a deal?"

"Yeah, we have a deal. I never heard of that little prick, Neal Caffrey."

"And?"

"Or his friends. Satisfied?"

For the moment, he was. "Then there’s nothing left to say."

Keller spat at his feet.

Moz didn’t turn his back on Keller as he made his way out of the apartment, but the space between his shoulder blades itched until he was on the street and in the subway. He hoped he wouldn’t have to kill the man. He hoped the FBI would take him out of play and then the Russians would finish the job.

But if they didn’t, Moz wouldn’t hesitate. Killing Matthew Keller would be like putting down a rabid dog. A public service.

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

Now

Elizabeth looked at her watch for the umpteenth time in the last ten minutes and started to drum her fingernails on the table. Neal was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. "He’s bailed on us." Disappointment was thick in her voice.

"Hon, something might have come up." Peter responded. He was upset, too, but didn’t want to let it show.

That didn’t seem to mollify her. "He could have called; he could have let us know he was going to be late." El picked up her wineglass and Peter was surprised at how much her hands were shaking. "He’s not coming."

Peter sighed. He didn’t want to agree with his wife in this instance, he didn’t want to think that Neal had skipped out on their first "official" date without so much as a courtesy call or even a text message. But given the man’s history, it was quite possible that he’d decided he wasn’t ready for taking the next step in a relationship with them. "Let me call him."

Neal’s cell phone went right to voice mail, and the phone in his clinic rang until the machine picked up. Peter didn’t bother to leave a message. "Let’s give him a little while longer, okay?"

El shrugged. It was a gesture that should have conveyed her lack of concern but only showed how much she was hurt.

"Hon? Do you want to just go now?"

"No. No – I should be more patient. Neal’s got very justifiable issues, but I thought that after everything, he’d trust us enough to let us know that he couldn’t handle a dinner date."

His wife sounded so sad. Peter got up and slid into the banquette next to her. They’d picked a local diner, someplace low-key and ordinary. So ordinary, in fact, that this could barely be considered a dinner date at all, unless it was the 1950‘s, you were sixteen years old and hoping to share a milkshake with your high school crush.

"It’s okay, hon. You’ve been so strong and it’s hard to hold back when you want something so much."

El rested her head against Peter’s shoulder. "I know I need to be more patient, I know that this is a huge step for him. But sometimes …"

Peter kissed his wife’s brow and let the last word linger. He didn’t need to fill in the blank. She’d been through so much over the past year and he wished, more than anything, he could just give her everything she wanted. She’d been his rock, the very foundation of his life and she kept him moving forward when everything in him wanted to just give up. And when Neal had disappeared out of their lives so soon after they’d met, she had taken it badly.

They waited for another twenty minutes before courtesy (and boredom) dictated that they give up their table. It was Friday, and the late October evening was chilly, but there were people were lined up outside, waiting to be seated.

Peter paid for the two glasses of wine, left a generous tip and escorted Elizabeth outside. The diner was close enough to home that they walked, which was good exercise for his still healing leg. He couldn’t help but think of how much he had anticipated the end of this meal, walking home with Elizabeth on one side, Neal on the other. They might not have ended up doing anything more than sharing kisses at the front door, but damn, he’d been looking forward to those kisses all week.

When they got home, El let Satchmo out in the backyard and Peter checked his phone again. Still no call, no text, no nothing from Neal. He tried not to be irritated. That was the last thing that Neal needed, a jealous and controlling boyfriend, although Peter cringed at the term boyfriend.

And yet, he couldn’t help but worry. He’d thought that Neal had trusted them enough to let them know if something bothered him, if they were moving too fast. In the two months since Neal had told them about the horror story that Matthew Keller had made of his life, the three of them had moved forward, very slowly, very carefully, towards a relationship.

They’d fallen into the habit of going for walks together. Sometimes Elizabeth joined them, but it was usually just him and Satchmo and Neal. He’d take the puppy and walk to Neal’s office in the late afternoon, just as clinic hours were ending and they’d walk home together. It was perfect, since Neal lived just a handful of blocks away.

Most nights, Peter invited Neal in for coffee, hoping it would lead to something more. But Neal almost always declined and they’d end the walk at the curb in front of the house. But earlier this week, Neal made the first move and brushed his lips against Peter’s. It was nothing like the kiss they’d shared after the first time Neal had come for dinner – before Peter and El learned just how wary, just how damaged Neal was. That kiss was brief, tentative, but Peter could feel the desire humming between them. It took all his willpower not to step closer, not to prolong the contact, not to overwhelm Neal.

Neal had stepped back, wearing a wry smile. He just said goodnight and like every other night, Peter watched him as he walked down the block. Satchmo whimpered and strained on his leash, wanting to follow. Peter didn’t even tug on the leash; he felt exactly the same way.

With that single, fleeting kiss, Peter knew that they were getting closer to the next stage in this relationship. Neal had met him for lunch a few times, and he had dinner at the house. Afterwards, the three of them sat together and watched the ball game, which was constantly interrupted by Satchmo trying to climb onto Neal’s lap. Last Sunday, Neal had invited them over for brunch.

Tonight; however, was the first time that they had made plans to go out together as a threesome. Neal was going to meet them at the diner; ostensibly nothing more than three friends getting together for an easy meal. Then home, where Peter and El hoped they’d start exploring how far they could push each other’s boundaries. To Peter, it seemed such so harmless, so free of anything to fear, but then, he only had the barest outline of what Neal had suffered.

Through a strange set of coincidences, he knew Matthew Keller, former FBI agent and a disgrace to his badge. He knew just how evil and sadistic the man had been and when his Russian connections ended his life in a supposedly secure prison cell, Peter hadn’t mourned in the least. He always believed that justice was more effective than vengeance and he never condoned vigilantism, but now, knowing the horror that Keller had inflicted on Neal, Peter couldn’t stop wondering if he had the opportunity to "take care" of that rat bastard, if he could really let that opportunity pass him by.

Sometimes it was difficult to remember how badly Neal was damaged. They’d laugh and talk and argue and he’d hold his own against him and El, not afraid to get his point. And then there were those moments when Peter would see the terrible shadows in Neal’s eyes. How he’d flinch at loud voices. Never his or El’s, but when they were walking home and encountered something unexpected. This was Brooklyn and there were always kids and hipsters about, and no one seemed to have any issue about having good natured shouting match on the street.

Neal would smile and pretend that nothing was wrong, but Peter knew otherwise.

El came back inside with Satchmo, who took it into his head that Peter wanted to play "chase me." The puppy was barking and running around the living room like, well, a puppy.

Over Satchmo’s barks, El said, "I think he needs a real walk, hon."

The dog must have understood, because he rushed over to the coatrack where his leash hung and kept barking at Peter to take him out. "My lord and master commands, how can I not obey?"

El gave him a shove. "Take him for a good long walk and I’ll fix us something for supper."

He put Satchmo’s leash on and gave his wife a quick grin and an awkward bow, "My lady and mistress commands, how can I not obey?"

As Satch almost pulled him down the front steps, Peter realized, at almost eleven months old, the pup was nearly full grown. It was well past the time that he should be a little more disciplined. Not that his boy was badly behaved or destructive, he just got overly enthusiastic at the wrong times. Like the end of the day when all good dogs should be content to curl up in their beds and let their masters and mistresses enjoy their evenings at home.

Peter wondered if Neal could recommend a trainer.

And thinking of Neal brought back the general feeling of anxiety about his lack of communication. He tugged at Satchmo’s leash and headed towards the office. His dog, realizing that they were going to visit one of his favorite humans, tried to establish a brisk pace, but Peter shortened the lead, bringing Satch up short. He had a difficult workout with the physical therapist this afternoon and wasn’t up to anything more strenuous than a slow amble down Warren Street.

As they approached, Peter’s worry doubled. Cobble Hill was a family oriented neighborhood, but no place in New York City was immune from crime. Here he was, with an exuberant puppy, a barely healed leg injury and no sidearm going to check on someone who’d been unaccountably absent. One part of him said to turn off the cop instincts, another part suggested that he might want to call for backup or at least go back to the house, drop off the dog and get his gun, and the remaining part…

Well, that part felt a thread of fear as he arrived at Neal’s office and saw that the lights were still on.

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

Neal sat on the floor of the operating room, head buried in his hands. This might have been the worst moment of his life since he became a practicing veterinarian – his professional life, that was to say.

He’d been about to close up for the weekend, eager to meet Peter and Elizabeth for their first dinner date when someone pounded on the door, begging for help.

A small, tear-stained child rushed in, followed by a man holding a badly wounded dog.

The father pleaded, "She was mauled – can you save her?"

But Neal couldn’t. He tried and tried, but there was too much damage. Not only had other dogs torn at her face and throat, but they savaged her belly, which held her near-term pups. As the dam bled out, Neal tried to save at least one, but it was a futile effort. All of them were dead.

The cops came, animal control came, the little girl’s mother and grandmother came, but Neal knew none of this as he tried to do the impossible. When he came out of the operating room and was confronted by the hopeful looks of that poor dog’s owners, his heart broke all over again.

Neal stood there, blood on his scrubs, surgical cap in hand, feeling utterly bereft.

Neal had apologized to the family, explaining as gently as possible, that her wounds had been too severe, and that even the puppies, just a week from term, had been killed. He probably shouldn’t have said, "I’m sorry. I tried." He probably just created a liability nightmare for himself, but looking at those faces, how could he not apologize for failing to do the impossible?

The family left first; then Neal made a more official statement to the police and animal control officers. They told him that since it was a criminal matter – apparently the attacking dogs’ owners had trained them to go after other animals – the carcass would need to be transferred to the city for an autopsy.

Finally left alone, Neal returned to the small operating room and wrapped up the poor beast, transferring her to a cold storage unit. By rote, he cleaned the room and the harsh odor of the disinfectant quickly overwhelmed the metallic tang of blood. Surgical tools were dumped in the autoclave, disposables were disposed of, and in a matter of minutes the room was mostly restored to its prior pristine condition. He’d have his assistant, Mike, clean it more thoroughly. He was exhausted and heartsick. Unable to do another thing, Neal just sank to the cold, tiled floor.

Neal might have sat there all night, but the ringing phone at the front desk cut through his peace like a knife. He wanted to ignore the noise, but thought better of it and levered himself off the floor to go answer it. It could be the police, following up. It could be another emergency. It could be something important.

It was Peter.

The answering machine clicked on just as Neal made it to the reception desk.

"Neal – it’s me, Peter. Look, I’m not tracking you down or stalking you or anything, but Satch and I are standing in front of your office and the lights are on. We – El and I – were kind of concerned when you didn’t show tonight and we couldn’t reach you …" Peter trailed off and Neal could hear the worry and the embarrassment. "Look, if you can, let us know you’re okay? I don’t want to barge in, but I’m a little worried. I needed to take Satch for a walk and we sort of ending up taking our usual route … "

Shit. Dinner. He hadn’t given a thought to Peter and Elizabeth or their dinner date for hours, even after the emergency ended.

Peter’s voice echoed through the waiting room as Neal, moving like an old man, made his way to the front door and opened it.

Peter was standing there, cellphone in one hand, Satchmo’s leash in the other. The Lab barked and wagged his tail and Peter smiled in relief, at least until he took in Neal’s bloodied surgical scrubs.

"What happened? Is everything all right?"

"I’m sorry, there was an emergency."

They spoke over each other, and Neal gestured for Peter to come in. Peter didn’t say anything and Neal was grateful. He gestured at his blood-soaked surgical scrubs. "Just give me a few minutes, I need to change – get out of this."

Peter nodded, eyes filled with compassion and understanding. "Sure – no problem. We’ll wait for you."

Neal waved a hand towards to chairs, not waiting to see if Peter took a seat, and headed back to the examination rooms. Before starting surgery, Neal had taken just a few seconds to strip and put on a sterile gown and as he ripped that gown off, he saw that his whole torso was stained with blood.

It took all his strength not to retch into the sink, and he was able to wash up. Neal told himself that he should be tougher than this, but it was hard to get over the senselessness of it.

Dressed and somewhat in control of his emotions, Neal rejoined Peter in the waiting room. Before Peter could speak, Neal raised a hand, cutting him off. "I’m sorry I spoiled our plans tonight." He knew, objectively, that Peter wasn’t angry and he appreciated that the man was even worried that he would seem stalkerish and controlling, but the emotional toll of his failure brought back too many old insecurities.

"It’s okay." Peter – who was far too perceptive – just let go of Satchmo’s lead and the dog ran to him. And like his master, Satch picked up on Neal’s distress and didn’t jump or bark or try to get him to play, like he usually did. He just sat at Neal’s feet, his tail swishing against the floor, his eyes bright and his nose cold as he shoved it under Neal’s hand.

Without thinking, Neal dropped to his knees and hugged Peter’s dog, reveling in the joyful life he had in his arms. Satch whimpered and licked at his face until Neal finally let go. As he stood up, he grabbed the leash and handed it back to Peter. "Hold on, I need to leave some notes."

Mike would be in tomorrow to feed and take care of the handful of animals who were boarded or staying for observation and to make sure that the Demon Creature, who thankfully slept through the evening’s trauma, had fresh water and food. Neal left him a note about giving the operating room a more extensive cleaning and to contact him if there were any messages from the police or animal control.

He shut off the lights and waited for Peter and Satchmo to go outside before locking up. Days like today made him regret so many things.

GO TO PART TWO: ON DW | ON LJ