White Collar Fic - Weep to Break the World - Part One of Two

[elrhiarhodan]

Title: Weep to Break the World – Part One
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Reese Hughes, Diana Berrigan, Clinton Jones, Neal Caffrey, June Ellington, OMC; Pre-Peter/Neal, past Neal/Kate, suggestion of Peter/Elizabeth
Word Count: ~14,000 (two parts)
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Mention of canon death of canon character
Beta Credit: sinfulslasher
Artwork: kanarek13
Summary: An A/U riff on Pilot, where Neal is not successful in his attempt to break out of prison. Peter goes to Sing-Sing to deal with the fallout. It is, once more, the start of a very beautiful friendship.

Author’s Note: Written for the second night of Fic-Can-Ukah, for theatregirl7299, who picked the prompt "Instructions on How to Cry". We had joked a little bit about some non-con Peter/Neal tentacle fic. This is NOT that story.



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There are many myths and stories about dragons. Not that they are creatures of mystery, of legend. No, dragons are real. Everyone knows that. Everyone's seen them flying overhead, as big as the biggest passenger airplanes, and just as fast.

The dragons are feared as much as they're loved, and that's why there are so many stories about them.

One of the oldest, and the most untrue, is that dragons don't cry – that they feel no mortal emotions. That's where the sayings come from, "As rare as dragon's tears." Or a newscaster, reporting on some politician's fake attempts at expressing sympathy for the downtrodden, might say he was "crying dragon's tears."

But dragons do feel, they do cry. And when that happens, the world can shatter.

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

"Burke, my office." Peter looked up from his consultation with young Clinton Jones, and Hughes could see that Peter was annoyed by the command. At least he hadn't added his usual double finger point to the summons. Hughes knew the gesture was slightly humiliating, but it was extremely effective on the rank and file. Not that Peter Burke was rank and file in any respect.

No, Peter was his most senior agent; he was Kin, and a Dracon as prideful as he was intelligent. In Human eyes, he appeared several decades older than Peter, and to those short-lived and fragile creatures, those decades were significant. But not to their own kind. Draconis measured their lives in centuries, not decades. Peter was no youngling – not like Jones or Berrigan.

But despite Peter's age, a mere hundred or so less than his own, Hughes was worried about him.

He waited for Peter to come upstairs and go into his office. He shut the door and not for the first time regretted the fragile glass walls. Some foolish Human designer thought they promoted the image of transparency and accountability in the FBI. Which was fine, except in a division where almost all of the agents were Draconis, and two of them – him and Peter – were older than the country which they served.

Dracon sub-vocalizations – especially those of older Draconis – could shatter even the thickest, most tempered glass as if it were a hummingbird's eggshell. Strong emotions could wreak havoc, too. In the last five years, Hughes had all of the walls replaced at least a dozen times. It was getting expensive. He didn't want to think about the time that Peter and Ruiz got into it and blew out every window on the twenty-first floor.

"What's the matter?" Peter didn't take a seat; he just stood against the wall, arms across his chest.

"I'm concerned." Hughes wasn't the type of man to mince words. "About you."

Peter knew just what he was talking about. But he stood there, arms folded across his chest and doing his best imitation of a stone gargoyle. "I'm fine."

Hughes didn't believe him. "You've been telling me that for almost three years. And it's only getting worse."

Peter snapped back, "And since when is three years a long time?"

It wasn't to the Draconis, but they did live in the mortal world. "I know it sounds cruel, but it's long enough, Peter, in this world, in this role. You need to deal with it and move on." Hughes sighed, knowing that he was blundering into difficult territory, but he had his reasons. Good reasons, but he probably should have chosen his words with more care.

"Move on? An agent – a friend – is dead, you're asking me to just let that go?"

"No, of course not. And I'd challenge anyone who wanted to mark this as a cold case. But your grief, Peter – it's destroying you."

Peter stalked over to the window and Hughes could feel the escalating vibrations of Peter's emotions. So he tried to diffuse the situation. "Maybe we should have had this conversation someplace a little less fragile?"

Peter turned back, a faint smile on his face. "Sorry. It's just …" He shook his head. "I know it's been three years, but I still have no answers. It's a wound that won't heal. You have to know what it's like to lose something precious. Something that belongs to you."

Hughes understood what Siegel's death meant to Peter; he was Dracon, after all. "And that's why I'm worried about you. You can't escape the loss while you're here. You need to take some time away. Go see Elizabeth. Maybe she can help you through this."

"My clan chief is a wise and beautiful Dracon, but she can't help me with this. I still need answers, Reese. I need to know what happened. Then maybe I can have some peace." Peter visibly tried to relax.

"There were no witnesses, Peter. We don't even know what Siegel was doing there in the first place. Maybe we'll never find out." Hughes immediately knew those words were a mistake. And perhaps something of a lie.

"I can't accept that. He was an FBI agent, he was mine!" The very air became thick with Peter's distress. The walls started to vibrate.

"Arash k'vark!" Calm yourself! Hughes' order, in the ancient tongue, sent the light fixtures flickering, but that was a small inconvenience against shattered walls and windows.

Peter obeyed, and the glass settled back into its solid state. "Sorry." Peter rubbed the back of his neck. "Maybe I do need to go away for a while. My control is … not what it should be."

Hughes nodded. "I have to tell you that you are dangerously close to crossing a line you can't come back from."

"I know, I know – but …"

"No buts, Peter." There was a time for sympathy and a time for command. "You're on leave for a month, starting tomorrow. You have the rest of the day to sort out your cases among your agents and then you're off. Go to the mountains. Shed this skin, ride the sky, find your control again."

Peter looked like he was about to argue, but Hughes held up a hand. "I'm serious, Peter. It's for your own good. You're too important to lose, too."

Peter finally sat down, his posture one of acceptance and defeat.

Satisfied that Peter would comply with his order, Hughes picked up his pen and was about to sign off on the forms the Human bureaucrats required – the ones that would authorize Peter's leave – when Peter's probationary agent knocked on the door.

Through the glass, Hughes could read the troubled expression on her face, and he gestured for her to enter. "What's the matter?"

She handed him the file, but spoke to Peter. "Neal Caffrey tried to escape this morning."

Peter looked up, puzzled. "What? Why would he do that? He's got just three months left on a four year sentence."

Trust Peter to know exactly how long Caffrey had been in prison and how much time he had left on his sentence.

"Don't know, boss. But a guard at Sing-Sing caught him just as he was walking out the front door. He'd gotten hold of a guard's uniform, correct down to the boots, and recoded a magnetic key to get through the check points. Caffrey would have made it out the front gate but someone noticed that he was missing the one thing you couldn't buy online – a badge. Someone stopped him, and all hell broke loose."

"Caffrey? That doesn't make any sense. He's as non-violent as they come." Peter looked at him for confirmation.

Hughes had to agree. "The man hates guns, hates the thought of hurting people – at least in a non-financial sense. We know he walked away from a half-dozen high profile, high-stakes jobs because of the potential for collateral damage."

Diana didn't disagree. "Look at the file, sir. It's not what you'd expect."

Hughes did just that. His shock blew the light bulb in his desk lamp. "K'vfarl Caffrey um-Dracon!"

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

Peter didn't know what surprised him more: his old friend's loss of control or the news that Neal Caffrey, master forger, thief and all-around con artist, was one of their kin. He brushed off the shards of glass that decorated his tie and held out his hand for the file.

The warden's notes were telling.

Neal Caffrey, Prisoner 05-1207-93451-A, was apprehended on October 23 as he attempted to escape from Sing-Sing Penitentiary via the main gate. As Caffrey was subdued, he began to transform into a dragon. Lt. William Halbend administered a dose of No-Flight into the prisoner's carotid artery and halted the transformation. Caffrey has been transferred to a secure subterranean holding pending transfer to more appropriate penal facilities.

He remains in an unconscious state.

Lt. Halbend will be cited for bravery in the line of duty. He sustained minor injuries when Caffrey began his transformation.

It should be noted that Neal Caffrey has never been identified as a dragon and has been a model prisoner since commencing incarceration. Caffrey's associates have been interviewed and no one was aware of any reason why he would try to escape.

Peter was mildly amused at that last sentence. Did the warden actually expect any of the inmates to admit that they were aware of Caffrey's plans? But that was the least of his concerns.

"Caffrey, a Dracon." Reese just shook his head. "How the hell did we miss that?"

"We didn't miss it. I knew everything about Neal Caffrey, from the moment he was born until I slapped the cuffs on him. His father's crimes, his mother's collapse, his time in WitSec, his shoe size, his favorite brand of condoms, and what he liked to eat for breakfast the morning before a big heist."

Diana suggested, "Maybe he's a sport? Or maybe James Bennett wasn't his father. We don't even know if Caffrey was aware of his bloodline." Diana shuddered delicately at the idea of living such a life of ignorance.

"Anything's possible, but I don't like this. I don't like that there are Draconis unaccounted for in the Book of Fire. I don't like that Neal Caffrey is Kin and he's spent nearly four years in prison."

"Peter – do I need to remind you that you're about to go on leave?" Reese sounded stern, but Peter could hear him giving up on the order. This was too delicious a challenge, and if there was anyone who was going to sort out the mystery of Neal Caffrey, Dracon, it would be him.

And only him.

Diana just stood there, a smirk on her lips, as if she knew his plans.

"My leave is cancelled. At least until I get this sorted out."

"You mean, until you get Caffrey sorted out. And let me also remind you that the last time you tried that, you chased him for three years."

Peter felt something he hadn't realized had been missing since David's death: a burst of barely leashed anticipation, the joy of the hunt, the utter fascination that came with having a new puzzle to solve. He was almost out the door before he realized it.

Reese stopped him with a gentle inquiry. "Peter?"

Peter grinned. "I'll keep you informed."

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

Bound and contained in a windowless cell with walls of steel and stone, Neal Caffrey dreamed of flight. And Kate.

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There were few times that Peter resented the strictures put on his kind who were FBI agents. He could have been in Ossining in a half-hour, maybe less, if he could have shed this mortal skin and flown. But there were rules, and while he'd spent much of the past twenty years paying lip service to many of them, there was one he couldn't break and keep his badge: No Dracon could show its true form and remain an FBI agent.

It wasn't the FBI, but the Dracon clan leaders – the most ancient of the Kin – who had made that rule. The Humans – the "soft-skins" – in the Bureau knew about the Draconis in their ranks. Perhaps the tiny dragon lapel pins they all wore were a dead giveaway.

The clan leaders were wise. Given Dracon strength and power and longevity, it would be too easy to abuse the soft-skins, and threaten them with fear. Too easy to break their laws and risk outright war. Breaking cover was deemed an absolute breach of discipline, whether you were the rawest probie or a highly decorated veteran agent. "Showing scales" in the line of duty meant you were out, for good. No exception, no excuse.

Peter knew he'd been riding the edge of his control for too long, ever since he saw David Siegel's blue eyes staring up, sightless, into a rain-dark sky, a bullet hole in his chest.

The pain of David's death was complicated by guilt. He'd been the one to recruit David from the Bureau's Chicago office. He was a promising young agent, sharp and smart, and by the shards of his birth egg, he liked smart. It hadn't mattered to him that David was Human. David was his.

Oh, not in any tawdry sense. Peter knew better than to have sex with soft-skins. They were too fragile, too easily damaged. There were plenty of Draconis who enjoyed fucking Humans and Peter had had his share with soft-skins of both sexes, but he'd never been fully satisfied by such a limited type of sexual congress. It was okay if you had an itch, but it wasn't mating on the wing…

No, he'd made David part of his personal hoard. David's life, his work, his honor, belonged to Peter. That someone took that from him before his Human shell wore out was an unthinkable crime.

Peter took a deep breath and relaxed his hands. The FBI pool car he was using was dragon-hardened, but in this mood, he was strong enough to break iron.

He forced himself to stop thinking about David and the mystery of his death. He was going to see Neal Caffrey, a man as different from David Siegel as the sun was from the moon.

Well, not exactly. Caffrey was smart, as smart as Siegel. But not simply in the way that cunning criminals were smart. Neal Caffrey was profoundly intelligent, with the ability to see patterns and predict moves that was almost supernatural. Peter wondered, in hindsight, if it was because he was Dracon.

Peter tapped his fingers against the steering wheel as he waited for the traffic to clear and wished, yet again, that he could simply fly to his destination. He reminded himself that he was older than the road. Older than the city. Older than this whole country, and he should be old enough to have the patience to wait a few moments for a light to change.

The traffic started to move and Peter turned north on the Henry Hudson. It was one of those beautiful autumn days that reminded him why he stayed amongst the soft-skins. They had their boats out on the river; their tall, gleaming buildings glowed like gems along the horizon. Some of them were his – he'd claimed them as part of his hoard – although it was unlikely that the occupants knew that. It didn't matter. He knew who they belonged to. Other Draconis in the area knew, and not one of them was brave enough to challenge him.

Except for the one who killed David Siegel.

Peter took a deep breath and deliberately turned his mind from that thought and back to Neal Caffrey.

Neal had come to his attention when a number of corporate bearer bonds began turning up at local banks. The bonds were old but still negotiable, and the banks cashed them, only to discover that they were forgeries. Peter had a dual interest in the case – as law enforcement and as a major shareholder in the company that purportedly issued those bonds. The amounts were negligible – less than a hundred thousand in total, and barely worth filing an insurance claim for – but the work that went into creating the forgeries was stunning. It captured Peter's imagination like no case had in a long time.

Even now, thinking about Neal Caffrey and his crimes – his alleged crimes – sent his pulse racing.

When he started tracking the bonds, he'd found Caffrey, and lost him in the same moment. Peter was patient. He was Dracon. The next three years were spent chasing rumors and gossip and leads that barely deserved the name. The chase was fun, and he was sad when it ended. With each near-miss, his respect for Caffrey had grown until it almost broke his heart when he finally caught him.

But he did catch Neal and by the time he'd sprung his trap in a storage facility in Hoboken and arrested him, Peter was convinced that he needed to add this smart, clever Human to his personal hoard.

Caffrey's lawyer was good and the only crime he was convicted of was the original bond forgery. Peter was okay with that. Caffrey was Human (or so he'd thought at the time) and he'd lose a part of his life to cold iron and colder concrete – Human penalties for Human justice. Once Caffrey's sentence was handed down, he put his personal seal on Caffrey's file. Four years – to a Dracon – was barely a blink of an eye. Once he got out, Peter would make good on his claim and that would be that. Caffrey was all but his.

He never told his Kin, or the FBI, of his plans. Caffrey was Human, and his place in Peter's hoard was no one's business but his own.

Then David happened and tragedy followed. Peter had all but forgotten about Caffrey. Now, though, it looked as if his rights to Caffrey were about to change. If the warden's report was accurate, there was no way he'd be allowed to either rot in prison or roam free. But making another Dracon part of his own personal hoard was not something undertaken lightly.

Especially if that Dracon was Neal Caffrey.

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

Neal tried to roll over and escape the brightness. The lights automatically came on in the cell block at six in the morning, every damned day. Too bright, too early. He needed just a few more minutes sleep, if just to recapture the dream of flight.

But he couldn't roll over. He was tied down – there were straps over his chest, his hand and feet were shackled and the harder he fought, the tighter those shackles grew.

He stilled, and broken bits of memory came to him. Sneaking into the guards' john, shaving his scruffy beard, getting into the uniform, walking past the row of his fellow convicts, sweating hard into the dark blue shirt, knowing that if he made one wrong glance, took one wrong move, he'd be busted.

He'd made it through the three security gates and was out the door when disaster hit. That sadist, Halbend, who'd been after his ass since the day he'd arrived, recognized him.

But what happened after was a blur. He remembered Halbend grabbing his arm; he remembered the fear that came with his unmasking, and then anger. A deep, uncontrollable rage like fire in his blood. He needed to get to Kate, and Halbend was in his way.

Neal remembered reaching for Halbend, and then, nothing.

He must have done something terrible to warrant this treatment. He must have hurt the man, and no matter what kind of sadist Halbend was, Neal was ill at the thought.

The remembered anger rolled through him again when he realized that his chance to find Kate was gone. He struggled against the bonds and felt them start to give way. Something, though, felt wrong. He didn't feel like himself – like this skin wasn't his. That it was too soft, too fragile, too small. Neal heaved against the bonds and heard the metal shriek.

"Now, now, none of that…"

Neal couldn't see who spoke and he didn't recognize the voice. He kept fighting until he felt a sharp pinch, a different sort of burn in his blood. And then nothing…

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Peter wondered how someone as incompetent and ineffectual as Haskley became the warden for such a major prison as Sing-Sing. Or maybe he wasn't incompetent, just Human. Peter had always thought that running a prison should rightfully be a Dracon's job, with its ready-made, built-in hoard.

But that was irrelevant. He asked Haskley, "Why would Neal run with three months left on a four year sentence? Was he scared of something? Someone?"

Haskley shrugged. "Caffrey was – until this morning – a model prisoner. Hell, there wasn't a convict or guard on his cell block who didn't like him."

Peter gave the man a sharp look. "Like him?"

Haskley realized what he had implied. "No, not like that. No one touched Caffrey. That was made clear from the day he arrived. No – he got along with everyone. Wrote letters for a lot of the guys. Taught a bunch of GED classes. Organized some art therapy sessions. Hell, he'd even arranged for the local animal shelter to bring puppies and kittens in for the cons to play with once or twice a month."

Peter did his best to stifle a smile. That sounded just like Caffrey.

Haskley continued, "Everyone liked him. No one would lay a finger on him, even if he wasn't under … your people's protection. He had no reason to run."

Which meant that Peter still had a mystery to solve. "I want to see his cell."

Haskley told Peter to follow him, not that he was in any position to deny Peter anything.

Caffrey's cell held no secrets. In fact, it was a mirror of the man he'd gotten to know so well. Meticulously neat, with artwork – most likely by his own hand – decorating the walls. A few books were on the bed and Peter picked one up. It was, of all things a collection of Rudyard Kipling's short stories. Not something he'd ever figured Caffrey reading, but then – why not? The bookmark was interesting – why would Caffrey be interested in a valet parking service at JFK? The other choice of reading material – a Chilton's manual for a 1978 Ford pickup – made more sense. Caffrey had probably been planning on hot wiring a vehicle.

He picked up a worn out razor and Haskley volunteered, "We found those with Caffrey's clothes in the staff john. He used it to shave his beard off."

Which didn't make sense to Peter. "Neal doesn't have a beard."

But apparently he did. Haskley took him to the cell block's security room and showed him. "The inmates are photographed every morning as they exit their cells."

Peter remarked, "I'd barely recognize him. But that's the point, isn't it? Caffrey gradually changes his appearance and you don't notice, so that when he radically changes it again, he can walk out the front door without anyone recognizing him. He was depending on your men's complacency. See a man in uniform, make an assumption, never look at the face." Peter was impressed. But then, he'd always been impressed by Neal.

Haskley disagreed. "Not everyone was taken in. We caught him before he escaped."

"We?"

The warden flushed at the derision in Peter's voice. "One of my top men did."

"Ah, right. That would be Lieutenant Halbend."

"Yes."

"I'd like to talk with him." Peter was curious about the one guard who saw through Caffrey's disguise. And he wanted to know just what had taken place right before Neal stopped shaving. He ordered, "Run the sequence back."

The technician reversed the playback. It was like watching a Human child's flipbook. It wasn't hard to pinpoint just when Caffrey let his grooming go to hell.

"What happened on that date? Did he have any visitors?"

Haskley handed him the log.

Peter was a little surprised at the name in the book. "Kate Moreau."

"She was here, every week."

"Really?" The Kate he had investigated had spent the better part of two years hiding from Neal. At least until Peter had convinced her to be their stalking horse.

"She showed up every Sunday, like clockwork."

"Hmm." Peter flipped back through the log book and saw her name week in and week out. But when he turned the pages forward, the entry next to Caffrey's name was blank. For six weeks running. "Do you keep video of the visitors' room?"

The tech grunted. "We do. No audio though."

Peter didn't need it, although he wished the resolution was better than the grainy black and white he was seeing. He said, mostly to himself, "She's not thrilled about this visit. Nor is Neal."

On the screen, Neal was pleading – holding up a hand against the partition wall. Kate was cold and determined, but there was something about her that made the scales under Peter's skin ripple with disgust. Even with the poor resolution, Peter could read the satisfaction in her eyes at Neal's emotional outburst.

This was the trigger point. But there was something else there.

"Run it again."

This time Peter focused on Neal Caffrey, on his reflection in the glass. "Stop. Go back a few seconds and then go frame by frame." The tech complied.

It was just an instant, but it told him everything he needed to know.

Neal Caffrey was Dracon.

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

The dream of Kate receded. Neal could barely remember what she looked like, the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand.

His world was filled with wings and blue sky and freedom.

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

Peter commandeered Haskley's office to interview Lieutenant William Halbend. He instinctively disliked the man. No Dracon could have warm feelings for anyone who carried hypos of No-Flight, a Human-invented drug that prevented Dracon transformation. But Peter was willing to withhold judgment. No-Flight was a strictly controlled substance and only front-line law enforcement were allowed to carry it. Peter told himself that Halbend had done his job.

And yet, from the moment that the prison guard came into the room, Peter despised him. A little rooster of a man, he wore his authority like a champion's belt. Peter was all too familiar with the type. But he had to go through with the interview. And besides, Hughes would be pissed if he "accidentally" ate the man.

Halbend stood at parade attention, his gaze going somewhere over Peter's left shoulder.

"Take a seat."

Halbend refused. "I'd prefer to stand."

Peter wasn't going to get into a pissing contest. "Fine. Tell me about this morning."

Halbend clicked his teeth, clearly not liking the preemptory tone Peter was using. "I got up, took a crap and a shower, had a bowl of Cheerios, and reported for duty."

Peter sighed. He didn't have time for this. "This morning, when you recognized Neal Caffrey. What happened?"

"Oh, that's what you wanted to know." Halbend smirked. "Saw a guard come out of the block, didn't recognize him at first, but I noticed he had no badge on." Halbend tapped the gold shield on his chest. "Then I took a closer look and realized it was Caffrey. I'd been figuring that he was going to make a run for it sooner or later. His chickie hadn't come by in a few weeks and I could see he was getting desperate to get out. So I was on the look-out, you know."

"You follow Neal Caffrey's doings?" That struck Peter as odd.

Halbend shrugged. "Yeah – he's a convict in my block. I'm just doing my job."

"Your vigilance is to be commended." Somehow, Peter doubted that Halbend knew if any other convict's visitors had stopped coming.

The guard gave him a smug look. "I believe the Warden mentioned something about a commendation."

"Yes, it's in his notes. You were injured?"

"Yeah, Caffrey started changing when I grabbed him." Halbend held up a hand. There was a bandage across his palm. "The bastard's scales sliced me open."

"And yet you still managed to pump him full of No-Flight."

"I keep my wits about me. And I guess that gives you the heebie-jeebies – the thought of getting stopped cold in your tracks like that. Or don't your kind feel that?" Halbend finally looked him in the eye.

Peter now understood the man's contempt. He'd bet every diamond in his hoard that Halbend was a member of HFHO – Humans First, Humans Only. If he pulled up the man's shirtsleeve, he'd probably find one tattoo proclaiming his absolute loyalty to the Human race and another that said "Death to Dragons". Hate groups like HFHO were a problem, but today, not his.

Peter dismissed Lieutenant William Halbend with a negligible wave of his hand, a gesture calculated to insult. He'd make his report and the prison guard would be taken care of.

Halbend left and Peter waited a few moments – he didn't want to run into the man again unless he had to. He checked his email, and amongst the two dozen items waiting for his attention, there was a message from Diana. She'd researched Neal's father and mother, his grandparents and great grandparents, but none of them were listed in the Book of Fire.

That troubled Peter more than he could say. It was possible that someone in Neal's lineage wasn't who they were supposed to be. Some Draconis did mate with Humans, and sometimes those Humans were fertile. It was rare, but not unheard of.

Or perhaps Neal Caffrey wasn't Neal Caffrey. Maybe he wasn't the son of James Bennett and Elaine Bennett, nee Caffrey. He might be someone else altogether, and maybe everything that Peter thought he knew about Neal was a lie.

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

"Time to wake up, Mr. Caffrey."

A voice broke through the dreams of endless flight. A hand slapped his face, and he opened his eyes. They were crusted over and refused to focus. All he could see was someone in a white lab coat standing over him.

"You've got a visitor and we need to make you presentable."

Another pinch of an injection and Neal felt a little more alert. He blinked against the bright light and carefully moved his arms. Someone had released the shackles.

"Get dressed." The door opened to let in a guard and the med tech left.

The guard tossed a pile of orange fabric at him. Standard issue prisoner's clothing – little more than scrubs. Once upon a time, he wouldn't have been caught dead in anything less than bespoke tailoring. But that was … once upon a time.

He dressed, avoiding the guard's eyes. At least it was Bobby, who never treated him with anything less than respect.

"I have a visitor?" It was too much to hope Kate had come back.

"Yeah, man. You caused quite a stir this morning. Guy's up from the city just for you."

Ah, not Kate. Neal slipped his feet into a worn pair of laceless sneakers. "Bobby? Did I … hurt anyone?"

Bobby huffed a laugh. "Nah, just gave that little pricklet, Halbend, a cut. He's going on about the Warden going to pin a medal on him. Don't you worry, though. We got your back."

"Thanks, Bobby."

"Don't mention it."

Neal wondered who his visitor was, and why anyone from Manhattan would want to see him. And then he shrugged; he'd find out soon enough.

Bobby ushered him into a small room reserved for convicts meeting with their lawyers. No glass partition, no telephones. Just a glass wall from where guards could monitor the safety of the parties. He'd met Moz in this room once or twice, before his friend had left for more fertile hunting grounds. During the walk down, Neal wondered if that was his visitor.

But he was mistaken. Not his old friend, Mozzie, but Special Agent Peter Burke, who was standing under the window, glowing in the light like some angel of justice.

"It's been a while."

"A few years, give or take."

"I guess, to your kind, those years don't really seem like much."

A small smile twisted on Burke's lips and Neal remembered how he'd once found the man almost irresistibly attractive. No, not man. Dragon.

"It's been long enough."

Neal sat down at one of the tables. "Come on, you didn't make the trip all the way from Manhattan just to pass the time of day."

Peter joined him and dropped a folder on the table. "No, I didn't."

"I guess you got word."

"Yup. A few hours after it happened." Peter sighed and gave him a puzzled look. "I have to ask myself, what makes a smart guy like you pull a boneheaded stunt like trying to escape from a maximum security prison with only three months left to go on your sentence. And then I saw this." He opened the folder. There was a photo of Kate – a screen capture from their last meeting, when she walked out. When she told him she was done with him. When she broke something inside of him.

Neal sighed, his grief still raw. "It looks like you figured that out quickly enough."

Peter's compassion was unexpected. "Smart men have been doing stupid things for love for a very long time."

Neal flipped the folder closed. It hurt too much to look at her. "Yeah, that's me. Stupid."

Peter shook his head. "Not hardly, Neal. You're not stupid at all. I can understand what she means to you, why you did what you did."

"And it's going to buy me another four years here, isn't it?"

"Maybe. It's hard to predict what will happen. Not too many convicts try to bust out with so little time left. And then there was the incident with the guard. That's going to factor into things."

Neal didn't like the sound of that. He still didn't know why Peter was here, and Peter seemed in no rush to give him answers. And Neal was in no rush to go back to his prison cell. "Can I ask a question?"

Peter shrugged. "Sure. Don't know if I'll answer, though."

Neal chuckled. "Okay – I stepped right into that."

"Ask away."

Neal considered his words carefully. "I've always been curious about you."

Peter gave him a quizzical look. "Oh?"

"Yeah. You chased me for three years, you were relentless. Of course I wanted to know everything I could about my opponent."

"Okay. So what's your question, Caffrey?"

Neal took a deep breath and plunged in. "Why did you become an FBI agent? You're a dragon, you're probably a couple of hundred years old. Why involve yourself in petty human crimes?"

Peter smiled and Neal felt his bones warm. "What would you have me do? Sit in some mountain cave, perched upon my pile of gold and jewels?"

"You have a pile of gold and jewels?"

Peter laughed, the sound full of joy. "Maybe I do. You like that idea, don't you?"

"Yeah – who wouldn't?" Neal laughed. "But seriously, why? And why are there so many dragons in the FBI?"

Peter gave him a level look. "There are a lot of Kin in the FBI because it suits our temperament."

"Kin?"

"It's a more polite term we prefer to use with Humans. Better than 'dragon'."

"Isn't that what you call yourselves?"

"Not quite." Peter winced and Neal wondered what taboo he just broke. "Anyway, you want to know why we like working in the FBI?"

"Yeah, you said it 'suits your temperament'."

"Right. We are hoarders. The urge to hoard is our essential nature. Left unchecked, we can become … difficult with Humans."

Neal didn't need any further explanation of just what "difficult" meant. He knew his history. "Okay, but how does the FBI help with that?"

Peter was surprisingly forthcoming. "The training helps temper that urge. Being an agent channels it. We've found that the process of investigation, arrest, and imprisonment of wrong doers gives us the same satisfaction as collecting piles of gold and jewels."

Neal wasn't sure he believed Peter. How could you equate the pleasure of wealth with anything as nebulous as pursuing justice? But maybe Peter was telling the truth. Neal knew that there were a lot of dragons – Kin – in the FBI. Mozzie, conspiracy theorist that he was, said that at least seventy percent of all active agents and almost ninety percent of the senior level management in the Bureau were "scales and tails".

"Why you, though? You don't strike me as someone who needs the discipline of a badge to temper your urges. You're what, two hundred years old?"

Peter chuckled, but this time the sound lacked humor. "You don't know me as well as you think you do, Caffrey. And the older we get, the stronger the urge is."

They sat in silence for a few moments and Neal digested this information. He also wondered what was going on in Peter Burke's brain. He was staring at him. Or rather, he seemed to be staring at something over his right shoulder. Neal turned, but Peter held up a hand, stopping him. He then reached out and plucked something off of Neal's shoulder and held it up.

Peter asked him, "Do you know what this is?"

Neal looked at the object; it was shaped like a guitar pick, if guitar picks were made out of sapphires and gold and dusted with diamonds. Neal swallowed the urge to pluck it out of Peter's hand and secret it away. "One of your scales, Agent Burke?"

"No, Neal. One of yours."

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

When he ordered Haskley to bring Caffrey to him, Peter had only wanted to make certain that Neal wasn't suffering from any lasting harm. He'd seen the footage of Neal's encounter with Halbend, the early stages of his transformation, and then the vicious way that Halbend administered the No-Flight. His anger cracked glass when he saw how Neal, still unconscious but wholly in Human skin, was strapped into a mobile cage, steel bands cutting across his fragile body. He almost lost control when he read the medical report – that two additional doses of No-Flight were pumped into Neal to keep him "calm". No-Flight was supposed to be a last resort, not the first line response.

Those ignorant bastards could have killed Neal – and maybe that was what they had wanted. One less Dracon. Light bulbs shattered and the soft-skins ducked for cover as Peter's anger grew.

Depending on Neal's condition, the so-called medical staff might just not survive the afternoon.

Haskley, that ineffectual boob, hovered and muttered about how he was affecting staff morale and it would be best if he followed him to a secure interview room. Peter followed, anxious to see Neal's condition for himself.

What he found was surprising.

Neal certainly looked worse for wear, but he was alert and he understood the gravity of his situation, if not the reasons behind it. Which presented a problem. Peter had intended on taking Neal from Sing-Sing on the pretense that he was unable to care for himself, but that was clearly not the case.

And given the undercurrent of anti-Dracon sentiment that wafted through the prison like a bad stink, he couldn't exercise hoard privilege and take Neal away, as much as he'd like to do just that. No, he would need to go through official channels. That would take time and, despite his nature, time was a precious commodity.

So he answered Neal's remarkably perceptive questions and planned on getting Neal out from under this burden with as little fuss and ceremony as possible.

But he spotted the scale clinging to Neal's shoulder, and quite possibly made one of the worst mistakes in his very long life.

"One of mine? Surely, Agent Burke, you are mistaken."

"No, Neal, I'm not. It's yours."

"I'm not a dragon. Excuse me, I'm not Kin."

Peter couldn't lie, he couldn't dissemble or deflect. Not about this, it was too important. Peter pulled another scale from Neal's greasy curls and placed it on the table. "Yes, Neal, you are."

Neal shook his head in denial, but he ran his fingers through his hair and more scales dropped out, hitting the table with sweet musical pings. "No, no – no. I'm not a dragon. I can't be."

Neal's denial of the obvious would have been amusing if it wasn't going to present so many problems for both of them.

"But you are." Peter pulled out his cell phone and called up the brief video that the prison gate cameras had captured. It was the moment when Halbend had grabbed Neal as he was trying to leave, the moment that Neal began to transform. It ran through the seconds where Halbend pulled out the No-Flight hypo-pen and injected it into Neal. And Neal, half-transformed, collapsed onto the ground and returned to his Human form. A total of forty-five seconds.

He showed it to Neal and watched his expression intently. Neal played the video over and over and over again, saying nothing.

Finally, he handed the phone back to him and took a deep breath. "I'd keep insisting that I'm not a dragon but that's me. That's exactly what I remember, up to the moment when that prick Halbend grabbed me. After that, I remember nothing." Neal paused, and then reconsidered. "Wait – I remember waking up once – I was chained down and I remember trying to get free. I think I almost did, but maybe I was drugged? Or maybe that was just a nightmare. I don't know." Neal scrubbed at his face. "It's all very confusing."

"You were given at least three doses of No-Flight." Peter didn't tell Neal that so much of the drug should have left him incapacitated for days.

"So I am a dragon." Neal didn't sound upset. He sounded thoughtful. "Sorry, Kin."

"Actually, it's Dracon."

"That's what I said before and you corrected me, dragon."

"No, Dracon." This time, Peter put a slight guttural emphasis on the hard consonants and the lights flickered.

Neal tried to repeat the word and he got the sounds correct, but the lights stayed on.

Peter smiled at Neal's disappointed expression. "You'll learn, soon enough."

"So, what happens now? You said something about getting another four years for the escape attempt."

"Actually, you said that. I neither confirmed nor denied it."

Neal chuckled. "Right, right. I need to watch myself with you, Agent Burke."

Peter relaxed, buoyed by Neal's apparent acceptance of the situation. "You've still got three months to go on your original sentence. That's time you'll have to serve, regardless."

"And after that?"

"I can't make any promises, Neal. You broke some pretty important rules."

"I had to get Kate back!" That outburst seemed almost involuntary, and Neal clamped his mouth shut.

"I understand that."

"You do?"

"Yeah, Neal – I do." Peter sighed and had a brief debate with himself about what to tell Neal. Kate was Neal's – she was part of his hoard and his urge to reclaim her was as instinctive as breathing. Except that Kate was not who she seemed to be. Peter remembered the expression on her face – just a flicker of smug satisfaction. She knew what Neal was, even though he hadn't. She was after something and Peter was afraid that Neal would get hurt in the process. But if he told Neal what she was, Neal would fight him tooth and claw. He wouldn't believe him and things would get messy.

No, messier.

So he kept it simple. "She's your girlfriend, you've been together for a long time."

Neal ducked his head. "Yeah – and after everything, after so many years of this, she just walked away. I don't know why. Three months to go and she couldn't wait?"

Peter stifled the urge to comfort Neal, his grief was so understandable. "Women, they're fickle creatures."

"Even Dracons?"

"The plural is 'Draconis', and yeah."

Neal muttered the new word, as if he was testing the flavor of it. "You're not married, are you, Agent Burke?"

Peter chuckled at the non-sequitur. "Nope."

Neal chuckled, too. "Didn't think so."

"Why not?" Peter was eventually going to have to explain that their kind didn't hold with too many Human conventions, like marriage. But that was a conversation for another day.

"If you were married, I doubt your wife would have let you out of the house in that suit. It's the same one you wore the last time you arrested me."

Peter shook his head at the bizarre turn of this conversation, but he plucked at the lapel, a touch hurt at the criticism. "Classics never go out of style."

"No matter what you say, Peter, that's not a classic. It's just ugly."

Something jolted in him – he hadn't expected to hear Neal utter his name so casually. At least not at this juncture. Names – even the Human-ish ones the Draconis adopted – had a certain amount of power.

"So what happens now?"

"Like I said, you're back inside for the rest of your original sentence. After that, we'll see."

Neal's expression took on a bitter cast. "I'm stuck, aren't I? I did this to myself."

Peter sighed and took pity on Neal. He carefully swept the loose scales off the folder and into his jacket pocket, and opened it again. Not to Kate's photo, but to a picture of a black plastic cuff.

"A tracking anklet?"

"Not quite. You're a …" Peter grimaced and tried to find the right word. "A danger to yourself and to the Humans. To some Draconis, you're a threat. This will help you learn control."

Neal looked appalled. "You want to put a shock collar on me?"

Peter kept his voice low – soft-skins didn't know about these things and he didn't want them to learn of their existence from him. "No – not in the least. It will disrupts your ability to shift between forms. It won't hurt you." Frankly, Peter hated these things, but it was better than forcing No-Flight on Neal until he went mad. Or died. "And yes, there's a GPS tracking component in it. If I can get you out of here, you'll be wearing one of these."

"For the rest of my life?"

"No – a couple of years at the most. Until you learn control."

Neal seemed skeptical. "But if I can't transform while I'm wearing this, how will I ever learn control?"

"Good question. But you won't be wearing it all the time. It's a precaution."

"It's a shackle."

"You could also spend the next forty years in an underground, Dracon-proof facility. You won't see the light of day for a very long time." Peter hoped Neal wouldn't see the threat for what it was – meaningless. There was no way that Neal was going anyplace except where Peter wanted him to go. The glass wall vibrated minutely and he stifled the possessive urge. Thankfully, Neal didn't notice.

"Okay. I think I can live with that."

"You really don't have much of a choice."

"What aren't you telling me, Agent Burke?"

A lot.

End Part One – Go to Part Two