elrhiarhodan

Title: We Shall Come Home - Chapter XVI
Author:

elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing/Characters: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, Reese Hughes, Diana Berrigan, Clinton Jones, Mozzie, Satchmo, plus other characters.
Rating: R
Spoilers: None
Word Count: ~ 3600 (this chapter) ~61,000 (total)
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Summary: Transformed beyond recognition, beyond comprehension, Peter and Neal are lost in the woods and desperately try to get home. A tale of friendship, sacrifice, loss and ultimately, of love. Moz is a man of many disguises and Neal makes friends wherever he goes, no matter what shape he’s in.

We Shall Come Home is not a work in progress. New chapters will be posted once a week, on Tuesdays.
Chapter I | Chapter II | Chapter III | Chapter IV | Chapter V | Chapter VI | Chapter VII | Chapter VIII | Chapter IX | Chapter X | Chapter XI | Chapter XII | Chapter XIII | Chapter XIV |Chapter XV |

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CHAPTER XVI – WEDNESDAY MORNING

IT WAS WELL BEFORE VISITING HOURS WHEN MOZZIE FOUND HIS WAY INTO PETER'S ROOM. El had left him a message late the night before. She was going to go home for a little while to get some rest, a shower, and some fresh clothes, but she’d be back in the early morning. The guard on his door was dozing. A perfect opportunity to slip in and question the Suit.

He was sleeping and looked marginally better than he did when he got home, when he stopped being a dog. (Moz still got a surge of glee thinking about it. He. Was. Right.) The Suit’s color was a little less gray and death’s door-ish, and he seemed to be doped up on something, but he still looked like – what was that expression? Ahhh: the dog’s breakfast? He snickered at his own cleverness.

The Suit must have heard him. He stirred and opened his eyes, which seemed to focus on nothing in particular. “Who’s there? Neal, is that you?” His speech was slurred – definitely drugged on something good.

Moz had some vague memories of the stuff they pushed into him a few years back. He scratched the scar on his chest in memory.

“It's me, Suit. You need to tell me what's happened to Neal.” Moz knew he had only a few minutes before Peter faded out, before El came back.

He started to ramble, “Neal. Lost Neal. Ran off, bad Neal, broke the rules again. Silly Neal, that dog was no threat to us. Neal, where are you? Come back to me. Please come back. Please.” The Suit's voice rose on a pitiful sob. “Come back to me, please. I need you.” Tears rolled down his cheeks, unchecked and unstoppable. Moz felt a wave of grief rise in him, too. A sob to match Peter's.

He bent over Peter, keeping his voice low, unthreatening, steady. “Where should I look? Where can I look for him?”

Peter turned his face to Moz, eyes wide open, his pupils blown from the drugs they had pumped into his system. But his voice was suddenly, frighteningly coherent. “Fort Greene Park. Heading north. The Walt Whitman Houses. I didn't look there. He's lost, he's scared. I can feel that now. I don’t know why, but I can feel him again.”

The Suit's voice started to slur again. He tossed his head and looked back at Moz. “You need Neal, too. Find him for us. Please, Moz. For all of us.”

Peter's eyes closed and he lost consciousness. Moz stood there, almost hating Peter. Hating him for losing Neal, for needing Neal, for having something with Neal that he'd never be able to share.

He heard El walk in, but didn’t turn to face her.

“I hope you haven’t upset Peter.” As close as they had gotten over this past week, Moz could never doubt that her husband would be her first priority. “He nearly tore his IV out to go try and find him. Don’t you dare blame him for what’s happened to Neal.”

“I’m not – he said that Neal ran off, something about chasing another dog. He thinks Neal may be in the Whitman Houses. I’m going to head over there now. He also thinks that Neal’s in danger.”

“The Whitman? Maybe you should take someone with you?”

“Thank you for your concern, Elizabeth, but I can handle myself.” Moz looked at her, and underneath the layers of worry and exhaustion, he saw her natural humor creep through.

“Be careful, and let me know what’s going on.”

Moz reached out, almost touching her, and then just smiled in agreement.

BEFORE HEADING OVER TO THE WHITMAN HOUSES, MOZ DOUBLED BACK TO FRIDAY and picked up a few things: a leash and collar (and why he had those when he’d never even owned a dog is a mystery best left unexamined), a very respectable identification and gold badge for ICE Agent Dante Havisham (if he’d had time, Moz would have preferred to recreate a Humane Law Enforcement badge – but Peter’s words made clear that time was something he didn’t have), and a bag of cooked bacon. While Neal-the-human didn’t care too much for the stuff, Moz knew that dogs considered it food of the gods. He might need something to tempt him out of hiding.

It was late morning by the time Moz got to the Walt Whitman Houses. There were kids playing, hanging out, running around, but the place felt like somewhere that time hadn’t touched with a benevolent hand. Underneath the shouts of the small humans, Moz thought he could hear a steady counterpoint of despair. He wasn’t surprised. This place was, after all, a manifestation of Big Brother at his worst – people can’t live when every aspect of their lives is controlled by rules enforced by the authoritarian classes. He would, if he could, tear this place and all the others like it down, brick by brick.

But that wasn’t going to find Neal. Moz had a map and a search grid laid out, but the size of the place meant it could take days. And if someone had found Neal and taken him inside, well, that was going to make it that much more difficult. Not impossible, just more difficult.

He started with the area closest to the park gates and began his grid search. The simplest and most effective thing to do was to call out for Neal. And for two men who lived so much of their lives in shadow, crying out his name seemed somehow quite wrong. But what are you going to do otherwise? Even if it did make him feel like an idiot.

“Neal? Neal? Come on boy – where are you? Neal? It’s me... come on. It’s time to go home.”

Much to his distress, this drew an audience of children.

“Whatcha doing, mister?”

“I’m, ummm, looking for my dog. Have any of you seen a big dog wandering around?”

All of the kids seemed to take a giant step back, and one of the older girls gave him the stink eye.

“I’m just looking for my dog. Do any of you want to help?” Moz hated to work in big teams, but these kids knew the neighborhood and could be helpful.

One of the kids ran off, and the rest had become strangely hostile.

“Well, if you don’t want to help, can you all just get out of my way?” The children stayed put. They crowded him, but at a distance, as if they were setting up a human cordon. He glared at them, and, not surprisingly, it didn’t work. These were tough little bastards.

“Mister – we know what it means when a stranger asks a kid to help him look for his dog.” This was from a particularly belligerent girl, who stood there with her arms across her chest.

Mozzie was puzzled. “Huh? I’m looking for my dog, not to steal your lunch money, kid. And if you don’t want to help, then GO AWAY.” He didn’t shout – just spoke a little, well, forcefully.

The kids scattered, and Moz chuckled to himself, satisfied that he could still put the fear of something into people generally shorter than he was. He turned around and found himself face-to-face with a large man in a uniform. A housing project cop. Moz smiled weakly. He neither wanted nor needed this type of help.

“Is there a problem, officer?”

“You tell me. The kids say you’re looking for a lost dog.” The cop was skeptical.

Moz decided that he might be better off enlisting the help of the establishment, rather than form his own gang of Baker Street Irregulars.

“Yeah, my dog ran away and I thought it might have headed into the ... ummm ... development here.” Moz was hesitant to refer to the Walt Whitman Houses as “the Projects.” He was nothing if not culturally sensitive.

“Can I see some ID please?”

“For the dog?”

“No, for you.” The cop’s didn’t seem inclined to help him. Normally, he’d resist The Man – particularly The Man in a uniform, but he couldn’t afford delays with Neal’s life on the line. He handed the officer his Dante Havisham ICE badge.

“You really lost a dog?” The cop seemed less skeptical as he handed him the folder back. Moz was amused that the cop was trusting him more simply because he had a badge.

“Yes, I really did lose my dog. Why would I be walking around with his collar and leash and a bag full of bacon if I didn’t?”

“Ummm, you do know that pedophiles like to ask little kids to help them find their dogs, don’t you Agent Havisham?”

Moz turned beet red, then dead white. “No, I didn’t.”

The cop seemed to take pity on him. “What type of dog did you lose?”

“A big grey Irish wolfhound. Blue eyes.” At least Moz hoped Neal-the-dog had blue eyes.

“Shit – that was YOUR dog?”

“You mean, you found him?!” Moz was overjoyed. And then he realized that the cop had used the past tense. “What do you mean, was?”

“There was an incident two days ago. A couple of kids found your dog hiding out.”

“Neal wouldn’t hurt a fly, let alone a small child.” Moz hoped not – he hoped that Neal-the-dog was as kid-friendly as Neal-the-human.

“No, actually he protected some children.”

“That’s Neal, but what happened to him?” Moz felt the panic rising.

“He was hurt – one of the teenagers who lives in the Houses got hold of an old-model Taser and ...”

“Tased my dog?”

“Yeah – twice. Once on the throat, the other time on the chest. Your dog’s in bad shape. He was taken to the emergency vet clinic, but the vet wasn’t too sure he was going to make it. I’m sorry – but you should know your dog was a hero. He stopped Big-J from attacking a little girl ...”

“Whose Big-J?”

“Big-J – Joseph Holliman, 16 years old. Not a banger – a damn sociopath, if I’ve ever seen one.”

Moz shook his head – he didn’t care about that now – there’d be time to handle the little bastard who hurt Neal later. “I’ve got to go – I’ve got to get to my dog.”

The cop nodded. “Good luck. Like I said, your dog’s a hero. He saved those kids.”

Moz didn’t hear him. He strode off, pulled out his cell phone and called his beautiful monster.

“YOU CAN’T PUT HIM DOWN. THIS DOG BELONGS TO SOMEONE, there’s someone out there looking for him.” Shoshana Ross stood in front of a very large dog crate holding a very weak, very sick Irish wolfhound. She was only five foot two and a part-time vet’s assistant, but she’d be damned if she’d let this dog be destroyed after he was injured saving a child’s life.

“Shoshana, the dog is dying. His heart’s been damaged. It’s only a matter of time – a few days at the most.” Her boss, John Salish, was the owner of the small veterinary clinic which had taken the wolfhound.

The day before yesterday, John had responded to the call by the HLE cops and attended the scene where the dog had been injured. She knew that he wasn’t unsympathetic to his assistant’s pleas for mercy. It damn near broke both of them to see this huge beast brought low by human viciousness. The Taser that had shocked the dog was an older model, without the safety features that would have prevented the gun from firing rapid multiple jolts of electricity. The second shock had severely compromised the dog’s cardiac function.

“He’s not in pain.” Shoshana knew that was a weak argument.

“You don’t know that.”

“And you don’t know that he is.”

“He can barely walk.”

“But he can walk. He just needs time to recover.”

“Look, Shoshie...”

“Don’t call me that.” Shoshie had been his pet name for her, before they broke up.

“Sorry – Shoshana. The odds of this dog making a full recovery are slim, almost impossible. He’s big and needs a lot of care. And frankly, there are other animals in the clinic that need the resources I would have to devote to this one dog. We’re short-staffed, and I just don’t have the funds to support the full time care this dog needs. It breaks my heart, you know I hate to destroy any animal, but I have to be pragmatic.”

She shook her head. “I understand, but this dog has a home, I know it.”

“I think you’re wrong. He’s a stray, and it looks like he hasn’t had a home in a long time, if ever.”

“John, you can’t be serious. Irish wolfhounds just don’t wander around homeless. Even though this guy looks like he’s had a rough time of it, he had to have been fed and cared for to grow as big as he is now.”

“Shoshana, the titers I ran show that he hasn’t been vaccinated, ever. That doesn’t point to a quality puppyhood.”

“But that doesn’t mean that someone isn’t looking for him.” She tried not to cry. For some reason, the plight of this huge, gentle beast affected her strongly.

The vet sighed. “Look, we can’t keep him indefinitely. You know that. And if he doesn’t improve, it would be cruel to keep him suffering. You know that too.”

“What if I donated extra time to care for him? You’re right that he needs resources you don’t have – but if I stay and care for him out of my own time, how can you object?

“And what about the next injured stray that’s dropped off? Will you give up your life to protecting all of them?”

“John, that’s not the point. Right here, right now, this dog did something extraordinary – he saved a little girl’s life. He deserves every bit of compassion we can give him.”

Faced with Shoshana’s stubbornness, and his own natural compassion, he backed off. “Look, if you want to donate your time to care for him, I won’t stop you. But if his condition worsens or no one claims him soon, I’ll have no choice.”

Shonshana hugged her boss for the small reprieve and then immediately backed off. “Thank you.” Their prior relationship made physical contact awkward.

“When you have a few minutes, you may want to call the ASPCA and the local shelters, to see if anyone has called to report a missing wolfhound.”

She grinned. That was going to be her next step, regardless of John’s instructions.

She turned around and looked at the object of her concern. The big dog was awake and looking at her with huge, blue eyes. He wagged once, twice – perhaps in recognition of her championing. Shoshana knelt and opened the crate. “How are you feeling, boy?” She scratched his ears before checking his vital signs. John was right, this was a very sick animal and he might never fully recover. But something compelled her to give this dog every chance she could.

His biggest problem was his own breed. Many wolfhounds, because of their size and their relatively small genetic pool, suffered from major cardiac problems. This animal was no exception. The EKG showed severe arrhythmia, which would likely kill him in the next few weeks, if not the next few days. Maybe if he hadn’t been hit with the Taser, the latent defects wouldn’t have manifested.

The animal struggled to his feet, shaking and unsteady, panting. He didn’t try to leave the crate, but just turned around, trying to get more comfortable. Shoshana wanted to give him a dog bed, so he didn’t need to lie on the hard metal of the crate’s floor. But the dog (she wouldn’t name him, even in her head – if she did, her heart would break when he died) was still having some intestinal problems as a result of his injuries. It was really rather funny, in a sad sort of way, but every time he lost control of his bowels, he seems ashamed at himself, almost as if he were human.

Despite his dire condition, though, he was getting stronger. He could get up, and he could do his doggy business with less difficulty. He was eating and drinking and looked brighter and more alert than she’d thought possible when John brought him in Monday morning.

You will get better, you have to get better. You hear me? The dog turned his head and stared at her, as if he did hear her thoughts.

She enticed him out onto the floor so she could clean his crate, and was just finishing up when the fax machine started buzzing. That was strange; they weren’t expecting any lab results. She was trying to get the wolfhound back into the crate when the doorbell rang. It was after appointment hours, but not so late that they’d turn away an emergency.

“You, stay.” The dog looked insulted by the command, as if he’d go anywhere in his condition. She picked up the fax as she passed by. And came to a dead stop. The fax was from the Federal Bureau of Investigation: they were looking for an Irish wolfhound, gray coat, light-colored eyes. The dog was part of an investigation into the disappearance of a federal agent. The bell rang again, and someone was clearly anxious, because they were leaning on it and persistently rapping on the window.

There were two people at the front door, a small bald man and a tall African-American woman. The woman was holding up what looked like, of all things, an FBI badge. Shoshana unlocked and opened the door immediately. The agent introduced herself as Diana Berrigan, but the man didn’t introduce himself at all. He just started asking her questions.

“Do you have a wolfhound here? Big and gray, with blue eyes?”

“Yes, he was brought in ...”

The man didn’t let her finish, and started calling out, “Neal, Neal – where are you?”

The agent put a restraining hand on the man, who shrugged it off. “You have my dog. Please – tell me he’s alive.”

“Mozzie, please. Let the woman answer.”

“Yes, yes – a wolfhound was brought in the day before yesterday. He was badly hurt by a Taser, but is stable and awake now.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” The little man’s relief was intense. “Can I see him? Please?”

Shoshana took the two of them into the back. Neal was still on the floor, stretched out and sleeping. The areas where the Taser had burned him had been shaved and bandaged, but otherwise he was clean and well-groomed (or at least as well-groomed as an Irish wolfhound could be).

“Neal? Is that you, boy?”

Shoshana thought it was a little strange that this man, who was so clearly worried about his dog, didn’t recognize his pet on the spot. But the dog, Neal, opened his eyes and seemed to recognize the man. He gave a short, sharp bark, started wagging his tail and worked his way into a sitting position.

“Neal?” The man – Moz, the agent called him – wrapped his arms around the animal and started to cry.

She turned to Agent Berrigan. “Can I ask, what is your role in this? Why is the FBI involved?” She handed the woman the fax. “We just got this.”

The woman glanced down at the paper. “The dog, Neal is, well, part of an investigation.”

“And this guy?” She gestured with her chin. It was subtler than pointing.

“It’s complicated. He doesn’t precisely own Neal...they’re just really good friends.”

Shoshana thought that was an odd way to describe a relationship between man and dog, but she wasn’t going to question it – she was just relieved that Neal had a home and would be taken care of.

The agent got on her knees next to the dog, who was resting his head on the little guy’s shoulder.

“Neal, do you recognize me?” The dog looked at her, and seemed to know the woman: the slow beat of his tail sped up just a little. He rubbed his muzzle against her chin.

“I’m going to go get Dr. Salish, the vet. I’ll be right back.” Shoshana kept an ear open – something seemed odd about those two.

To Be Continued