Rating: NC-17 – Slash, H/C, OT3 in the far distance, and for references to rape.
Characters: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey
Spoilers: None, set after 1.14, but no mention of any canon events, except opening of Pilot.
Warnings/Triggers: Reference to prison gang rape
Word Count: ~ 2400
Summary: A conversation that Neal was prepared for, but one that Peter never wanted to have.
Peter woke up to early morning sunshine, a warm, but empty bed and the sound of the shower running. He stretched against sheets that smelled pleasantly of Neal and sex, enjoying the feel of the soft cotton rubbing against his morning wood. Not fully awake, but awake enough, Peter got out of bed and padded to the bathroom.
June recently had the waterworks upgraded, and although it was still only slightly larger than a basic New York apartment-sized one, the bathroom was exquisitely luxurious. A jewel box in glass and marble. Peter paused at the door to admire Neal in the shower, steam swirling around him like a teasing lover. Damn, that’s a beautiful sight. Neal wet, his dark hair plastered to his skull, rubbing soapy hands down his chest, through his pubes, along his splendid cock.
Hmmmm, let’s not waste that in the shower. Peter stepped across the threshold and opened the shower door. Neal looked up, fear and panic in his eyes and the next thing that he felt was one of Neal’s fists in his face. The pain was sharp and intense, the slippery skin of Neal’s knuckles glancing off his cheekbone and eye socket. But it was far less intense than the sudden, gut-wrenching agony of understanding.
Peter quickly backed out of the bathroom and got dressed. He sat at the dining table, head in his hands, sick at heart. The shower had stopped almost immediately, but it seemed like hours passed before Neal came out of the bathroom. He didn’t look up as Neal dressed, a sight he normally enjoyed. He didn’t look up as Neal sat down across from him.
“Peter, I’m sor…”
“Neal - don’t say it. You have nothing to be sorry about. I should have realized.”
Neal reached across the table and pulled Peter’s hands away from his face. He didn’t say anything until Peter met his eyes. Neal face had no mask, no pretty perfection. All Peter saw was the honesty he had become accustomed to in the past year. “Would you believe me if I said nothing ever happened. You just startled me.”
Peter swallowed against the bile rising up from his stomach. “Neal, I’m sorry. I am so sorry.” He couldn’t get anything more out.
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
He looked at Neal, almost wishing he could take his offer an easy way out. “From the beginning, you never seemed to be affected by your time in prison. All sunshine and smiles, and never an unruffled feather. You were Peter Pan. If the thought crossed my mind, I just told myself that nothing bad happened to you, that you were too smart, too cunning to be a victim.” Peter paused and looked away. “And I was too much of a coward, too afraid to ask.”
“Peter - you’re right. I am not a victim, and I never will be. But bad stuff did happen.”
“How bad?”
Neal seemed to consider his words very carefully. “I was gang-raped in the showers the first week. I was badly hurt - but it was the only time.”
“Neal, please. You don’t have to white wash it for me.” Peter wanted to believe him, but was afraid that he could not.
“I’m not. At the end of the first month after I was out of the infirmary, each of those men suffered bizarre, seriously life-threatening injuries; in the yard, on the work floor, in the laundry and the kitchens. No one touched me after that. It was a matter of building a reputation.” Neal laughed a bit. “It was a con like any other. You better believe that Neal Caffrey was a bad-ass, not someone to mess with. How do you think I just walked out of maximum security - the shaved-off beard really wasn't THAT much of a disguise.”
Peter thought that the first part, at the least, was true. It would be too easy for him to check the prison records for serious injuries to inmates. And the second part made sense - but there was so much that Neal was not saying.
“I had some help too.” Neal smiled at the memory. “Mozzie.” At Peter’s look of disbelief, Neal reaffirmed. “Yes, Mozzie. By the time I was out of the infirmary, he was able to give me a complete dossier of every guard and administrator in the prison. It didn’t take much to buy the support and protection I needed.”
Neal got up and retrieved a manila envelope that was wedged behind some large art books in the bookcase. He handed it to Peter. “My DOC file and my medical records.”
Peter opened the envelope, and pulled out the folder, which was covered by a Freedom of Information Act acknowledgment letter and a copy of a signed HIPAA waiver form. Peter slid the file back into the envelope. He would look at it later, when he was more emotionally prepared.
“Peter - that doesn’t go home with you. You will read it here, and then I’m burning it. If you take it home, Elizabeth’s going to find it, and this is not something I want her to know about.”
“Why did you request your DOC file, Neal?” Peter wasn’t sure he was going to like the answer to his question.
“Because I knew we would have to have the conversation someday, and I didn’t want you to make assumptions and jump to conclusions. Peter, take the file, go out on the terrace and read it.”
Neal stood there, looking at Peter, a quiet, serious expression on his face. Peter wanted to look everywhere but at Neal. He got up and walked through to the terrace doors, past the rumpled bed they had taken so much pleasure in last night. Peter walked out into the brilliant light of the late summer morning, sat down at the small table and began to read.
He worked his way slowly through the papers – much of which he was already familiar with. Back in the beginning, when he was working on Neal’s original work release, Peter had gotten copies of Neal’s Department of Corrections file, but it must have been redacted, information about the rape carefully purged. The medical files he didn’t have access to, they were protected by HIPAA’s privacy provisions.
The complete DOC files and the medical information supported Neal’s story, that he was sexually assaulted by six inmates in the prison showers within days of his incarceration. The clinical description of Neal’s injuries was graphic, and Peter again felt like he needed to vomit, especially after looking at the accompanying photographs. Neal had spent nearly a month in the prison infirmary recovering. After that point, the medical information was consistently unremarkable – the notations were for regular health checks, the treatment of a minor chest cold, some seasonal allergies. The prisoner is a well-nourished male, 29, 30, 31, 32 years old...
Peter looked up as Neal placed a cup of coffee next to the files. Neal seemed to be holding his breath, waiting for some comment from him. Peter said nothing, and looked back at the files, correlating dates, checking for inconsistencies. He wasn’t distracted by the sound of Neal dragging the metal fire pit to the table and lighting it, but when Neal reached for pages of the file that he thought he was done with, Peter flattened his hand on the file.
“Peter, what are you expecting to find?”
“The truth, Neal.” Peter finally looked at the other man, his expression unreadable. “Eighteen months ago, I would have thought you were playing me…trying to work some angle. Now, I’m wondering if you’re trying to protect me.” Peter shook his head.
Neal just stood there, haloed in the morning light, his white shirt, partially unbuttoned and untucked, fluttering in the breeze like a flag of surrender. “You’re looking for demons that aren’t there. Rape is not about sex. It’s about taking away power and control, about forcing your will on others.” Neal seemed to divine Peter’s thoughts – how could he do the things that he does with me, the things that he lets me do to him? “Don’t let what happened nearly six years ago ruin what we have now. Please.”
Neal tugged harder on the pages and Peter lifted up his hand, finally letting them go. He watched as Neal systematically ripped the paper into strips, tossing them into the fire, and he handed Neal the rest of the pages as well as the cover documents. The DOC and medical files were consumed by the flames in a few short moments. Neal replaced the screened lid and watched the remaining embers burn themselves out.
“Finish your coffee, while I finish my shower.” At that, Neal walked back inside the apartment. Peter watched him disrobe through the open door. He was certain that Neal was putting on a show, the way he slowly removed his shirt, making a production of undoing the few buttons that had held it closed, occasionally looking back to see if Peter was watching . As Peter admired the smoothly muscled lines of Neal’s back, he undid his pants and just dropped them - Neal had not put on underwear. Walking to the bathroom, Neal paused and reached inside the nightstand. He pulled out a bottle of lube and left it there, an invitation.
Peter wasn’t sure this was one he could accept, but he also realized that it was an invitation he shouldn’t turn down. The production Neal made of burning the files was clearly symbolic – the past was gone, they only needed to deal with the future. Peter wasn’t sure that he agreed with that, but he would try for Neal’s sake. He drained his cup and went back into the apartment, stripped off his clothes and grabbed the bottle of lube.
With a slightly sickening sense of déjà vu, Peter opened the door to the bathroom, and was again greeted by the sound of running water and the swirl of steam. Neal was standing in the shower, water streaming down him as he held out a hand to Peter. The part of Peter’s brain, the one that loved folklore and the old tales, thought that Neal looked like a selkie who just shed his pelt.
He stepped into the glass enclosed shower and put the bottle of lube on a corner shelf. Blinking against the water pouring down from the ceiling mounted showerhead, he felt Neal wrap his arms around him and press up against him from behind. Maybe this is the way… Peter pressed back and widened his stance to give Neal access, but he was, himself, unaroused.
“No.” Neal turned Peter around and cupped his face, bringing him close for a kiss. Peter shivered, despite the hot water pouring over him. Neal pressed into him, along the length of his body, and the feel of Neal’s erection against his own sex set up an answering arousal. He threaded his fingers through Neal’s hair and brought their mouths together. Neal loved kissing, and Peter (he had not been much of a kisser with other men he’d been with) quickly learned to love it as well. He could always gauge what Neal wanted from the way he worked his mouth and tongue and teeth – needy, greedy, hungry, anxious, desperate, moody, happy. Now, there was a sweetness to Neal’s kisses, and Peter couldn’t help but respond to it.
Peter pressed Neal back against the marble wall. They struggled a bit – the wall was too slippery to give them any traction. Neal turned around, lowered the volume on the shower from a steady rain to a light misting and grinned back at Peter over his shoulder. Peter pressed his mouth against Neal’s shoulders, down the arc of his spine, and when he unthinkingly placed a hard bite against one perfect ass cheek, he froze – you just can’t help yourself, can you, Burke – and relaxed a second later as Neal moaned and writhed against him, pressing his buttocks against Peter’s face. Peter blindly reached for the bottle of lube and started to slick Neal up. Neal relaxed himself, and Peter easily worked one, two and then three fingers into him.
Neal braced his arms against the marble wall and Peter stood up behind him. This time, it was Neal who widened his stand and pressed back. Peter grabbed his waist and penetrated Neal with a single thrust. He set up a slow, deliberate rhythm, stroking Neal's cock in time with his own thrusts. He played Neal like a violinist with a Stradivarius, the score was a piece by Vivaldi. Neal finally came, and as his muscles clamped down, Peter joined him in completion, his vision darkening at the edges from the strength of his climax.
Peter turned up the volume on the shower, and as the last of the hot water ran out, he pulled out of Neal and they both rinsed off.
Neither man bothered to get dressed again. Neal wrapped a towel around his waist, went back out to the terrace and laid down on one of the chaise lounges. Peter dried off and put on the black silk haori embroidered with sea eagles that Neal had given him for Christmas. He stood at the threshold and watched Neal, who was stretched out like a big cat exhausted from the hunt.
Neal looked up at Peter. "You've got one hell of a shiner there."
Peter touched his right cheek and felt the swelling. It was beginning to throb. A small price to pay. He walked back into the kitchenette and took out one of the ice trays. As he filled a bag with the cubes, he thought, what ever happens, what ever he does, if I have to put him on a plane to Brazil or put a bullet through his skull, Neal is never going back to prison.
No comments:
Post a Comment