Chapter Text
He couldn’t stop feeling the rough hands lingering on him; he couldn't stop smelling the scent filling his nostrils; he couldn't stop feeling the hoarseness in his throat caused by the screams.
Donald "Donnie" Reed took what little innocence Neal had left in his system and destroyed it. He charred; burned it so badly that Neal knew it would never return again.
The first time Neal met Donnie was six weeks ago. The FBI was surveying his boss, Ramon Chase, a well known curator at a classy art gallery who ran a bond forgery ring in the back room. Donnie was Ramon’s right hand. He was tall, well-built, and athletic. Neal posed as a wealthy art collector and gained Ramon’s trust. When the magic words were spoken, and Ramon proposed a forgery job for him, the transmitter in his watch alerted the boys in the van. It was over before it ever really began.
But while Neal was running the 'con' for those three days, it was unquestionable the liking Donnie took to him. Neal embraced it, that was part of his charm, his allure--his deceit.
In the end, Roman got 25 years in the federal penitentiary. Donnie got a light slap on the wrist.
There wasn’t enough evidence to link him directly.
Neal didn’t think too much about the whole thing, not really, it was on to the next one. It was the pretend he cared out, the shell of another person he was able to explore for those three days or four days. He was able to flawlessly transform into another person, with another personality, with a different life.
But perhaps Neal should have cared, just a little, about Donnie's lingering stares or the handshakes that lasted a second too long. Though that would be unfair to plague him with such foresight. After all, know one could really tell the future.
So now it was almost ten days since that night. The night that transformed Neal into a fragment of what he used to be. He couldn’t sleep anymore because every time, every damn time he closed his eyes, the movie in his head would turn on and it didn’t turn off unless he woke up, gasping for air, rubbing the sweat mixed in with his tears streaming out of his eyes.
*****************
"You’re home, finally," Donnie said, stepping into the light.
“What are you doing here? How did you find out where I live?” Neal asked.
“You checked me out, I checked you out.”
“What do you want?” Neal said, keeping his hand on the door.
“My boss and I had a good thing going. How do you suppose I’m going to pay my mortgage next month now that he's in prison?” he asked, holding his knife up.
“I’m sure you could find another job Donnie. You obviously have very special skills.”
“No one will hire me, now that everyone knows who Ramon really is.”
“I could make a few calls. I know people. People who don’t care about those kinds of things--”
“Step away from the door.”
Neal knew he had two options. Listen, or make a run for it. He opted for the latter.
The adrenaline ran through his blood as he stepped into the hallway, but before he could even touch the banister he felt a harsh grip around his arm. A hand was placed over his mouth and he was dragged back into his room. Once the door slammed shut he was thrown to the ground. He could already feel the warmness from the wound on his forehead before he opened his eyes.
The sound of the door locking made his stomach curl into knots.
“Donnie, we can work this out, okay?”
Donnie responded by kicking him in the stomach. “Yes, we most definitely will.”
********************
“What’s wrong, hun?” El asked, handing her husband a bottle of beer.
“I just think it’s strange that Neal hasn’t left his apartment since Friday. I’ve never known him to stay in one place for over 48 hours,” he said, glancing down at his outdated Blackberry.
“Maybe he wanted to take it easy. He's allowed, you know.”
“Maybe.”
“You’ll ask him tomorrow.”
********************
Donnie;s hand was placed firmly around Neal's neck while the other was intertwined in his hair. “You’re not pretty when you cry.” After a few more agonizing minutes, he pulled away.
“Stop,” Neal whispered. His throat was raw and he knew he couldn't speak any louder. A strong backhand across his already swollen cheek was the response. Neal felt the metallic liquid drip out of his mouth. “Please!” he cried, trying desperately to break free from the ropes around his wrists.
He cringed when he felt the hands roam his stomach. “You are so beautiful, Neal. You’re smooth abs and muscles. It should be a crime.”
“No . . . don’t . . ." He couldn’t take another go. “Stop.”
“Tell me you like it.”
Neal couldn’t say anything, the pain was too much, but he fought the best he could by shaking his head. He hated that the tears leaking from his eyes, but they were involuntary.
“Turn your head and look at me,” Donnie said, grabbing his jaw.
Neal kept his eyes shut. He wouldn’t look at this monster. “Stop,” he whispered again.
“I know you like to con people, but you’re not fooling anyone. I know it doesn’t hurt. I know it feels good.”
Neal cried. He cried when he felt the nails dig into his sides and then he cried some more when the warm body collapsed on top of him.
*********************
It was almost 9 a.m. and Peter was getting peeved as he called Neal for the fourth time. He was twenty-eight minutes late. He watched the tracking information on the screen in front of him. Same spot as it was all weekend.
“Hey boss, good weekend?” Jones asked.
“No complaints, you?” he responded as he kept his eyes on the screen.
“Pretty good. Uh, you okay there?”
“Feel like taking a ride uptown?”
“I’m sure this has to do with Caffrey.”
**********************.
Peter only had to knock once before a maid opened the door.
“Hello, Agent Burke,” she said.
“I'm here for Neal” he said, stepping in.
“I didn’t even know Mr. Caffrey was here. Of course.”
“Oh. You don’t go up there?” Jones asked.
“Oh no. Ms. June instructed us that we are to not go in there, that is Mr. Caffrey’s space.”
“I see. Is June here?” Peter asked.
“No, sir, she has been out of town for the past week.”
“Nice life,” Jones commented as he followed his boss up the stairs.
“I swear if he is holed up in there with some model . . .” Peter muttered under his breath. His knuckles were centimeters from making contact with the wooden door, but then, then he heard the distinct sound of a groan--and not a pleasant one. He held his finger to his mouth, signaling to Jones keep quiet.
“This is your own fault, Caffrey. You’re so goddamn stupid.”
That voice . . . it sounded vaguely familiar. Peter reached for his holster.
“Don’t . . . I . . . can’t,” Neal stuttered. Fresh blood ran down his chin; sticky, hot and oozing from his nose.
“How about one more time before I leave?” Donnie asked.
Peter didn’t need to hear anymore. He pushed the door open, his gun aimed at whomever the hell was in there, and as soon as he realized the situation he focused his attention to the man with a knife standing over the bed.
“Step away from him now,” Peter commanded.
“Agent Burke. Took you long enough. I told you, Caffrey, he wouldn’t come until he needed to use you. See, you’re a whore, no matter which way you slice it,” Donnie said.
Peter recognized the voice. He spent countless hours interrogating him, studying his smug grin, his insane eyes. His eyes widened as he finally saw Neal. His wrists were tightly bound; dark purple bruises mixed with red blood. This was not what made his stomach rise to his chest though. It was the way Neal's eyes were squeezed shut and the tears that streaked down his face. Peter knew he could handle a slap or two, a punch or three . . . but he never cried.
“It’s okay, Neal,” Peter forced out.
Jones moved quickly and quietly and suddenly lunged. Donnie went flying to the ground and the knife was knocked across the room. It was only when he was in handcuffs did Peter lower his weapon and run to the bed.
“Shit,” he said under his breath. He untied the ropes as quickly as he could. Neal kept his eyes shut as he brought his wrists down to his chest. He turned over onto his side and curled into a ball.
He gasped when he saw the bruises on the younger man's back, as well as the deep scratches and dried blood.
Then Peter lost any color remaining in his face.
There was blood on the sheets . . . and dark red spots on Neal’s blue boxers. He turned to Donnie. “What did you do to him?”
Donnie smiled as Jones pulled him from the floor. “He loved it.”
“Neal,” Peter said softly.
Neal didn’t want to see the look of disgust in his eyes and kept his eyes closed. “I . . . I tried to stop . . .”
“Neal, look at me, please.”
“Tell him you loved it, Neal. Tell him,” Donnie said.
“Shut your goddamn mouth!” Jones yelled.
Peter glanced at Donnie and then quickly looked away.
Those eyes.
They were so deranged.
*********************
“Just a few bites,” Peter said, pushing forward the tray of food.
Neal shook his head. “’Tired,” he mumbled.
Peter sighed. It was day four at the hospital. The bruising on Neal's face were still visible, lightened only slightly. It was hard for Peter to look at the ones shaped like fingers on his jaw, not to mention the ones that were hidden underneath the gown.
He knew what they meant.
He also knew the physical pain would pass, but the rest, the rest would settle deep inside.
When they brought Neal in, he was too weak to stand up on his own. Peter helped him, gently holding him up by him arm as they photographed him. He was so angry--one more more humiliating act.
He made Peter leave the room while they performed the real exam on him, the kind Neal never thought he would have to go through. Peter said he didn’t mind staying but Neal told him he needed him to not be there.
When he was done being poked and prodded, touched again by unwanted hands, he was then pumped full of drugs. He slept for a full thirty hours but before the haze took reign over him he told Peter not to let Mozzie visit him. He didn’t want him to see this.
Peter simply nodded, for he knew if Mozzie saw this then he would never look at Neal the way he was supposed to.
****************
“Hey,” Peter said as he entered Neal’s room on the seventh day.
Silence greeted him.
“The doctor says if you eat something, you can go home today.”
Again, more silence.
“June has prepared another room for you . . . at the other end of the house . . .or you can always come to my house. El and I would love to have you.”
Peter pushed the tray of food closer to the bed.
“Just a few bites, okay? Look its blueberry.”
Neal's glassy eyes focused on the lump of processed sugar. He wasn’t hungry. In fact, eating was the last thing on his mind . . . but he did want to get leave. He didn’t want any more doctors or nurses touching him . . . placing their hands on him in the middle of the night or when he was sleeping. And so, he took a small bite but it tasted rotten. He tried again, but still, it tasted rotten.
Chew and swallow. Chew and swallow. It's not so hard.
Peter exhaled in relief as he saw his fragile friend finally eating. He knew he had been to hell and back and probably had no appetite, but he needed his energy and strength. He turned his attention to the television, but after a few minutes he heard the whimpers.
There was no blood, no fresh cuts, no fresh bruises. Just Neal sitting with his hands on the muffin. Single tears fell vertically down his paled face. “What’s wrong?” Peter asked feverishly.
“Everything.”