Chapter Text
Peter’s GPS takes him miles down an unmarked gravel road, winding through the spindly growth of upstate New York forest. And just when he’s starting to think that he might have the address wrong, he catches a glimpse of a structure through the trees.
The woods drop away. Tucked into an open meadow of scraggly grass is a cabin, and behind it a detached shop, both with grayed board and batten siding. It’s incredibly secluded, and gorgeous. Peter can get why Wirth would take off a couple years worth of accumulated PTO to enjoy a sabbatical here. After all of this is over, and he finds Neal, Peter’s going to need one of those himself.
He parks and gets out of the car, pausing to take in his surroundings and inhale the humid, loamy air. Decaying leaves and soil. There’s no sign of activity, and particularly, no sign of Wirth. As if this whole trip didn’t feel futile enough already…
Peter’s footsteps sound deafeningly loud. He doesn’t see a car anywhere, unless it’s in the other structure, so it’s possible Wirth isn’t even home.
Peter climbs the steps to the wrap-around porch, rapping his knuckles on the frame of the screen door.
“Agent Wirth?”
There’s no response. Peter glances around at empty woods.
“Agent Wirth?”
He knocks again.
The door gives a bit too much under his hand. It’s unlocked. And through the glass Peter can see a glimpse of inside: the edge of a kitchen table, a banister, plain paneled walls. No movement though.
He pulls open the door, reticently stepping through the door frame.
“Agent Wirth? It’s Peter Burke.”
Peter isn’t going to casually wander into another man’s house…after all, he’s here on a whim. Still, it was a long drive. He’d hate to leave without knowing for sure that Wirth isn’t here.
He moves in another step, letting the door close behind him.
“Hello? Anyone here?”
To Peter’s left is a dining area and galley kitchen, where a neat stack of dishes are drying on a red towel splayed across the counter. In front of him, slightly off of center and lined by banisters is a staircase, leading down to a basement. And to his right is a living room: fireplace, dark green upholstered couch, and a hallway that feeds back to the rest of the space.
“Alright, then,” Peter says, mostly to himself, after a few long moments of silence. He turns to the door. But then hesitates.
Something—something is off.
He looks back to the staircase, moving a step closer unconsciously. He stares at it, searching for whatever his brain has seemingly noticed. What’s wrong with this picture? It’s a game of eye-spy that Peter plays for an uncomfortably long amount of time. Then, he sees it: at the base of the stairs is a typical looking interior door, and it has an exterior style deadbolt. On the outside.
Peter’s mission of asking a few questions off of the record dissolves as a weird feeling washes over him. It draws him from the door frame to the banister.
He slowly descends, his mouth dry. It’s such a small thing—locking in instead of out—and yet, Peter is compelled by, almost stuck on, some sort of instinct. Instinct that combines this small detail with the weird unlived-in-ness of the upstairs, the lack of hunting, fishing, or outdoor memorabilia and equipment, the seclusion…
He reaches the foot of the stairs, habitually reaching to his waist— it’s your day off. No gun. Damn.
Peter unlocks the door, pushing it open with the caution and movements he usually pairs with being armed, with clearing a space.
A very short hallway is slowly revealed. Against the near wall, a metal tool locker. Around the corner, light.
But Peter isn’t focused on that…he’s focused on the smell. Metallic, sour. It coats the back of his throat as he inhales steadying breaths and takes the few steps down the hall.
He turns the corner.
What Peter’s mind registers first is the furniture, if it can be called that: a metal chair, some sort of strange contraption somewhere between table and bed and a conglomeration of steel rods, a toilet in the corner. He takes in the support beams that interrupt the dingily lit space, the sloping concrete floor, the buzz of overhead fluorescence.
And then the figure. Slumped against the back wall.
Skin and shadows and…
Peter’s lagging recognition catches up. It can’t be. But it also definitely is.
“Neal?” he breathes.
The figure shrinks back.
Peter’s heartbeat pounds in the roof of his mouth, frigid horror dripping down his spine. He’s torn between the compulsion to look away and an inability to.
He struggles to reckon with this reality.
Neal—here.
Neal—not looking anything like Neal. Defeated posture. Short shorn hair. Shadow of facial hair. Eye swollen partially closed. Sallow cheeks. Nose mis-angled. Gaze on the floor.
Is—is that a…collar?
“Jesus Christ,” Peter hears himself say, still frozen in place. He’s unable to continue to take in details because Neal’s entirely naked, and frankly, Peter can’t bring himself to look below the shoulders. There’s too much. It’s too much.
Are you just going to stand here?
The circumstances kick back in like a steel-toed boot to the head. Peter needs to get out of here. Get Neal out of here. Get to a hospital. Get the police. Get a goddamn gun.
“Look, I’m going to—” Peter cuts off. Because Neal, for the first time, has looked up. And it isn’t at Peter. It’s at the space behind him.
Fuck.
“Agent Burke,” Wirth’s voice says, before Peter has even turned all the way around. “Nice of you to drop by.”
Peter registers the handgun in Wirth’s hands, registers that it is trained on his chest, and also finds he doesn’t care. Apparently rage moves faster than fear.
This man—this man looked Peter in the eye and laid out a whole story about a pattern of unusual behavior and Peter’s propensity to afford Neal too much leniency and how if he had had his way Neal never would’ve been allowed to become a CI. Flight risk. Consistently untrustworthy. Poor performance. Bad attitude.
All the while, all the fucking while…
Peter hasn’t found words yet, or any appropriate action. But his body language must be enough.
“Burke, calm down. There’s no reason that this needs to get hostile.”
“You…you sick...” Peter finds he doesn’t know how to finish. Given the state of the figure behind him…well, there isn’t a moniker harsh enough to fit the kind of person who could do that to someone. Nor does Peter have the capacity to invent one.
“Come on, put your hands up where I can see them, turn around. You should know the drill.”
Peter doesn’t move. He’s stuck envisioning moving to grab the gun and weighing that with how pissed El will be if he gets himself shot. It’s a difficult mental calculation.
Wirth drops one hand down from his grip, reaching into his jacket pocket. It’s as good of a chance as Peter is going to get. He steps forward to—
Neal cries out.
Peter freezes, looking back and forth between Wirth and where Neal is rigid on the floor almost…convulsing?
“What are you…”
“Shock collar,” Wirth says nonchalantly, not seeming to relish in—or particularly even notice—Peter’s horror, “Modified it myself. Works like a charm, though I wouldn’t recommend it for every application. I can’t imagine it’s easy on the heart.” He speaks over Neal’s noises of pain, which have turned into more of a set of gurgling sounds.
“Stop it,” Peter pleads, panic rushing over him, “Stop.”
His hands are raised in surrender.
“Turn around.”
“On the back of your head.”
Wirth steps up behind Peter, patting him down, emptying his pockets. Keys. Cellphone. Both gone. But Peter can’t find the will to care. He’s much more focused on Neal. Numb.
“Alright,” he says as Wirth reaches his ankles, “Now, now stop that—you’re going to kill him.”
It doesn’t feel like an overreaction, Neal already looks closer to corpse than living.
“It’s fine.” Wirth sounds vaguely annoyed. He steps away, and there’s some noises behind Peter as Wirth, with no hurry, either puts away Peter’s personal items or retrieves something from the locker. Or both.
Peter’s arms are pulled down behind his back and Wirth drags him over a few steps, cuffing his wrists behind one of the beams, the cold metal threaded down between the blades of Peter’s shoulders.
A few seconds later, Neal stills, like a marionette with strings cut, going quiet. There’s the sound of a few panted breaths, a ragged cough.
“Neal, are you alright?”
No response. Worry further etches itself into the lines on Peter’s forehead.
Wirth pushes the metal chair against the beam with a loud screech, looking to Peter.
“Have a seat.”
Yeah, Peter isn’t going to risk noncompliance again. Not until he has that thing off of Neal’s neck. He maneuvers himself into the chair, watching Wirth cross back to the locker and pull open the doors.
Even with Wirth’s form blocking most of the contents, what Peter sees is… enough. His stomach turns. He was desperately, desperately hoping that Neal had been spared that.
Come on, he’s chained up, naked, in what essentially amounts to a sex dungeon. There’s no way this was going to be nonsexual.
Peter cringes at the bluntness of his own thoughts, wishing he could unthink them. Wishing to discover they’re wrong. Unfortunately, he’s not finding much counter evidence to help with that.
Neal has pulled himself back up enough to lean on his shoulder against the wall, his knees tucked beneath him. A hand splayed against the concrete to steady himself.
Peter grimly notes the shackle around Neal’s left ankle, with a thick chain running back towards the wall. And then Neal’s other ankle which is green and purple—and wrong: too large? Not sitting right?
Peter’s attention gets pulled back to Wirth, who tightly knots his legs to those of the chair while Peter bites back his loathing. Wirth is too good at this. The implied extensive practice, combined with Wirth’s calm demeanor…it makes Peter’s gut twist.
“There,” Wirth says, straightening up and patting his thighs, “See, that didn’t need to be too much trouble, did it?”
Peter exhales an infuriated breath.
“I know that you’re angry now, but I’m hopeful that you’ll come around.”
“Come around?”
“Yes, I have nothing against you, Burke—can I call you Peter?” Wirth doesn’t offer a beat for Peter to respond to this question. “I have nothing against you. I respect you as an investigator; your work in the White Collar division has been admirable. Ultimately, I think you and I have the same values, just different methods.”
Blood throbs in the roof of Peter’s mouth.
“Oh, I don’t think I share a single goddamn value with you,” he bites back.
“I disagree.”
“And if you have nothing against me,” Peter shrugs up his restrained hands behind him, “Then why am—”
“You’re a matter of unfortunate circumstance.”
“And Neal?” Peter doesn’t see how any circumstances explain that one.
“It’s a criminal, and this is where our values align, you see. Both you and I wanted to rehabilitate it, to correct its behavior. The way I view it, the only difference is how we went about it. And that I’ve made more progress in a few months than you made in two years.”
On—on some very technical level, Wirth is right. But Peter would like to think of his motivations as not nearly that soulless: he didn’t want Neal to be a different person…just a better version of himself. Wirth probably considers this to be a better version of Neal.
“Both of us were exploitative,” Wirth continues, “You for your career. Me for personal enjoyment.”
Personal enjoyment: that’s a nice phrase for it.
And sure, maybe at first Peter merely saw Neal as an asset to the bureau…but, he’s definitely put his own reputation and career on the line a few times, gone against what was in the FBI’s best interest because he cared about Neal’s best interest instead. That’s got to count for something. That has to prove that Peter thinks of Neal as a friend, not just a resource.
Peter might have not always acted selflessly, it's true. But even entertaining similarities between himself and Wirth is ludicrous—Wirth has been doing God knows what physical harm to Neal.
Also, he reminds himself, this entire line of reasoning is insane since it’s coming from Wirth. Who Peter is apparently struggling to remember isn’t simply a colleague he vaguely dislikes.
Why are you thinking about this?
“The difference between us is that I’m not a psychopath who has a man held captive in my basement.”
“The way I see things, it was never going to be anything but a nuisance to society. You can’t change that sort of thing. Flagrant disregard for authority is bred in. The only viable solution is to train obedience. You tried to be its friend, and where did that get you—it was still lying to you, doing things behind your back…”
As much as Peter is affronted by the bred in comment, he’s even more stuck on training obedience. Like Neal’s a goddamn dog. Except, Wirth probably treats dogs way better than this, Jesus.
“Train obedience,” Peter repeats, “What does that even mean? He’s a person for Christ's sake.”
“What’s the goal of prison then?”
“I don't know. Rehabilitation.”
“Really?”
“Alright, punishment.”
“Exactly. I’m carrying out justice.”
“No, no you’re not. This is—”
“This way actually works,” Wirth says firmly. He looks up from Peter, his tone changing, “Come here,” he says, apparently an order to Neal.
Much to Peter’s revulsion, it has its intended effect. Neal, like a soldier snapping to attention, gets to his feet.
He limps across the space, his head down, putting almost no weight on his right leg. And when he does put the little weight necessary to step, his ankle seems to collapse further into an awkward angle. Peter winces at each laborious step.
That’s going to be a problem in getting him out of here. One of many.
“And stop acting like Neal is an object,” Peter spits, his focus moving back to Wirth because he can’t stand to watch Neal struggle to move anymore. “Stop calling Neal it.”
Once again, Peter notices that when he says Neal’s name, Neal seems to…cower.
What the hell has he done to you?
“I’ll call it what it is,” an edge of animosity creeps into Wirth’s voice. “But, here. If you want to, we can ask it.”
Wirth places a hand on Neal’s arm, in artificial affection, draws him a stumbled step closer. Peter grits his teeth.
“Do you have a name?”
Neal, face still averted, shakes his head.
“No?” Wirth asks, his pitch rising in mockery, “Surely you must, Peter here seems to think so.”
A more vigorous shake.
“Are you certain?”
Neal nods.
“That’s that then.”
No, that is not that.
No eye contact. No responding to his own name. No talking. Guilt is crushing Peter, a weight on his chest. He should’ve found Neal. Weeks ago. A month ago. How long has this even been going on? When did it start? Peter should’ve put it together then. While Neal was still Neal.
At this point, Peter would take anything: he simply wants Neal to acknowledge his presence. Or to show any tiny glimpse of his own personality.
“As you can see: night and day difference.” Wirth slides his hand up to Neal’s shoulder, and following the unspoken cue, Neal sinks to his knees.
It’s a long moment and several hand movements before Peter registers where this is going.
“Okay, I get it,” he says quickly, stumbling over the words, “I see that you—I get it. You don’t need to—”
Why is Wirth even doing this? He’s not proving anything to Peter, and if he were aiming for sadistic pleasure in Peter’s discomfort, why otherwise paste on the veil of civility? So why, what’s the damn point?!
Peter can’t help the noise of revulsion that escapes his throat as Neal puts—well, that—in his mouth.
He stares at his own lap, trying not to hear Wirth’s breathing or the wet sounds. Wishing that he didn’t now know what both parties sound like in this particular situation.
And then it hits Peter, as he’s unable to stop himself from glancing at Neal…that’s what Wirth is doing: he’s testing Neal.
The tension in the muscles of Neal's back, stretched thinly across protruding shoulder blades. The way Wirth is studying Neal’s face. The two halves of this horrible picture click together, and suddenly Peter gets it: Wirth is seeing if Neal will break or hesitate or outright refuse now that Peter is part of the equation.
Peter counts off the seconds, too angry, or more likely, too damn awkward to say anything else. He needs to start figuring out how he’s gonna get himself out of this mess, get Neal out of this mess. No one explicitly knows he’s here, but El will be expecting him home late tonight. Is—is that a good thing or a bad thing? It’s a bad one if Wirth has also realized it…surely Wirth wouldn’t outright murder him. Are you stupid? Of course he would.
It’s difficult for Peter to accept any of this situation. He doesn’t know Wirth that well, but Wirth is an acquaintance, a coworker, and there’s a certain set of values that Peter has always assumed everyone at the bureau holds.
And yet, here’s the resounding proof that he's wrong about that, right in front of him. Grunting his way through an orgasm. Peter tastes bile.
Wirth, finally done, tucks himself back into his pants. “Don’t be rude,” he says, roughly grabbing Neal’s head and pushing him towards Peter. Neal catches himself with a hand. “Take care of our guest.”
Oh.
The blood drains from Peter’s face.
“Don’t,” he shakes his head, staring wide eyed at Neal’s scarred back, waiting for him to react. “Neal, no. Don’t.”
Peter realizes too late that he’s pleading with the wrong person.
“Take care of our guest,” Wirth repeats, with a tone indicating that he’s not used to having to say anything twice.
Neal is still. Clearly caught up in an unspoken standoff with Wirth in which Peter doesn’t feel like he’s even part of the equation.
“Wirth, this isn’t—”
“Shut up, Peter,” Wirth snaps. And for some reason, Peter does. Falling in to his own petrification.
There are several long moments of dread, both Peter and Wirth waiting for Neal to make a decision. Is it much of a choice?
Neal breaks, moving towards Peter, completely unresponsive to Peter’s distress.
Peter strains against his restraints, rocking the chair slightly, as far as his arms, wrapped around the beam behind him, will allow. He tries to stand, but Wirth, with a hand on his shoulder, shoves him back down.
He tries to pull back from Neal. To curl his way back into the chair and somehow out of this predicament. Anything.
“Please, Neal. Don’t.”
If he doesn’t listen to Wirth, Wirth will probably beat him half to death. The acknowledgement does nothing to make Peter feel any better.
I’m going to beat Wirth to death. Now that helps slightly.
Neal’s hands are fumbling to unclasp Peter’s pants and—
Peter gives up on trying to get away, stilling and staring up at the divots in the wall’s cement. Block it out, block everything out.
He tries desperately not to feel Neal grip his flaccid penis. Not to be aware of Wirth’s amused facial expression. Not to think about the sting of betrayal that’s forming a lump in his throat, that feels like it’s going to choke out the air.
Neal is shaking. Stop. We’re blocking it out, remember?
Stomach acid burns on Peter’s tongue.
This morning he had coffee with his wife and took his dog for a walk. El chatted with him about an upcoming event she’s planning at the MoMA. And that had made Peter sad because…because, well, Neal had been on his mind. How the hell can this be where his day ended up? It can’t be real. This can’t be real.
Thankfully, the embarrassment, both first and second hand, that’s turning Peter’s face red is also preventing anything from happening down there. In fact, Peter doesn’t think he’s ever been less turned on in his life.
After several more agonizing minutes, Wirth must realize this as well.
“Alright,” he waves a hand, “That’s enough.”
Thank god.
Wirth grabs Neal’s arm, pulling him to his feet. He leans in, saying something unintelligible into Neal’s ear.
The sharp slap as Wirth hits Neal across the face with the back of his hand pulls Peter fully back into his own body, into awareness.
Neal, released, a hand holding his now bleeding lip, sinks back to the ground, sitting back on his heels. Peter wonders if he’s not allowed to retreat further without a more explicit dismissal.
Wirth moves about, setting up something, digging through bins in the locker. He chats at Peter while he does.
“So, why were you here? I’m doubting you would’ve shown up alone and unarmed if you were on some sort of half-baked rescue mission.”
“I wasn’t,” Peter says stiffly, trying to find his voice again, incredibly aware of the fact that his pants are still undone.
“So what did you want then?”
“I…” Aware that he will have to remember what just happened forever.
“Peter,” Wirth prods.
“To ask questions about Neal. Iyengar told me you were on vacation. I’m impatient.”
“And you found this address how?”
“Some digging.”
“You told the bureau?”
Peter doesn’t answer for a beat, trying to decide if a lie or the truth is more to his advantage.
“Yes.”
“Your wife too?”
“Yes.”
Wirth is quiet, assessing Peter’s statements.
“You know,” Peter’s realizing that it’s time for bargaining. “It’s not too late for us to work something out here. In a few hours, my wife is going to start to worry, and there’s people in my division who know exactly what my suspicions were about you. You’re screwed, Wirth. But if you get the hell out of here right now, get yourself a head start, you might have time to make it out of the country.”
Wirth stills, studying Peter’s expression. Look unfazed, that’s the best way to pull this off.
Wirth looks to Neal, “Is he lying?”
Neal nods. Damn it, Caffrey.
“That’s what I thought,” Wirth clips, “Nobody knows you’re here, do they?”
Peter is silent, trapped by the fact that Neal knows how to read him incredibly well. And apparently has decided to place all the work of getting them out of here squarely on Peter’s shoulders.
“I agree with you that there are things I’ll have to deal with though. A trail that needs to be cleaned up.”
Wirth looses Peter from the chair and unlocks the handcuff around one wrist, ratcheting it closed through a link of chain instead. It's a chain that he’s run across the floor and padlocked to the same metal jutting out of concrete that Neal’s restraints are connected to.
Peter takes advantage of his freedom of movement to hastily reposition his boxers and refasten his trousers.
“Not perfect,” Wirth comments, examining his set up, “but it will work for now. Stand up.”
Wirth runs his hands down Peter’s arms and legs again, rechecks his pockets.
“Take off your shoes.”
“What?”
“Come on.”
Peter toes off his shoes, the concrete cool on his socked feet.
“And the ring.”
Wirth drags away the chair, Peter’s effects in hand, and then steps back to survey his efforts.
“Good, though now I have to go deal with any mess you've brought my way.” The mess Peter is wishing he hadn’t brought Wirth’s attention to.
Wirth extracts Peter’s phone and keys, then closes and latches the locker.
“Your passcode?”
Peter doesn’t particularly want to give Wirth easy access to contacting people in his life. Or the ability to impersonate him.
“No.”
Wirth sighs, like a father disappointed in both the idiocy and defiance of their child. He holds the phone out to Neal.
Of course.
“O-five-twenty-five,” Wirth reads over Neal’s shoulder, before taking back the device. “I’m guessing wedding anniversary.”
He’s right.
“While I’m gone feel free to take advantage of my hospitality,” Wirth motions towards Neal, “I’m not possessive and, like I’ve said, you’re a guest here. I don’t want you to be bored.”
Peter’s incredulous at that remark. While he’s still trying to absorb that Wirth thinks he might want to do whatever hospitality entails, out of boredom no less, Wirth’s footsteps plod up the stairs.
And just like that, Peter is left alone with Neal.
Somehow, he’s more uncomfortable now than he was under Wirth’s constantly self aggrandizing aura.
Neal, after the footfalls dissipate, half crawls, half walks over to the bolt of metal they’re chained to, picking up and considering the lock that’s attaching Peter. He must not like what he sees, because after a second he drops it and leans back against the wall, his head tipped back and his eyes closed.
At least that was Neal doing something of his own accord…
Peter swallows, his mouth dry. He paces across the width of the room, the events of the recent past swirling in his mind. Neal revealing his lie. Neal letting Wirth into his phone. Neal essentially assaulting him.
Wirth was an obvious target for anger, and now without that, Peter’s hurt and panic are building up in his chest with no outlet. In his head at least, he wants to grab Neal—his mental image of Neal, Neal as he knows him—by the shoulders and ask what the hell is wrong with him. How could you do that? Are you stupid? I’m trying to help us and you’re blowing it. Do you want to die here? Jesus. Oh, and—and, if you ever try to touch me again, I’ll— What? Hurt him?
Peter completes another lap in his pacing, feeling the weight of eyes on him. Of course, by the time he looks, Neal’s studying the floor. Maybe Peter’s radiating his anger more than he thought…he feels a flash of guilt.
And as he looks back at Neal, Peter fails to hold on to his animosity. Neal is too fucking pathetic to stay angry at.
Peter walks to what seems like an appropriate enough distance—not too close, but still purposefully adjacent—from Neal and sits on the floor with a quiet sigh. Neal leans away from him, either consciously or subconsciously adding distance.
And that’s when Peter notices that Neal’s hands are twisted together in his lap, his knuckles white. He’s terrified. The last thing said was Wirth giving you permission to rape him, and you’ve been brooding in frustration ever since like you just might. That’s ridiculous though, Peter would never—and you also would’ve said Wirth would never either, wouldn’t you?
“Neal,” Peter says hesitantly, finding breaking the silence to be a monumental task. “You…you know I’m not going to hurt you, right?”
He can’t see Neal’s face well, and there’s not much to interpret from tight shoulders.
They sit quietly for a while longer, Peter trying to be as still as possible, and trying to gauge the level of tension in Neal’s form. He waits for Neal to relax, even the slightest bit…but it doesn’t seem to happen.
Peter casts his eyes around the perimeter of the ceiling.
“Wirth’s not listening to us, is he? Or watching us?”
Neal shakes his head.
Peter frowns. He’d really been hoping that this muteness thing was performative for Wirth, and that with Wirth’s observation gone, he could get Neal talking, but that isn’t looking like the case. Maybe he simply needs more time.
“That’s good.” Peter says; he doesn’t know what else to say.
Peter has so many questions, but also no idea how to ask any of them. Are you okay? doesn’t feel like it’s fair to ask. Peter knows the answer is no. What he really wants answered are two key corollaries: Mentally, are you still in there? and Physically, how long do I have?
A distinct fear is growing in Peter that Neal’s going to die on him. That there’s so many things that could be wrong that he can only begin to guess at from an outside, and fairly distant, view. Is Neal dangerously dehydrated? Starving to death? Does he have internal bleeding? Does Peter need to worry about sepsis?
Neal looks sick.
He has bruises along his sides and the posture of someone with cracked ribs. Coughing makes him wince, and he coughs rather frequently. Breathing also seems to happen gingerly. He has open wounds: burns maybe, on his chest; sores around where the manacle encircles his ankle. So Peter feels the need to fear both punctured lungs and infections…
He can’t really gauge how weak Neal is, or how cogent. Or how brainwashed.
There are so many bruises.
It’s occurred to Peter that a lot of Neal’s behavior might only make no sense to him because there’s information asymmetry. But that’s a hard problem to solve when he can’t get the man to say a single word to him.
“I had no idea that—I thought that there were things about what was going on with you during your work with Organized Crime that Wirth wasn’t telling me. Because of professionalism and saving face and all that…Obviously, I had no idea that…this…was happening.”
He couldn’t have even imagined it was, he’d sooner have thought Neal dead. And if he had known, Peter would’ve done anything…
But, he supposes, it’s too late for that now.
“Do you know what Wirth’s plan is? Or might be? I know I probably wasn’t part of it so that…changes things.”
No response, not even in physicality. It’s like Neal’s pretending to not hear him.
Peter simply wants Neal to brainstorm with him. You know, like the old days. They’ve thought themselves out of some major plights before, if Neal would—
“Will you at least look at me?” Peter’s voice gets a little too loud.
Neal shakily lifts his head, trying to make eye contact with Peter and failing, and then, trying again, like he’s forcing himself—Oh my god, he thinks that was some kind of order.
“No, no,” Peter backpedals, repulsed, “I’m sorry. You don’t have to look at me. It’s fine. I didn’t mean that as—”
You’re an idiot. Peter certainly feels like one.
He’s pretty used to telling Neal what to do. And assuming that Neal will probably completely ignore him.
Frankly, and in a way that makes Peter feel a bit sick given the current scenario, he’s also used to pulling the I can send you back to prison card to try to get his message to stick. Threats. Wasn’t that Wirth’s entire point?
That dynamic isn’t going to work now. As much as part of Peter, a part he really despises, wants to try to force Neal to talk to him, he can’t do it, he can’t do that. Neal has had any sense of autonomy taken away from him over the past weeks, months, however long it’s been. You need to demonstrate that his boundaries still matter. Otherwise, you are equally as manipulative as Wirth, even if you have good intentions.
“You don’t have to look at me. Or talk to me. That’s fine, that’s okay. Can I ask you some questions though? And you can just nod or shake your head to tell me yes or no.”
After a second he adds, “You don’t have to, it’s up to you.”
Neal nods, and Peter’s relieved. A relief that comes with the unpleasant realization that he wouldn’t have been very happy if he were declined.
“Okay. Your ankle is broken, it looks like?”
Yes.
“Ribs?”
Neal’s lips press flat, he raises a shoulder in a shrug.
“Do you think you could run?”
No.
“Does Wirth ever take you out of here? Have you left this room since you were brought here?”
No.
Both of those pieces of information are grim for whatever plan Peter is trying to assemble in his head.
“Is this the only place you’ve been?”
No.
That makes sense, if Wirth didn’t leave the city for a while, he had to have been keeping Neal somewhere closer.
“Wirth didn’t go on leave until after you went missing. At least two weeks I think. Is that when you were somewhere else?”
Yes.
“With someone else?”
Yes.
Great, so there are more people, and Peter hesitates to call them people, involved in this…
“Do you know how long you’ve been here?”
No.
“It’s June sixteenth.”
Neal’s face drops. He must have had no way to know how much time had passed.
“You disappeared somewhere around the end of April.” April 22nd. Or, at least, that’s when Peter found out. Neal could have actually been held by Wirth sometime before then, give or take a weekend, he’s not sure. “Is that when this started?”
No.
“No, of course not. The—when I came to your apartment…” A memory dangles in front of Peter, much more innocuous at the time, now horribly, horribly obvious. “I thought the case was…it was sometime before that, wasn’t it?”
Yes.
“Jesus, that disgusting piece of shit,” he hisses, somehow finding a way to possess even deeper hatred. “I should’ve known that…You were off and I should have realized that it—why didn’t you say anything?”
It’s not a fair question, and Peter knows it’s not as soon as it leaves his lips, in something of an entreaty.
But: while Neal’s a proud person, he’s also not stupid, why didn’t he ask Peter for help? He didn’t have to tell the truth—whatever horror the truth is—he could’ve merely complained to Peter about Wirth. Or expressed concerns about his safety on the Santini case. And Peter would’ve done something. Hell, Peter was already concerned about the stress Neal was under and the danger Neal might’ve been in, if Neal hadn’t been so insistent he was fine and so active in keeping distant from Peter, maybe this wouldn’t have happened at all.
“You could’ve—if I had known…” Peter trails off. Really, he’s hurt that Neal didn’t trust him, he’d thought it was different than that. After all, Peter trusts Neal. Well, he doesn’t trust him with proximity to his wallet, but he has trusted him with his life.
You’re going to blame this on Neal? It was your job to be a better friend, a better agent. And, you don’t even know what happened.
“I’m sure you had good reasons,” he finishes lamely.
And Neal probably had good reasons for doing all of the other things he’s done too. Peter has to believe that. He has to be wrong. He’s predicting Wirth’s behavior based on what clearly is a facade of a personality and a set of assumed, but definitely missing, basic human decencies. And making his decisions accordingly. Peter was assuming that he could get away with saying no to Wirth or with lying to him. It’s easy to say, no, I don’t care what you’ll do, when you don’t have relevant first hand experience of exactly what he would do.
Plus, isn’t it easy for you to say you’re not afraid of Wirth: you’re the guest, Neal’s the it.
That’s exactly it, even though Wirth’s put a lot of effort into getting Neal here, and into this mental state, he clearly views Neal as entirely disposable. Frankly, Peter can tell that just by looking at the condition Neal’s in, so this can’t be a long term thing. Neal—well, he must have a set expiration date in Wirth’s head. Which means that’s now Peter’s expiration date as well.
“When Wirth goes back to work,” Peter starts, deciding it’s true as he says it, “before that he’s going to have to kill us, isn’t he?”
Yes.
That’s…really not good. Understatement of the century.
Peter doesn’t ask many more questions. It’s hard to come up with things that can be answered simply and Neal looks increasingly uncomfortable with being spoken to; Peter doesn’t want this to turn into more of an interrogation than it already is.
Neither of them sleep. Time slips past at indistinguishable speed. Not quick, not slow. Already, Peter finds the lack of ability to know when it is to be incredibly disorienting.
How must Neal feel? Everything has to blur together then, into one long, unending nightmare. Being stuck in one room, for months, without sunlight…that’s enough to make anyone start to lose their mind.
Peter paces. He sits. He tests his restraints. He concocts inexecutable plans. He paces some more.
Neal—barely moves. He observes Peter, though. Even when Neal isn’t looking at him, Peter can still feel that Neal is paying attention to him, that he’s hyper-aware of Peter’s physical presence. It makes sense, except for his interactions with Wirth, Neal’s been alone. It’s probably strange—and fear-inducing—to have someone else in this space.
The exhaustion is starting to creep in when Neal sits up suddenly, apparently hearing something that Peter doesn’t.
Sure enough, a few moments later Wirth enters, sauntering across the room. He’s wearing new clothes, so presumably it has been an entire night.
“Peter, join me for breakfast?” he asks, and though it’s phrased as a question, Peter knows it doesn't really matter what he says. It’s not like Wirth will abide by his answer.
Wirth frees Peter from the long chain, waiting for him to lead the way out of the basement.
“What about Neal?” Peter asks.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll deal with it later.”
Peter climbs the stairs, with Wirth closely behind him. He rises to where he was standing less than 24 hours ago, and yet it feels like it’s been an eternity. Morning sunlight streams through the cabin windows, golden and comforting after the harsh, constant blue-white of the basement. His guilt swells. And with it, immense sadness. Does Neal even remember what daylight looks like?
Wirth pulls out a chair at the kitchen table, waiting for Peter to sit and then cuffing his wrist to the wooden arm.
“If you try anything stupid,” he says, still gripping Peter’s forearm, “you won’t be the one I take it out on. Is that clear?”
“Crystal.” Peter clips, infuriated by the constant double standard. But it works, doesn’t it? Wirth threatening him wouldn’t be as effective.
“Alright. How do you take your coffee?”
“I…” Peter struggles to keep up with the tonal whiplash, “Black is fine.”
Wirth steps into the kitchen, completing the incongruous scene of domesticity: a pot of coffee that’s just finished brewing, a breakfast half prepared. If Peter hadn’t caught his eye on the basement door yesterday, this very well could’ve been the scene he experienced. A conversation over warm mugs with a pleasant window view as backdrop. Wirth would be a colleague doing Peter a favor by recollecting some details, and Peter would’ve driven away without ever knowing that he was mere feet away from Neal. That’s…maybe more of a nightmare than how things did turn out.
Wirth slides a filled mug across the table to Peter, who studies it, wary.
“Go on, you can drink it, I’m not trying to poison you. Honestly, I’m enjoying having you around, it’s nice to have someone to talk to.”
“You would have someone to talk to already if you allowed Neal to talk.”
Wirth huffs a laugh, not as angered by the comment as Peter expected him to be. “Trust me, I wouldn’t want to talk to it anyways. It has nothing of value to say, you should know that. Most of what comes out of its mouth are lies. That’s part of why I like you Peter, you’re an honest man.”
Being liked by Wirth…doesn’t sit right with Peter. At all. He swallows uncomfortably.
“Eggs over easy, over hard?”
“I don’t care.”
“Over easy then.”
Wirth returns to the stove. And Peter decides that if Wirth wants conversation it’ll have to be on Peter’s terms.
“You were still at work for a while, after Neal was gone. Where did you have him?”
“With some old friends of mine. They did me a favor. But I think they enjoyed themselves, so I’m not too indebted.”
“Yeah, we wouldn’t want that,” Peter says dryly, wondering which slew of injuries he’s laid his eyes on downstairs paid that particular obligation.
“I don’t appreciate the tone. I don’t have to answer your questions, you know.”
Peter does know, but he still doesn’t apologize.
“What friends?”
“You what, want me to tell you their names?”
“That would be ideal.”
Wirth sighs over the sound of popping oil and his own tinkering. Like a mentor disappointed in their pupil.
“This isn’t a case that you need to be working. In fact, there is no case, you wanted to know its whereabouts, now you do. I don’t see why the details matter so much.”
“They’ll matter in the court case.” If Wirth is alive to have one…
Wirth hums dismissively, but Peter gets the memo: what court case?
Then, Wirth really does think he’s done nothing wrong, or more likely, he thinks he’ll get away with it. He won’t. Peter won’t let it happen. He could never live knowing Wirth was walking free. And in case that doesn’t work out, he won’t be dying without taking Wirth with him either.
Wirth places a plate of food in front of Peter—eggs, potatoes, sausage—and then returns to get his own, joining Peter at the table. Wirth starts to eat, but Peter doesn’t even pick up cutlery. He has no appetite. Though he does briefly ponder putting the fork before him into Wirth’s jugular.
“When did this all start? With Neal.” If he can’t get accomplices out of Wirth, he’ll work to establish the timeline…
“A couple of weeks after it started working with us.”
A wave of nausea accompanies Peter’s horror. His mind runs frantically through some math, the conclusion of which is that, no matter what, this has been going on for a very long time. How many interactions did Peter have with Neal in all that time? Dozens, hundreds? How many signs did I miss?
Peter stares at the square of green that comprises the window over the sink, his memory playing out like a film reel:
He and Hughes argue in the bullpen, it’s the same argument they were having in Peter’s office, but Peter’s refused to let it drop. Neal leans against his desk behind them, chaining paper clips together and looking a bit pleased to be fought over.
“It’s out of my control on this one, Burke,” Hughes says, “They’ve gone through the proper channels, I can’t override it any more than you. If Wirth and Iyengar say they need Caffrey on their case, they get him. It’s as simple as that.”
“But Neal works in white collar.”
“Yes, but he can be reassigned to meet needs. We have as much a right to him as any division does.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s policy.” Hughes glances at his watch, “Look, I’ve got a meeting…”
“Fine, we’ll talk more about this later.”
Hughes sighs. “No we won’t, there’s nothing more to talk about.”
“Don’t worry about it, Hughes,” Neal chimes in; he drops the line of paper clips down into a pile below his hand. “Peter's just worried that I might have too much fun over in organized crime and decide to never come back to him.”
“Did you actually need him?”
Wirth raises an eyebrow in confusion.
“For the case,” Peter adds.
“Oh absolutely, if I’d have put any of my agents in there, I would’ve been getting their eyeballs in the mail the next week.”
“And is that how you phrased it in the debrief?” Peter asks sourly. It wasn’t. Wirth didn’t make a case for Neal being invaluable, for needing him to stay on his team, he instead spent twenty-five pages arguing that Peter was unfit to supervise Neal as a CI.
“It, being a criminal, is naturally more adept at behaving like a criminal than a room full of feds. That’s not impressive, Peter.”
Peter doesn’t fully listen to the comment, he rubs at the side of his forehead, trying to lay this all out in a way that makes sense to him. So Wirth: gets Neal assigned to his case, because he actually needs him, takes some sort of perverse interest in Neal as they begin to work together, insists that Neal stay assigned with his division, and then…
“And you went through all of this work?” he asks, “Planned out all of this…why? Why risk your whole life and career and everything over—whatever it is you get out of this.”
“I’ll admit, it’s been more work than I normally would put in: I took time off. There’s you and others from work closely monitoring its activity. But this—the supplies, the cabin, the connections, I already had all of that. And it seemed worth the little additional effort.”
“Worth the—” Peter starts, but Wirth cuts him off.
“It seemed easy to manipulate and like a good project, since it was so defiant at first. And, frankly, it’s prettier than who I usually have to choose from.”
Usually. The roof of Peter’s mouth is bitter, and it isn’t the coffee. He didn’t figure that Wirth up and snapped one day and simply decided to start torturing people, but Peter somehow hadn’t considered that this was something Wirth had done and gotten away with before. More than once.
It’s everything that Peter prays doesn’t happen, that the system he’s dedicated his life to is supposed to prevent from happening.
“So you’ve done this to other people?”
“To a lesser extent, yes,” Wirth cuts through a sausage with the side of his fork, “I’ve rehabilitated a number of miscreants.”
“Jesus fucking…” What does that mean? Peter’s not sure he actually wants to know.
“Calm down,” Wirth says, continuing to eat, “They all agreed to it.”
“Neal agreed to this?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.”
“You should, I’m also an honest man. I offered it a choice.”
“What choice?” Cause, do what I say or I’ll kill you isn’t a choice.
“It could either spend the remainder of its life in prison, with you joining it, or it could put out.”
Oh no…
“It chose the latter, but then decided not to uphold its half of the bargain. And rather than sending it back into a system I knew would do nothing to address the problem, I decided further reform was necessary.”
“With me joining him?”
“I’m not naive, Peter. There are plenty of things it’s done that you’ve conveniently left out of your reports. And plenty more it could be convicted of besides simple bond forgery. In fact, it confessed a number of considerably more serious things to me. I have to imagine you know about some of them, I was able to dig them up. So at the very least, for you, I’d say obstruction of justice, at worst, accomplice.”
Peter’s own words come back to haunt him. Why didn’t he say anything? That’s why.
“That’s bullshit,” he snaps, “Maybe you could get me fired, but I think the bureau is fairly aware that I look the other way on occasion, they’d rather that and a high success rate. And there’s no concrete proof of anything else Neal’s done, otherwise I would’ve brought him up on charges for it. Whatever coerced confession you got would never hold up in court.”
“You don’t know what evidence I have, neither did it.”
That’s a cop out answer. Wirth didn’t have shit. He doesn’t have shit. He simply has the skill apparently to pluck at someone’s fears until he finds the string that resonates.
“You lied to him,” Peter says, envisioning exactly how this threat was woven.
If you run, Peter will still be on the hook…
If you try and speak up, no one will believe you over me…
If you fight back, you’ll be considered a violent offender going forward…
At that point, Neal was only supposed to be around Wirth for the duration of the Santini case. Who knows what Wirth was doing, but Neal must’ve decided that it wasn’t as bad as a life sentence—or whatever other nonsense Wirth promised.
But, the thought that…that any of this was allowed to happen because Neal was trying to protect him…
“Does it matter if I did?”
Peter digs his fingers into the chair arm, his knuckles aching.
“We both know that it escaped the punishment it deserved,” Wirth continues, “Four years? The list of crimes that can be potentially linked back to it is damn near encyclopedic. It feels no remorse, it has no desire to be better. It probably has millions of dollars socked away somewhere.”
Peter shakes his head, as if to dispel Wirth’s words.
“You’ve worked your whole life to earn a living. It lied and stole its way to prosperity. With almost no repercussions.”
“And all the help Neal’s given the FBI, all the people he’s helped us put away—including a bunch of significantly more dangerous people—that doesn’t count for anything?”
“Do you think it changed in the time you worked with it? If you had let it walk away, do you think it would’ve gone on to live a completely clean, honest life?”
Completely honest? Peter frowns. Neal…would get bored.
“No.”
“So there’s your answer.”
“That isn’t—”
“Your food’s getting cold.”
Peter cannot help but scoff at the audacity of that interjection. “I don’t want it,” he says flatly.
Wirth shrugs, though he seems irritated. “Suit yourself. If you choose to decline hospitality, I suppose that’s your prerogative, Peter.”