what if I deserve this?

by Josie_P

Summary:

In hindsight, Neal Caffrey should’ve realized nothing good could’ve come from Peter Burke smiling at him with such a mischievous glint in his eyes. But Neal was nothing if not a little too optimistic—a little too romantic—to not croon gleefully when Peter had described the two month vacation to Paris he was taking Elizabeth on.

It was just two months with a different handler, after all? What could go wrong?

—

Or, Neal gets abused by his new handler. Will Peter be able to stop it before its too late?

Chapter 1: The First Thing

In hindsight, Neal Caffrey should’ve realized nothing good could’ve come from Peter Burke smiling at him with such a mischievous glint in his eyes. But Neal was nothing if not a little too optimistic—a little too romantic—to not croon gleefully when Peter had described the two month vacation to Paris he was taking Elizabeth on.

“I mean, personally, I don’t exactly see the appeal of the Eiffel Tower when we have plenty of our own buildings here in New York, but Elizabeth is entranced by the idea of taking pictures and eating authentic French croissants—”

“Kwa-ssonts,” Neal corrected with a jaunty tip of his hat, donning his signature pretentious French accent, looking up at Peter’s frustrated (but endeared) expression while flipping through their latest case file.

“Yes, those,” Peter chuckled, “and she also said something about a fashion show? I’m a little lost on the details, but as soon as I brought up Paris she already had the whole itinerary planned so I have a feeling she’ll be the one acting as the tour guide and I’ll just be along for the ride.”

Neal grinned, “Send me a postcard, then.”

Peter smiled, but Neal could tell from the soft hesitance in his gaze that there was something unspoken still in the air.

“Neal…” Peter began haltingly, “There’s, uh— been a slight change of plans in terms of where you’ll be for the next two months, though.”

The case file Neal had been holding slipped from his grasp, falling from his hands in a quiet snowfall of paper and laminated sheets. He didn’t move to pick it up.

“Where I’ll be?” Try as he may to keep a cool, unflappable exterior at all times, there were certain things that even Neal Caffrey couldn’t brush off as no big deal. Prison was one of them.

“You’re not… sending me back are you?” Neal stepped back, eyes searching frantically in Peter’s expression for an answer.

“No, no, Neal,” Peter put a hand up, waving away his concern, “That’s not what I meant. Sorry, I could’ve worded that better. You’ll be moving departments.”

“Moving… departments?” Neal asked, eyes narrowing slightly. He bent down to pick up the papers that had scattered across the carpet—a good excuse to keep his face down so Peter wouldn’t be able to scrutinize his expression, “How would that work?” He asked, careful to keep his tone neutral, but judging by the apologetic purse of Peter’s lips, he hadn’t been entirely successful.

“I know, it’s not exactly ideal,” Peter hedged, hands in his pockets, “but Organized Crime has been looking into a case involving a violent turf war between two rival crime families in New York—the Moreno Syndicate and the Castellano Crew. Old-school outfits with new-school money streams. They launder drug and alcohol profits through bars, nightclubs, and high-end art auctions. Bodies have started turning up, and they want to loop in someone from White Collar because both families are funneling profits through forged art, fake charities, and offshore accounts.”

“And that someone from White Collar…” Neal trailed off, halfheartedly shuffling the papers in his case file.

“… is you,” Peter finished.

“But if you’re gone…” Neal started again, and this time he didn’t even try to keep the plaintive note out of his voice.

“… you’re getting a new handler.”

“Seriously, Peter?” Neal sighed, “All the people from Organized Crime hate me.”

“Hey, don’t say that!” Peter attempted to nudge Neal’s shoulder playfully, but the CI wasn’t having it. “Who could resist that infamous Caffrey charm?”

“I can name twelve special agents right now. Included but not limited to,” Neal counts the names on his fingers, “Russo, Alvarez, Desai, Williams, Smith, Kelton— oh my gosh, and don’t even get me started on Rourke. I bumped into him one time in the hall on accident and I swear he gave me a death glare. If looks could kill I’d be dead.” Neal shivered.

Peter looked at him sympathetically, “Well, at least you’ll have ample time to convert him to the Caffrey fan club.”

“Ample time…?” Neal questioned. He watched a slow smile bloom on Peter’s face as the gears turned in his head.

“No…” Neal gasped, “Peter you can’t be serious. Is Rourke my new handler?”

“Yes, he is,” Peter conceded, “but Neal, trust me on this one, I think this is gonna be really good for you.”

“Yeah,” Neal laughed sarcastically, running a hand through his hair, “It’ll be really phenomenal being attached to the hip of a six foot seven brick wall of pure muscle and hatred. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Hey, Rourke might have a reputation for being a little tough, but he has some of the best closure rates for cases. High eighties, just like us. Stick it out on this case and you’ll make some new friends.”

“Or enemies,” Neal muttered under his breath.

“Neal,” Peter said seriously, placing a heavy hand on the CI’s shoulder. Neal looked up.

“Elizabeth and I are leaving for our vacation this weekend. I know, it’s short notice, but I didn’t want to tell you earlier and have you stressing about it.”
Neal had a half-formulated protest ready about how he would never stress about anything, so much as plot out a few contingency plans with Mozzie, but one look at Peter’s stern expression and the words died on his lips.

“This vacation means a lot to us,” Peter continued, “and I’m most likely not going to be using my phone. El has been stressed lately with work and the last thing I wanna do is bring my work with me. So…” Peter’s tone lightened marginally as he stretched his arm out for a handshake, “just for these two months, can you promise me you’ll stay out of trouble? No contacting me unless it is absolutely necessary and no shenanigans either. You do what Rourke tells you to do and you do it with a smile on your face. Deal?”

“Deal,” Neal agreed, shaking Peter’s hand, albeit begrudgingly. “But only for Elizabeth. God knows she deserves a luxury vacation after all the things you put her through,” Neal tutted jokingly.

Peter laughed. It was genuine and hearty and a sound Neal found himself missing sorely in the days after he left.

In hindsight, Neal wishes he never would’ve shaken Peter’s hand. He wishes he would’ve begged the man to stay, to assign him to someone else—anything. But at the time, the whole conversation had just seemed like an unfortunate blip in an otherwise straightforward four year deal.

Oh, if only Neal had known just how wrong he was.

 

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The first thing Neal learns about Special Agent Thomas Rourke is that he despises the idea of a lunch break.

And it wasn’t even just the idea of taking an hour off from the case that bothered him, Neal slowly began to learn, it was the mere sight of anyone else eating any sort of food or beverage except water, and on rare occasions, coffee.

Except… that wasn’t quite it either. Neal had come to this realization slowly throughout the week, when he’d seen Agent Dominic Russo munching on a bag of potato chips without a second glance from Rourke. And then Agent Naomi Smith had a whole turkey sandwich at her desk which she ate in its entirety without a single comment. And then it was Desai’s thermos of noodles, and Kelton’s container of lasagna, and even Rourke himself indulged in no less than six hard boiled eggs at lunch and a box of chicken and rice for dessert— but God forbid Neal try to eat a granola bar!

He’d barely gotten done with tearing open the wrapper when he felt Rourke’s gaze burning into him from across the room.

“Caffrey! I thought I gave you an assignment to do. Now is not the time to take a break. Stop being lazy and get your ass back to work. You’re out of prison so you can help us with this damn case, not stuff your face. Get back to work!” Rourke punctuated the command by throwing his stack of papers on his desk with an unceremonious thud.

Neal had opened his mouth to protest, seeing as the other agents were eating and highlighting financial reports simultaneously, but one look at Rourke’s murderous glare had him shutting his mouth and opening his notebook immediately.

It’d gone about the same way day after day. At some point, Neal realizes that even two almonds is a little too luxurious for someone of his position— “good-for-nothing leech” “lazy” “criminally stupid” “worthless" "ridiculous”—and other such insults Rourke continuously murmurs under his breath that makes Neal feel a unique kind of horrible, but he also feels stupid for feeling bad about it. He’s a grown man, for heaven’s sake. He’s not supposed to be offended by a couple insults.

But sometimes Rourke comes up behind him and gets so close to him he can’t breathe, and clamps a meaty hand on his wrist and whispers in his ear about one wrong move and you’ll be back to prison and I’ll make sure your stay will be as miserable as possible and the vitriol in his voice is so strong it physically burns and Neal can feel his eyes water, and his voice trembles as he says something about how yeah, he’ll stay late and have the analysis done by tomorrow morning.

But Rourke doesn’t leave and Neal looks longingly at his phone, mentally drafting a message to Peter. Begging him to come back. To make Rourke stop. But then he hears Peter’s voice… “just for these two months, can you promise me you’ll stay out of trouble? No contacting me unless it is absolutely necessary and no shenanigans either. You do what Rourke tells you to do and you do it with a smile on your face. Deal?”

And Neal picks up his phone and shoves it back into his desk and looks through the papers and tries to ignore the ticking of the clock that reads 8:37 PM and Rourke’s beady eyes from across the room and the violent, nauseous churning of acid in his stomach.

Chapter 2: The Second Thing

The second thing Neal learns about Special Agent Thomas Rourke is that he’s touchy. Like really, really, touchy.

Even for things that would ordinarily require no physical contact whatsoever, Rourke somehow finds a way to grab Neal’s wrist, slam an elbow into his back, clamp a hand on his shoulder. It’s the type of careless manhandling the guards used to do back in prison, except the fact that Rourke only does it to him and no one else makes him think maybe it’s a lot more thoughtful than it is careless.

But Neal is nothing if not easily adaptable, and a little bit of extra concentration on Rourke’s nonverbal cues allows him to ascertain within a few seconds when exactly Rourke is about to use a vice like grip on Neal’s wrist to stop him from “taking a file he wasn’t supposed to” or whatever that means. Of course, all the other agents are allowed to peruse whatever files they damn well please, but with Rourke, it’s like Neal is playing by some unwritten set of rules and the only way he can find out what they are is by meticulous—and painful—trial and error.

The first time Rourke hits Neal outright is on Thursday night. The two of them are the last to leave the office at 9:14 PM, not that Neal hadn’t desperately tried to leave earlier, but Rourke refuses to let “the criminal under my care” out of his sight.

Despite the lingering tensions from earlier in the day, Rourke seems almost amicable on the walk home. The cold air is biting and having someone tall walk in front of him allows Neal to avoid having to face the torrent of rough wind head on.

Neal can almost fool himself that he’s walking home with Peter. Basking in the soft kind of silence that comes from a hard day of weary, but productive work. Except suddenly Rourke starts talking, and his words seem fairly innocuous on the outside, but underneath runs a current of barely detectable anger that even Neal can only hear because he’s so used to it.

“And I’m thinking that there’s no way in hell we can just let the operation continue without sending someone in, which is why you’re expected to go undercover immediately. First thing tomorrow.” He spits the words out more than says them, a series of veins bulging from his neck, and against his better judgement, Neal tries, just for a moment, to protest.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea? I think we should debrief the rest of the team first and make sure—”

And Neal can’t even finish the thought before he feels Rourke’s whole arm smashing against the side of his face. Neal stumbles back, eyes wide with shock.

Rourke’s chest is heaving and he steps closer, “Care to say that again, pretty boy? Because I think you’ve just shown you don’t have the ability to put your money where your mouth is.” The declaration is punctuated by another shove, and Neal realizes with slowly dawning horror that he’s back against the corner of an alleyway and judging by the rapidly increased breathing coming from Rourke’s flaring nostrils that this assault isn’t about to stop anytime soon.

At some point, he completely zones out. Neal isn’t exactly sure if it happens during the second strike, or the third time Rourke jabs his knee into his stomach, causing him to double over. He coughs for a few seconds, bringing up a faintly red string of saliva. Blood.

Rourke looks at the sight in mock surprise, “Wow, Caffrey. Bleeding already? I’ve barely laid a hand on you. I have no idea how you survived prison.”

The situation seems so completely and utterly ridiculous that Neal Caffrey—smooth talking silver tongue, con artist extraordinaire—finds himself speechless. What is he even supposed to do in this situation? Beg? Scream? Persuade?

In the end, he settles for silence. He isn’t sure if the aching behind his ribs is from soreness or hunger, but it's all encompassing and just painful enough for him to focus in on, anything to distract from Rourke’s sharp fingernails digging into the skin of his neck.

“I want you to understand something, Caffrey.” Rourke whispers into his ear, “You deserve this. You think you could commit crime after crime and get away with a little tracking anklet on your leg?” He steps on Neal’s foot demonstratively, and Neal twists awkwardly under Rourke’s grip, trying to figure out some way for the handler’s full two-hundred pound body weight to not feel like a grinding axe. Something crunches ominously underneath Rourke’s foot and Neal isn’t sure if it's the anklet or his bone.

“People like you make me sick. You may have gotten away with a good deal, but I promise you. You’ll regret the day you met me.”

“I’m sorry,” Neal breathes. He’s used to leveraging apologies and charm like another bargaining chip at his disposal, but something about Rourke’s genuine fury makes him feel terrified. Fills him with a cold, aching dread—the knowledge that this isn’t going to be the kind of situation that he gets out of unscathed.

“I’m really, really, sorry,” Neal tries again, more urgently this time as Rourke’s jaw seems locked into a perpetual clench, eyes trained on Neal’s jugular like he’s waiting for the right chance to strike. “I don’t know how to make it up to you, but, please, stop, I'm sorry—”

“Oh, shut the hell up, Caffrey,” Rourke slams him so hard into the brick wall of the building behind him that for a second, Neal’s vision goes white.

“I don’t need your fake apologies and your fake smiles. I need to solve this case, I need a promotion, and I need to wipe loathsome scum like you off the face of the earth. But since I can’t exactly do that, I’ll settle for the next best thing.” Rourke steps back, and Neal is almost tempted to breathe a sigh of relief, but the adrenaline pumping through his veins means he can’t quite get his heart rate down low enough to do so.

“And you know something, Neal?” Rourke asks as he steps away. Neal’s name sounds like a curse on his tongue, and with the acrimony on Rourke’s lips it might as well be, “Don’t bother telling anyone about our little rendezvous tonight. Under ordinary circumstances, I might tell you that no one would believe you, which is correct, of course, but if we’re being completely honest with ourselves, the real truth is… no one would really care.”

And just like that, Rourke leaves. His boots thud against the concrete and Neal waits until they become quiet, quieter, quieter, and slowly fade away. Only after he’s completely certain he’s safe, does he slowly get up.

His phone is lying in a cold puddle of water near his foot, Neal idly realizes. He reaches down for it and can’t stop the gasp of pain from the wrenching of his shoulder.
The edges of his mouth turn down as he looks through his voicemails. Nothing from Peter.

And standing there, cold, and wet with blood and sweat, Neal thinks about what Peter’s CI would do in this situation.

Peter’s CI would be clever enough to talk his way out of this kind of situation. Or at least competent enough that it never would have happened in the first place. But Neal isn’t Peter’s CI now. He’s Rourke’s CI. And Rourke’s CI is not charming, or strong, or brave, or charismatic.

No, Neal ponders as he stumbles his way back to his apartment, gingerly stepping to avoid putting weight on his bruised ankle.

No, Rourke’s CI is scared. Scared, and cold, and tired, and starving, and stupid and worthless… and at some point Neal isn’t exactly sure when his own internal voice stops and where Rourke’s begins.

Maybe Peter’s CI could find a way out of this.

But all Rourke’s CI knows how to say is… please.

Stop.

I’m sorry.

Chapter 3: The Third Thing

The third thing Neal learns about Special Agent Thomas Rourke over the next weeks is that he genuinely, truly, could not care less if Neal died. He is simply a means to an end. A way to increase Rourke’s case closure rate. A valuable asset, a tool to be used and discarded as needed, with no emotional attachment whatsoever.

Neal realizes this quite abruptly, in the middle of an interrogation, as a matter of fact. Except, instead of Peter being the one doing the interrogating as Neal stands back and observes the minute facial expressions of a felon, Neal is the one being interrogated.

By none other than one Marco Castellano.

Marco—as Neal quickly learns throughout the course of the interrogation—is especially fond of getting so close to Neal that he can smell the man’s overpoweringly artificial cologne, chemical hair grease, and the stale cigarette smoke on his breath all at the same time.

“So… why exactly do you want to join our little crew here, uh…”

“Valen Cross,” Neal supplies automatically. His chosen alias for the current op.

“Valen, huh?” Dante Ricci, the muscle of the group, inquires from the shadows. His voice is vaguely reminiscent of a rake scraping against dry gravel and it takes all of Neal’s wherewithal to keep his face perfectly neutral.

“Short for Valentino,” Neal answers, allowing a small, secretive smile to play on his face before settling back into his careful default expression. “You guys aren’t the only ones with certain… connections, you know.”

“I like this guy,” Another voice chimes in from the dark. This one a little more playful than Neal would ordinarily be comfortable with.

“Do you now, Lucas?” Marco asks dryly.

And that’s the only warning Neal gets before a fist collides with his temple. Neal gasps. He can feel warm, wet blood trickle down his face and the taste of iron in his mouth.

“Why’d you do that?” Lucas asks, except his voice is more childishly petulant than genuinely indignant—as if Marco has just ruined one of his favorite toys.

If this was a normal operation, there would be FBI agents swarming the facility by now. Peter was always firmly insistent that Neal would never get hurt under his watch, to the point he’d pull him out of ops if he had even the faintest suspicion that Neal was in danger.

Rourke, on the other hand, remains eerily silent on the other line of Neal’s communication device, and the FBI agents remain noticeably absent.

It dawns on Neal that Rourke hadn’t even thought (or maybe he’d purposefully neglected) to give him some kind of codeword or phrase as a signal to pull him out.

“Hey, you spaced out already?” Dante pushes a careless hand against Neal’s forehead, watching as his head lolls back with minimum resistance.

“Just waiting for it to be over,” Neal says, trying to sound bored, but the subtle trembling of his voice undermines his efforts, “I can handle a beating, I assure you. One has to in order to make it anywhere in this line of business.”

“Oh, really?” Marco asks, interest decidedly piqued, “We’ll see about that. Dante, give Valen here a little taste of what happens if he ever tries to betray us. If he’s able to walk out by the end of it, he’s welcome to join us again at our meeting next week. If not, well… ” he smirks at opening on the other side of the alley, “I’m sure there’s a dumpster nearby where you can dump the body.”

Marco waves goodbye and then walks away, combat boots thudding on the wet concrete beneath them. And maybe it’s the repeated head trauma, but Neal can’t help but feel hopelessly confused.

“Wait, where is he…?” He asks dazedly.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Lucas reassures him, pulling up a wooden stool right next to the foldable chair where Neal is sitting.

“Typical hazing ritual for newbies. Easy and quick,” Dante agrees, except the way he cracks his knuckle with each syllable makes Neal think that no matter how quick this whole affair is about to be, it’ll be anything but easy.

 

Over the next few hours, Neal zones out more than once. He’s almost grateful for the beatings he’s gotten used to taking from Rourke. At least now, he doesn’t need to hear the vitriolic threats that normally accompany every assault.

Not for the first time, he wishes that there was something he could say or do to get himself out of this situation, but the reality is Rourke has already made it abundantly clear that his value to the bureau extends only as far as his will to be a human punching bag, and Neal isn’t quite sure he’s ready to be useless yet.

He’s lost so much blood the edges of his vision have started to blur, and keeping his eyes open is harder than ever.

And yet, despite the vicious assault to his physical body, his emotions somehow manage to stay in tact. His attackers, while violent, aren’t exactly… hateful.

In fact, if he didn’t know any better, he’d almost be tempted to say that Lucas is being fairly… encouraging?

“Wow, Dante, you really didn’t have to hit him in the ribs again,” Lucas whines, ruffling Neal’s hair, “That’s gotta hurt,” he murmurs sympathetically.

“It’s okay, I can…” Neal can’t quite summon the willpower to say confidently that he can handle it so he settles for a small smile, wincing at the way the motion pulls at his split lip.

“Good boy,” Lucas croons—and whacks him upside the head with so much force Neal’s vision goes black.

 

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” Lucas says some indiscriminate amount of time later. Between the pounding of his head and the thrumming in his ears Neal has long since stopped keeping track of the minutes passing, and the lack of windows in the strange alleyway-basement-alcove he’s been dragged makes it difficult for him to even know if it’s still daytime.

“Wow, Lucas,” Dante laughs mockingly, tossing up a steel pipe a few feet in the air and catching it with a deft grab, “Looks like someone’s getting soft. It’s barely five o’clock. You tired already?”

Lucas rolls his eyes, “Obviously not, but I have better things to do then beat a dead horse—no offense,” he directs the last part of the statement to Neal with a small smirk, something coy, verging on predatory dancing in his eyes.

“None taken,” Neal chokes out, suppressing a cough.

“Eh, whatever,” Dante finally tosses the pipe on the ground. It rattles on the floor with a clanging rattle and Neal breathes a sigh of relief. That would’ve gotten painful fast…

Lucas helps him up from the chair, whispering a soft, “You passed. Good job. See you soon,” in his ear as he passes him a phone.

“Use that for the job only.” Dante directs him, and practically shoves him out.

Neal pauses for a moment to wipe the blood from his nose, then flashes a smile.

Maybe Rourke’s CI is good for something after all.

Chapter 4: Realization

Notes:

Thank you guys so much for all the support and comments, I’m so happy that people are enjoying the fic and the feedback really encourages me to keep going with the story! <3

This update is a little short since I’ve been busy with school 😅 but trust me when I say things are about to get interesting in the upcoming chapters! Enjoy~ 💞

Mozzie prides himself on many things—his brilliant ability to pull off elaborate criminal escapades without getting caught, his mastery of eccentric disguises, his innate distrust of all government agencies, but most of all—his patience.

Mozzie knows when to push and when to pull, when to pry and when to stay silent, and importantly, when to act and when to wait.

Except, Mozzie’s been waiting for Neal to offer some kind of explanation as to why he keeps walking into the apartment day after day looking like he’s being run over by progressively larger trucks, and Neal still has yet to indicate he’s any closer to telling him.

He decides he’ll wait until the weekend.

 

On Saturday morning, Mozzie strides into the apartment accompanied by Neal’s usual chorus of, “You know there’s this new cool trend called ‘knocking’ maybe you should try it sometime!” which he cheekily ignores.

He tosses Neal his new gadget—a multi-purpose lock pick (with an impressive array of fourteen different variations based on the safe or doorknob model) with an attached drill, all disguised in a sleek rectangular piece of metal. Heavy, but small and unassuming.

“I call it… the three-speed four-socket seven-combination lock drill,” Mozzie pronounces proudly, “Name could probably still use a little work, but it fits pretty good for now.”

Except Neal doesn’t immediately stretch out his hand while looking at something else and catch the gadget while bragging about his fast reflexes.

He watches as the lock drill arcs precariously close to him in the air, then thuds unceremoniously at his feet.

But Mozzie doesn’t miss the way Neal reflexively reaches out, only to stifle a small hiss of pain as he reaches for his ribs.

He tries to hide it by turning his back and busying himself with his latest artistic endeavor (a forgery of a famous Caravaggio Rourke wanted him to paint to lure out a counterfeiter trying to make a quick buck), but Mozzie isn’t having it.

“Neal, what happened to your ribs?” He asks immediately, dispensing with all pretenses of trying to act casual. He drops his bag next to the couch and sits beside Neal, reaching for his shirt.

“Hey, hey!” Neal shouts defensively, scooting farther away to the edge of the couch, “Trying to undress me already? At least buy me dinner first, will you? Geez!” He huffs in playful indignation, but Mozzie remains stiffly unamused.

“Neal,” he attempts again, this time making a conscious effort to soften his tone. “I need you to let me take a look. I know you’re working on that rough case about the Moreno Syndicate and the Castellano Crew. And I also know that word on the street says they’ll beat up anyone who breathes within a ten foot radius of them.”

Neal hesitated for a moment, the words dancing on his lips for a few moments before they finally come out in a rushed, unpracticed tumble, “Look, Moz, it’s really not that bad. I mean come on, I’ve been in prison before, it’s not like I can’t handle a little—”

“Then you should have no problem showing me,” Mozzie interrupts.

Finally, with an exaggerated sigh and eye roll, Neal lifts the edge of his shirt. It’s a sight to behold. Blacks and blues all over his lower stomach bloom into paler yellows towards his sides, angry crimson gashes punctuating the ridges of his ribs. A veritable canvas of violence and destruction.

Mozzie inhales sharply, eyes widening in shock. “What the hell, Neal? There’s more colors across your torso than in a Picasso.”

Neal opens his mouth, presumably to make a joke about how oh, well Picasso in his Blue Period really only used one color but Mozzie doesn’t let him.

“Lie back. I’m getting the first aid kit. Now. And I’m stealing your Bordeaux. This is gonna be a long night.”

 

Mozzie makes quick work of the most pressing of Neal’s injuries, patching up the open wounds after a careful disinfecting while tutting under his breath.

“Seriously, Neal, all these bruises have gotta hurt. I mean, thankfully it doesn’t look like anything was broken but…” he shakes his head.

Neal at least has the decency to look thoroughly chastised, though the slight curl of his lips lets Mozzie know he’s not so hurt as to be unable to find a bit of humor in the situation.

“I knew you were one of the best legal minds in the nation, Moz, but I had no idea you were a medical genius too,” Neal wiggles his eyebrows.

Mozzie bats the praise away with his hand as he puts a bandaid over the last gash on Neal’s side. “Oh, please. I’m a jack of all trades. You should know this by now. It’s how I manage to stay undetected by prying government eyes.”

Neal hums in absentminded agreement, eyelashes fluttering for a moment, and Mozzie can immediately tell his friend is a lot more tired than he’d previously let on.

He’s just about to wrap up with the first aid and then quietly slip out the door when…

“Wait. Neal.”

Neal takes a second to wake himself from his dazed state, blinking hard. “Huh? Sorry, what? Think I nodded off for a bit there.”

“When did you say you were assigned the undercover detail with the Moreno Syndicate?”

“Like…” Neal pauses to think, “maybe three days ago? Why?”

“Neal…” Mozzie sighs, “a lot of these bruises are from a lot longer than three days ago.”

He waits for a response. Mozzie isn’t exactly even sure what he wants Neal to say. That he’s mistaken, obviously. That the bruises are just from a different undercover op, and have nothing to do with a certain new man in Neal’s life.

One whom Neal has remained conspicuously silent about, but Mozzie never misses the way Neal now flinches a little every time his phone rings.

How he’s no longer excited whenever a new case at the FBI opens, how he stays late at the office more out of obligation than genuine desire.

How it no longer matters what restaurant Mozzie gets takeout from, Neal always looks at the food like the mere sight of it makes him nauseous, and Mozzie’s caught him disguising a gag as a harsh swallow more than once. Neal’s always been a nervous vomiter, though you’d never know it from looking at him.

Mozzie never calls him out on any of it, and Neal’s never give any indication that he should, but now… Mozzie isn’t so sure he can ignore the signs any longer.

The silence stretches as his statement hangs in the air, and Mozzie waits for what seems like an eternity for an outright denial, or at least a half-truth with some missing information.

But Neal’s silence is more damning than an answer ever could be.

Chapter 5: Stockholm

Notes:

Thank you all so much for all the comments on the last chapter!

A little more hurt incoming in this update, but not to worry because the comfort is coming soon~!! 💞

Prying the information out of Neal the following Sunday morning is an experience Mozzie can only compare to the time he tried to tightrope during a heist in Italy in ‘04—with the support wire attached to the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

And like the ‘04 heist, Mozzie’s palms are slick with sweat and he feels the beginnings of a headache thumping behind his temples, but this time it's not from the anxiety of a fatal drop, but with sheer disbelief and fury.

In the past half hour, Neal had buttered the same piece of toast three times, meticulously dissected each individual layer of an almond croissant, and cut off the ends of eleven strawberries, all without a single piece of food actually entering his mouth, mind you.

And in that same hour, Mozzie has tried to determine whether he might need to begin considering whether committing homicide might be worth it if it meant Neal would never have to lay eyes on a certain handler ever again.

“Look, Moz,” Neal says passionately, a warm glint in his eyes that Moz is intimately familiar with from whenever his friend is trying to justify an increasingly convoluted train of thought, “You need to just hear me out on this one.”

“I have it all figured out,” Neal continues, gesticulating wildly. He’d gone from denying Rourke had ever done anything to him at all, to severely downplaying serious workplace abuse, to acknowledging it and then justifying it as if his life depends on it. Which, Mozzie supposes, in some abstract way it does.

Maybe believing you deserve your punishment makes it hurt less.

“Uh huh,” Mozzie deadpans, doing his best to sound perfectly neutral when in reality all he wants to do is break each of Rourke’s stupid fingers knuckle by knuckle. “Please enlighten me, Neal. What exactly do you have figured out?”

“Peter’s gonna be back in like three or four weeks, all I have to do is put up with Rourke in the meantime. Just keep my head down and do what he says, just like Peter told me. I don’t need to cause any trouble, I don’t need to make another enemy. Peter told me I have a chance of getting my sentence commuted soon if I keep helping the FBI close cases like this.”

“But that’s just the thing, mon frere,” Moz implores with a burst of passion, neutrality be damned. “You shouldn’t just have to put up with it. I mean, come on, Rourke’s a damn Suit! He’s supposed to be in the business of law enforcement, not breaking the law and—”

“It’s not a big deal,” Neal says, and he doesn’t even get the thought out fully before Mozzie opens his mouth to reply.

But then Mozzie registers the edge of desperation in Neal’s voice. And he starts to realize that maybe this whole conversation is just Neal trying to cope the best he can.

“If I told anyone, including Peter, Rourke would just deny it. And I mean, come on, Moz. Who do you think people are gonna believe? A con artist vying for sympathy or a well-respected
agent of the FBI?”

“…Fine,” Mozzie concedes, “but that still doesn’t explain why you didn’t tell me. We’re partners in crime, we’re supposed to be able to tell each other everything!”
Neal hesitates, a muscle in his jaw twitching before he finally opens his mouth to answer. “It’s not that I didn’t want to tell you, it’s just…if I told you then… it would mean it’s real.”

“Real?”

“Like it’s actually happening. I’m not just imagining it. Someone else knows about it. He always…” Neal sucks in a trembling breath, “he always… does it when one else is there.”

The words come out a whisper but Mozzie feels them with as much force as if Neal had shouted them. And he doesn’t need to ask a follow-up question to know that “it” could probably be anything ranging from a violent threat to a severe beating.

“And then the next day he just hands me a file and tells me to research and I can’t help but feel like maybe I just imagined it all.”

The anger simmering in Mozzie’s veins threatens to come to a boil, and he tries to calm himself by taking an aggressive sip of his espresso, though he can’t help but crave something stronger.

The reality of the situation is, as much as Mozzie doesn’t want to admit it, Neal is probably right.

There’s no way to get evidence, not really. And trust him, Mozzie’s been scouring his mind trying to look for a way out from the moment Neal opened his mouth. Even if they could attempt to get some sort of audio or video recording, Rourke finding out about it would undoubtedly make Neal’s life phenomenally worse.

“You know what?” Neal shakes his head, pushing his chair back and standing to his feet, “I’m probably making this all sound so much worse than it actually is. It’s just another month, Moz, it’s not like he’s going to kill me.”

Mozzie nods hesitantly, uncertainty marring his features.

As dreadful as the prospect of another month of watching his friend suffer is, he has no faith that The System would side with a convicted felon against a well-respected FBI agent over workplace abuse with only circumstantial evidence. As clear as the bruises are… they could’ve come from anywhere. There’s no way to pin them back on Rourke.

“Fine,” Mozzie finally agrees, rousing himself from his spiraling reverie, “But only under one condition. No matter what happens, you tell me. No leaving things out. You can’t just carry this all by yourself. A man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother..” Mozzie proclaims, twisting his wrist with a flourish.

“Really, Moz? We’re quoting Proverbs, now?” Neal asks, unimpressed.

“Yeah, well, if there was ever a time for divine intervention, it would be now,” Mozzie shoots back. Neal laughs, and the sound is almost jarring to Mozzie’s ears. It’s been awhile since
he’s heard Neal laugh, he realizes. It’s a beautiful sound—carefree, yet refined in its dignity. Uniquely... Neal.

And in that moment, Mozzie swears to himself. He’ll do whatever it takes to preserve that sound. No matter what the cost.

 

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Rourke has a certain set of tells, Neal learns, that are perfect for evaluating exactly how likely it is he’ll be able to end the workday physically unscathed.

If Rourke’s fingers are twitching? Neal will end up with bruises around his wrists that’ll last for at least three days.

A long sigh? Neal will be on the other end of a veritable barrage of threats on his way home, which he will be expected to sit down and take without much more than a yes, sir when Rourke deems it appropriate.

But some days…

Some days aren’t so bad.

Occasionally, Neal makes a breakthrough on the case.

He figures out some obscure detail based on a huge ledger of financial reports. Or he makes out a signature hidden in the background of a forged painting.

And Rourke raises an eyebrow and one side of lips quirks upward—the closest Neal’s ever been to making him smile—and moments like that are worth their weight in gold.

When Rourke lays a heavy arm on Neal’s shoulder, except instead of feeling oppressive, it feels warm, and when he makes a jab about Neal’s ability to charm a thousand dollars out of a bank vault it feels like a compliment instead of an insult.

And Neal becomes pretty good at bending himself backwards. He gets Rourke his coffee, just the way he likes it, with three packets of Stevia. He’s especially careful about that, given that the last time Neal messed up and added the wrong sweetener he’d ended up with burns on his arms from where Rourke had “spilled” it, although Neal is entirely certain it wasn’t
an accident.

Neal learns to keep his mouth shut too, and that’s a new development. Sometimes Jones or Diana will give him an odd look from across the conference room, as if they’re expecting a clever quip or an out-of-the-box idea, but Neal just smiles and nods and then smiles some more.

”Caffrey, stay back until you’ve finished going through these files and cross-referencing from the ones we got from the investment firm last week.”

“But that’s going to take until two in the morning…”

”Then shut the hell up and get to work.”

Rourke likes it when Neal says yes. And he especially likes it when he doesn’t ask follow-up questions.

Except the burden of his demands and the severity of his punishments keeps escalating and Neal isn’t exactly sure where his breaking point is, but he knows well that he’s about to reach it.

”Caffrey, there’s another meeting with the Castellano crew this weekend. You need to get into their inner circle as quickly as possible if we’re going to be able to take them down. I don’t care if they ask you to take a branding iron to the chest with their logo on it, you do it.”

“A branding iron? That’s insane. No, I’m not going to—”

”What did you just say to me?”

”Yes, sir.”

The hours bleed into days bleed into weeks, but the end still doesn’t feel any nearer. Rourke’s grip on his arm gets tighter around his wrist and his words feel like a wrist around Neal’s neck.

Eventually, he forgets what it’s like to say no.

And when Moz asks about how work is, he says Rourke has mellowed out. He doesn’t yell as much, doesn’t hit as much. But maybe it's just that Neal’s pain tolerance has gotten higher.

What hurts the most is that it seems like everyone else is adjusting to Rourke just fine. He and Jones laugh over football teams and Hughes respects the man’s work ethic. Diana talks about how it’s good Neal has someone else to rein him in while Peter’s on vacation.

Maybe Neal really is the problem.

Besides, hasn’t he earned this? A lifetime of bending rules, of using charm to get what he wants—isn’t it fair that someone finally bends him back?