elrhiarhodan

Title: We Shall Come Home - Chapter V
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing/Characters: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, Reese Hughes, Diana Berrigan, Clinton Jones, Mozzie, Satchmo, plus other characters.
Rating: R
Spoilers: None
Word Count: ~2500 (this chapter) ~61,000 (total)
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Summary: Transformed beyond recognition, beyond comprehension, Peter and Neal are lost in the woods and desperately try to get home. A tale of friendship, sacrifice, loss and ultimately, of love. Neal recovers and Peter takes full command - but Neal knows what he is going to have to do to get them home. Elizabeth suffers the invasion of her home - the Marshals and the FBI need it as a command post.

We Shall Come Home is not a work in progress. New chapters will be posted once a week, on Tuesdays.

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Thursday AFTERNOON AND EVENING

NEAL? PETER LICKED NEAL’S NOSE, HIS MUZZLE, HIS EARS. He tried to communicate with him but all he could get was a jumble of images and sensations, the bear, food, sleep, worry, submission. There was almost no human consciousness in Neal – everything seemed overlaid with an animal sensibility. He kept pressing and finally, in frustration and fear, he bit Neal sharply on the shoulder.

Neal yelped. What? What’s going on?

Are you okay? Peter wanted to put his arms around Neal and hold him close. He was terrified that he was losing Neal, the essential, human Neal, to the dog.

I’m...okay. I think. Why did you bite me?

I couldn’t reach you after you fought off the bear.

Neal sat and looked at Peter, a confused expression on his face. But … biting me? That seems a little extreme.

Peter laughed, an audible bark, but a rueful sound in his head. I didn’t know how else to reach you. You, the human Neal, not the dog.

I think I understand. But did you have to bite so hard?

Peter laughed again, relieved. This was Neal, always with the small complaint. Would you have rather stayed a dog?

No, not really. Neal got up and started sniffing around. Water is this way.

He led them upslope, to another perfectly clear stream. As they drank their fill, Peter realized what the problem was: the more Neal acted on canine instincts, the more he seemed to lose his sense of self, his human self.

Neal?

Yes?

What’s the most truly human activity you can think of?

Neal didn’t have to think too hard. Hmmm, creating art, literature, music. What are you getting at?

I’m worried about you, about me, too. We need to stay human.

You’ve noticed the problem too.

Yup.

I feel myself slipping every time I hunt. But we have to eat.

Yes, and I don’t think I could find food or water for us. But I can’t lose you.

You may have to. If it comes down to getting home or keeping me sane, you have to get home.

Peter didn’t want to think about what Neal was saying. He understood that Neal would sacrifice himself, but he knew that he couldn’t allow that to happen.

I have an idea.

What?

Haiku.

Huh?

Can you create haiku on the fly?

Not really. I was never very good at writing poetry. I can’t do limericks either.

Damn.

But I know a lot of poetry.

Peter thought for a moment. Poe?

Yes, definitely.

The Raven? Peter began to recite, Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore …

Neal responded, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door –
Only this, and nothing more.”

They began to run, ever eastward, Peter in the lead, Neal not far behind him, scanning the wood for any hidden dangers, or dangers not so hidden but completely missed by Peter in his quest to get them home.

And with each loping stride, they exchanged lines from The Raven, Peter pushing at Neal to remember and to recite.

Peter started the final stanza,

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And Neal finished, his voice echoing with strain and exhaustion in Peter’s head,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

Peter let him rest for a little while, he had to. They were both starving and Neal needed to hunt. Once again, he managed to catch and kill rabbits, this time four medium-sized bucks, and a pair of ground squirrels. Neal laid three of the rabbits in front of Peter and waited for him to start eating, watching him with wild, near-inhuman intensity. Peter knew that Neal was close to losing himself again, and as he ate the raw flesh, he felt something of his own humanity slip away. But they had no choice, not now, not yet. He urged Neal to eat, and when Neal pushed a fourth rabbit at him, Peter shoved it back.

You need to keep up your strength, too. Those squirrels didn’t look very big.

Neal’s response was again a jumble of confused sensations, tumbling out with no coherence. Peter didn’t want to bite him again, but he would if he had no choice. Before he did that, he tried pushing all his will into a command.

Neal, EAT.

Neal whimpered and fought a little.

Peter pushed again. NEAL, do as I say. EAT NOW.

Neal crawled over to the rabbit and tore at the soft body, eating as delicately as he could.

As he watched Neal eat, Peter wracked his brain for another poem, another song that he and Neal could use to keep themselves grounded in their humanity. Memories of Seders spent with Elizabeth’s family kept popping into his head, including ones that Neal had attended, and the song that everyone joined in on, at the end of the reading. It was always amusing to hear the adults try to keep going, particularly after four very large cups of wine.

When Neal had finished, leaving nothing but the skin and entrails, Peter pushed all his will into Neal with the next thought. Neal licked his chops and looked up, a mostly canine expression in his eyes.

Peter recited, One little goat, one little goat...

Neal didn’t respond.

Come on, Neal. You know the next line. Give it to me.

Peter waited and then pushed his will against Neal again. Thankfully, the confusion lifted and Neal seemed “Neal” again. Give me the next line.

That my father bought for two zuzim...one little goat, one little goat. Neal practically moaned in dismay. Of all the songs or poems to pick, you choose Chad Gadya?

It’s perfect, we can just feed each other the lines, without having to think too hard about it. Now, what’s the next line?

It’s also strangely and somewhat ironically appropriate for our situation, don’t you think?

Neal…

Oh, all right. Neal let out an all too human sigh of put-upon suffering. Then came the cat that ate the goat my father bought for two zuzim. Neal stopped, sat down and started to scratch himself. You know, Peter…this is a little ridiculous.

Peter walked back to Neal, who was scratching a mile a minute. First his right ear, then he switched to his left. And then Neal twisted around to get a spot on his left shoulder.

Stop that.

Stop what?

Scratching. You’ll hurt yourself.

But I’m itchy. Do you think I have fleas? The note of horror in Neal’s voice was almost too precious.

Peter stood over Neal and licked at his ears. You don’t have fleas, okay? You are just enjoying being a dog a bit too much. Come on, before I bite you again. When Neal started to scratch, Peter sat on him.

Ooof. Get off me. You weigh a ton. Neal tried to dislodge Peter by standing up.

Are you going to keep scratching yourself?

Neal reluctantly promised not to, and Peter got off of him. Neal stood up and wagged his tail. Let’s get home. I want a bath.

Peter stood still for a moment, letting the map home reform itself. This time, it wasn’t as clear – there were missing parts – Peter couldn’t see the road he needed to take south and he only hoped that when they got closer to the Hudson River he’d be able to find the right way to go home.

But in any case, he still could see the path back into New York, and although he didn’t know how far they’d traveled over the past two days, he could sense that Port Jervis was only a few hours’ easy run.

He finally gave into the urge and nipped Neal’s hindquarters.

You bit my ass!

Want to make something of it? Let’s get going. Peter took off at an easy pace. One little goat, one little goat.

Neal responded automatically, Then came the dog that bit the cat…

By the time the Holy One (Blessed Be He) slew the Angel of Death, it had started to rain, the forest had thinned out and Peter and Neal were utterly miserable.



IT HAD BEEN A FULL DAY SINCE HER HUSBAND VANISHED and Elizabeth thought she was going to go insane. Her rather un-stalwart companion, Mozzie, made himself scarce when the kidnapping and missing persons team arrived, with the U.S. Marshals right on their tails. She didn’t blame him. The FBI had tapped into her phone line, her fax line and both of her cell phones, and had set up a command post on her front doorstep. They were discreet, however, so as not to alert the neighbors, who might otherwise alert the media – which could result in Peter’s death. And Neal’s too.

These things, in and of themselves, weren’t what was making her crazy – it was the lack of information and the lack of respect.

First there was the round of questions from the FBI. Those weren’t so bad, at first. Agents kept asking her questions – about Peter’s old cases, if he were involved with anyone, if she knew anything about any strange calls or emails. Was Peter hiding anything from her? Then they wanted access to Peter’s financial records. They didn’t bother with excuses; they wanted to see if there were unusual transactions – money coming in, money going out. El was annoyed, but she understood.

But it was the U.S. Marshals Service that gave her the most grief. Its members were supposedly responsible for getting Neal back, but they had an axe to grind against Peter, too. He had taken down one of their own, exposing deep flaws in their office. So they began with insinuations about Neal. Initially, they asked about what she knew about his past, and then implied that Neal was still a criminal, despite his stellar record with the Bureau. They made subtle digs about the relationship between Peter and Neal, that they were something more than agent and CI. Elizabeth tried to explain that they were friends, but the men kept twisting her words around, making that friendship into something illicit, something dirty. When one of the agents suggested that maybe Peter and Neal had simply run off together, she clenched her fists and looked for anyone from her husband’s office. Someone to complain to, someone who could get these evil-minded bastards out of her living room and actually looking for Peter and Neal.

She found Clinton in the backyard, arguing with a technician about the placement of a surveillance camera, which seemed to be pointing directly at her bedroom window. Jones saw her and gave the tech some sharp instructions. The man shifted the camera a little, to capture the utility path between her house and the apartment building next door. Peter’s agent let the tech finish up and came over to her.

“Mrs. Burke, are you holding up okay?”

“No, Clinton – I am not.” She told Jones about the questions she was getting from the men in her living room, and watched the face of this normally genial and easygoing man tighten in anger.

“Wait here, ma’am. I’ll take care of this.”

She declined to wait outside, but remained on the threshold of her patio, watching as Jones quietly and effectively put the fear of God into the two men who had just spent the better part of the morning insulting her, her husband and Neal. They left, but neither marshal bothered to apologize to her.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry for that. I’ll talk with Agent Hughes and have both of those assholes – excuse me – those sorry excuses for human beings reprimanded.”

“That’s all right, Clinton. Thank you. I just want Peter home, safe and sound. And Neal, too.” She crossed her arms over her chest and held herself tightly, as if to keep from falling apart. “I just want Peter back.” She whispered. “Please.”

To Be Continued - Chapter VI