elrhiarhodan

Title: Salva Me - Part Two of Three
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Diana Berrigan, James Bennett, Lydia Bennett (OFC), Kyle Collins, Clinton Jones, Matthew Keller; Neal/Keller (past), Peter/Neal
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Kidnapping, physical assault, very brief reference to self-harm (OC), brief reference to clerical sexual abuse of a minor (OC), pre-story non-described death of canon character.
Word Count: ~22,000
Beta Credit: sinfulslasher who was heroic in her work on this story, despite having her own fic to write. Her advice was invaluable, even when I didn't take it.
Summary: Colonel Peter Burke, retired, runs a private kidnap and hostage recovery operation. He's hired by James and Lydia Bennett to rescue their kidnapped son, Neal. Neal is a priest who's been assigned to work in central Honduras, one of the most dangerous places in the world.

__________________



Neal shivered in the dark. The weather had changed and the wind was making the small hut rattle. A while ago – how long, Neal wasn't sure – Marcos, the thug that Collins left to watch him, had brought him a bottle of water and a bag of stale potato chips. Neal wasn't sure if the irony of the meal was deliberate, but he was too hungry to argue. He inhaled the salt-laden snack food, but took tiny sips of water, knowing that it might be another day before he got more.

He was left alone, which wasn't unusual. Whatever game Collins was playing didn't involve deliberate torture. His kidnapper was simply a sadist who liked to hurt him. But if Collins wasn't around, Marcos didn't take his place. Not that the man was anything close to kind or decent, and he'd certainly inflicted his own share of injury, but only at Collins' direction.

The wind died down a bit and Neal thought he heard something – a shout, then a pop – but he wasn't sure. Probably just his imagination.

The door opened and instead of Marcos' bulky figure, Neal thought he saw a tall man silhouetted against the outside light. The door shut and for a second, Neal wondered if he'd just imagined that.

"Father Caffrey?" The voice – American – was pitched low.

"Yes." Hope was a fragile thing. He'd fantasized about a rescue too many times to believe that it would actually happen. A narrow beam of light almost blinded him and he raised his hands as much as he could to shield his eyes. "Are you for real?"

"My name is Burke. Your parents hired me to rescue you."

Neal lowered his hands and reached out to the man kneeling in front of him. He was real. Solid. "I – I …" A sob started to well up.

Burke gripped his shoulders. "I need you to keep calm and quiet. Can you do that?"

Neal nodded.

"The first thing I have to do is get you out of these chains." He pulled Neal's wrists forward.

"There's no key – they are bolted on." He'd been unconscious when Collins put the manacles on him, but in the days since, Neal had spent too many hours trying to figure out how to free himself.

"That's okay. I've come prepared." Setting the flashlight on the rock Neal was bolted to; Burke pulled a hammer and a small flask from his belt. "I need you to hold very still and keep your hands as far apart as possible."

Neal separated his arms, picking up the slack in the chain and gritting his teeth as the cuffs scraped against his raw and bleeding wrists. But he was distracted from the pain when Burke opened the flask. Smoke billowed out of it as he poured a clear liquid over the chain and the bolt in the rock.

Burke picked up the hammer. "Turn your head and close your eyes."

Neal wanted to watch, but obeyed. There was a muffled thud and he felt the pull of chain against his wrist – Burke had hit it with the hammer.

"Shit. Hold on."

Neal peeked. Burke was emptying the contents of a second flask over the chain.

"I said, don't look." Burke struck the metal again, twice, and his wrists fell free.

"Okay. Can you get up?"

It was an effort – he'd been forced to crouch and crawl for so long. But he made it upright, determined to get out of this hell hole on his own two feet.

Burke didn't bother to collect the flasks or the hammer, but he did retrieve his flashlight and turned it off.

"Stay close and keep quiet."

Unsteady, Neal held onto the wall and followed Burke towards the door – a great distance of five steps. The chain still attached to his wrist banged against the corrugated metal wall, but Burke didn't chide him for it.

He opened the door, stepped out and after a moment, gestured for Neal to follow. On the ground a couple of feet away, was a body. Based on the bulk, it was probably Marcos, and it was too dark to tell if the man was still breathing. Neal was shocked to realize he didn't care.

The wind picked up again, far fiercer than Neal expected. He could smell the rain and it was like a precious perfume.

Burke gestured for him to keep his head down and Neal tried to follow at the pace he'd set, but it was almost impossible. Leaves and dirt hit his face and as he lifted his arm to cover his eyes, he smacked himself with the chain and tripped.

Without seeming to miss a beat, Burke grabbed him by the waist and slung him over his shoulder, fireman lift-style, and carried him into the dense brush. Neal thought that he'd never met anyone this strong and under different circumstances, he'd have taken a forbidden thrill from that strength. He also thought it was a good thing his stomach was almost empty, because traveling like this was definitely disorienting. However, it was better than falling face first into the dirt.

It was even more disorienting to be deposited in the seat of a large military-style vehicle and buckled in like a child. Burke got behind the wheel and they were moving through the jungle with all the grace of a drunken water buffalo. If water buffalos inhabited Central American rainforests.

"Am I rescued?"

"Your rescue is a work in progress. For the moment, you're safe. Collins has no idea I've got you, but when he finds out, he'd going to make things dangerous."

"So, what now?"

"There's a big storm coming, the airport in Tegu is shut and I can't risk calling for a chopper." They entered a deep stream and Neal flinched as mud splashed onto the windshield. But they kept going, easily climbing the far bank. "But I have a bolt hole. I can keep you safe until the storm passes and get you out of Honduras without having to head into the city."

"Mmm. Sounds wonderful." A strange lassitude overtook him. "Mind if I close my eyes for a bit?"

"Okay, I'll wake you when we arrive." Neal thought that Burke was laughing at him.

He didn't really sleep, but the vibrations and the rocking motion of the truck were better than a sedative. Even more relaxing was the sense of safety.

"He's a looker, Caffrey." Matthew was amused.

"Huh?"

"A stud. Beefcake. Hotness personified."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your rescuer. He's gorgeous. Just my type. Yours, too."

"You are outrageous, you know that?"

"Of course, which is why I'd do him in a heartbeat. Or rather, I'd let him do me. Every day and twice on Sundays – between Confession and Mass."

Neal choked back a laugh. "Hadn't noticed."

"Yeah, you did, sweetheart. You liked how strong he was. Didn't know that turned you on. Turning into quite the little femme, aren't you?"

"Matthew!"

"Nothing wrong with that. But I'm sure Mr. Action Hero is arrow-straight, a regular boy scout. Wouldn't look twice at your pretty ass."

"Which means he wouldn't look at your ass either."

"He can't. I'm dead."

Neal's eyes snapped open, but all he saw was darkness. "What's the matter? Why have we stopped moving?"

"We've arrived." Burke flicked a switch on the dash, turning the vehicle's headlights on, which illuminated a large cavern.

"Your bolt hole?"

"Yup." Burke got out and went around the truck. Like a character from a Jane Austen novel, he opened the door and helped Neal down. Neal, for his part, did his best imitation of a fainting heroine when his legs collapsed under him.

Once again, Burke scooped him up, but instead of flinging him over his shoulder, he carried him like a bride.

"You're awfully strong."

"I work out."

Not that he took him all that far – twenty feet or so – and set him down on what felt like a wooden crate. Burke asked, "How are you holding up?"

Neal lifted a hand – or tried to. "Okay, but I'm thirsty and I'd really like to get these off." The manacles and chain were heavy.

"Okay, let's see what we can do." Burke disappeared behind the truck and Neal could hear something clanking. A few moments later, Burke came back holding a scary looking tool with four-foot long handles. "Bolt cutters – can use these now."

In another awe-inspiring feat of strength, he snipped the ends of the chain off each of the cuffs. Neal felt light enough to drift away. "How come you didn't use them before?"

"It's kind of hard to be stealthy with these strapped to your back."

"Ah – and what exactly was the magic you did use?"

"Not magic, just chemistry. Liquid nitrogen – it made the metal brittle enough to break."

Neal chuckled. "Like that scene out of Terminator 2."

"Exactly." Burke held Neal's wrist. "I want to get these cuffs off you."

"I'd like that, too."

Neal forced himself not to flinch as Burke examined the closure. "Looks like you're right, they are just bolted on. Let's see." Again, Burke disappeared for a few moments and came back with more tools. He muttered, "Could Collins have been that stupid?"

"You know the man who kidnapped me?"

"Yeah – I've encountered him before."

"What are you, a mercenary? A soldier of fortune?"

Burke looked up, and in the light from the truck's headlamps, he seemed almost demonic. "No. I specialize in hostage recovery. My history with Collins predates this work."

"Oh? How?"

Burke ignored the question and concentrated on finding the right wrench to fit the bolt on the cuff. "Can't believe they used imperial and I only have metric. Gonna have to finesse this. Hold on, don't go anywhere – I think I saw some vice-grips in the box."

Neal murmured, "Where would I go?"

"Ah, this should do it!" Burke came back, holding two pairs of pliers and a clean cloth. "This might hurt," he warned and stuffed the fabric underneath the metal cuff.

Neal yelped as the fabric scraped his abraded wrists, but as Burke started working on the bolt and twisting the metal, Neal appreciated the padding.

Burke muttered a string of curses that might have gotten Neal kicked out of the seminary, but he didn't care. The cuff was off his right wrist, and a minute later, the left one was gone as well. "Thank you."

Burke smiled. "You're doing okay?"

Neal nodded.

"You said you wanted some water, how about food, too?"

To his embarrassment, his stomach let out a loud growl.

"I'll take that as an affirmative."

Neal sat there, passive and exhausted. He kept lifting his hands, first the right, then the left, marveling that he didn't have to move them in concert. Then he stretched his arms apart and that seemed like a miracle equal to the Resurrection. Even though there had been about five feet of chain between the manacles, Collins had kept it short, winding and locking segments of it to the cuffs, mostly to torment him.

Burke handed him a bottle of water and Neal forced himself to drink it slowly. It tasted delicious.

"Okay, you have a choice – a chicken MRE with potatoes or a beef MRE that's supposed to be chili, and that comes with a side of rice." Burke sat next to him.

"Huh? MRE?"

"Meal, Ready to Eat. Otherwise known as field rations." Burke was holding two bags. "If you want both, you can have both, but I can't promise you won't end up spending a lot of time on the pot if you do."

It seemed like Burke was speaking another language. It sounded like English, but didn't make a lot of sense to him.

"You're really not okay, are you?"

Neal understood that. He could even answer. "I think I am. I'm safe, I can move." He lifted his arms again, once more appreciating the profundity of that miracle. "I just can't …"

"Process anything. Make decisions."

"Yeah."

"You were kidnapped and held hostage for almost two weeks. Your brain is still trying to adjust to the change in state." Burke put the packages aside. "It's okay."

"Could I bathe?" The words popped out of his mouth without conscious thought. "I would really like that."

"Give me a few. I think we can manage something."

Burke left him sitting there. Random memories flittered in and out of his head – a sermon he'd heard as a child, the Great Doxology, his mother singing a lullaby to him, James teaching him how to ride a bike. Matthew telling him dirty jokes. He started to cry. Painful, harsh sobs.

"Hey, hey." Strong arms wrapped around him. "Shh, it's okay."

Neal latched onto the man holding him, never wanting to let go. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Even though it hurt, he couldn't stop crying.

"Shh, it's okay." Burke was holding him, rocking him like a child, rubbing a soothing hand up and down his spine.

As quickly as the tears started, they stopped, but Burke didn't let go of him and he felt like he could live in those arms and be safe forever. Except he couldn't. Neal pulled himself free and apologized again.

Burke seemed unperturbed. "Really, it's all right." He patted him on the shoulder. "We have enough fresh water for a wash down, or …" Burke grinned at him.

"Or what?"

"It's started to rain and you could take advantage of that. You could have a natural shower."

Neal sucked in his breath – to be clean from head to toe had been an impossible dream just a few hours ago. "That would be perfect."

Burke led him around the Humvee, towards the cave opening. As Burke had promised, it had started to rain and water was cascading over the entrance, creating the promised natural shower. Neal started to pull off his filthy clothes, but Burke stopped him. "Wait a minute."

Burke disappeared into the back of the Humvee, coming out with a small bag and – of all things – a large towel. He handed him the bag. "Shampoo and soap."

Neal smiled. "Is there anything you don't have in there?"

"I'm a professional, I'm well prepared."

Neal finished stripping. "Any chance you have some extra clothes?" The thought of putting on his filthy blacks again was revolting.

"Like I said, I'm well prepared. Got a bag packed just for you. But you have to get clean, first."

Neal took a deep breath. "Yeah." He unwrapped the small bar of soap – it smelled like home and he wanted to cry again. But there was no point in crying. He took another deep breath and stepped under the falling water. Neal thought the rain would be cold, but it wasn't really – more tepid than anything, but he wouldn't have cared if it was a few degrees above freezing; he was going to be clean.

Of course, nothing went as planned. He rubbed the bar of soap between his hand and the lather spilled out of his palms and over his wrists, burning the raw skin. In startled pain, he dropped the soap and as he bent to pick it up, he became lightheaded.

Of course, Burke came to his rescue. He helped him get upright and pulled him back into the cave. "Will you let me help you?"

"You'll get wet."

"And I'll dry." Burke was smiling and Neal wished he knew the man's first name.

"Okay."

Neal tried not to watch as Burke pulled his shirt off. It fit him like a glove and Neal did his best to pretend a lack of interest in the swath of smooth, muscled skin now on display. This was so very wrong. And even more wrong when the man took off his boots, pants and socks. Neal kept trying not to look at Burke, now wearing only a pair of very form-fitting black boxer briefs.

Neal ordered himself to remember that he was a priest. That he'd taken a vow of celibacy.

"Sweetheart, stop kidding yourself. You were never celibate. You might not have gotten naked and done the dirty with anyone since … well, since me … but you've certainly spent plenty of hours with a bottle of lotion and your own hand."

Matthew, the devilish voice of his conscience, never lied. Not even when it was convenient.

Burke took his hand and helped him back under the water, washing his back and chest, under his arms and everywhere except his privates. Neal was … disappointed, but he managed to wash himself, wincing as the soap irritated his wrists.

"Do you want me to wash your hair?"

"Oh, please."

Burke stepped away and retrieved the bottle of shampoo and began to lather his hair. It might be blasphemy, but Neal truly believed that this was as close to heaven as he'd ever get. He moaned in disappointment when Burke's hands left his hair. But they didn't go far. He stood behind him directing the water falling over the lip of the cave to stream over his head, rinsing the soapsuds away.

Neal lost track of time, standing under the flowing water, leaning back into Burke's chest, but the wind shifted and picked up strength. He shivered and Burke pulled him back into the cave, out of the water.

"Hold on." The towel that Burke had produced before was wrapped around him and before he could take a step, he was swept up in the other man's arms.

It was a bit awkward getting around the Humvee but they managed, and soon Neal was settled back on the crates.

"What's your name? Your first name? You only introduced yourself as 'Burke' back at the hut."

Burke chuckled. "That's right." He held out his hand, an absurd formality. "Father Caffrey, I'm Peter Burke and it's good to meet you."

Neal hated that title, but he wasn't going to say anything now. "I think, under the circumstances, that you should call me Neal."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Caring for Caffrey so intimately was torture of the most refined type.

He'd learned over the years that rescuing a hostage or a kidnap victim was more than just removing someone from a dangerous situation. Bringing a target back to safety involved caring for their emotional state, too.

The movies and television made it seem so simple – pull the pretty girl out of the pit and hand her over to her waiting family. The police and the medical teams would then take care of everything. But in his line of work, where he was dealing with hostages in places where family wasn't standing by and waiting, where the police were often just as bad as – or in league with – the kidnappers, and reliable medical teams were hours away by helicopter, he had to become family and police and doctor all in one.

He had to learn patience and compassion and empathy – skills not in the regular curriculum for members of the U.S. Special Forces. But he was good at it, it made him a better officer, a better leader. His command was one of the most successful in Afghanistan. In nine years, he'd only lost three soldiers. That had mattered lot more to him – a hell of a lot more – than the gold star hanging from a pale blue ribbon that sat in a box along with the rest of his campaign honors.

In rare moments of self-loathing, Peter would think he was pretty good at the whole emotional thing because he was gay. After all, weren't gay men supposed to be in touch with their innermost feelings? More in-tune with all the emotional crap?

One night, a few weeks after an epic failure in Cape Town – a rescue that ended in a funeral – he'd sat alone in the office and got stinking drunk. At least he thought he was alone. Diana had been worried about him and sent Clinton to make sure he was all right. To his shame, when Clinton arrived and tried to take the bottle of scotch away, he'd blurted out his fears.

"Huh, didn't know that about you."

"What, that I'm gay?" Peter had spent his career hiding that part of himself, there was no reason why Clinton would know.

But apparently he did. "Hell, Colonel, everyone knew. Nobody cared. But this 'emotional crap' thing – I didn't know that you thought that it was a problem. We always knew that was why you were the smartest commander in the field – because you could read people, because you understood us."

"Oh." That had taken the wind out of his rather drunken sails. He'd been about to get worked up about misreading the events in South Africa, but Clinton stopped him cold.

"No one could have anticipated what happened in Cape Town. None of us are mind readers. You do a good job showing us what to look for, but we can't see everything. And who the hell could have anticipated what happened next? How the hell were we supposed to expect that move and plan for it?"

Clinton had been right, but since then, Peter had taken tremendous pains to monitor the emotional state of the men and women he rescued. He showed affection and concern for their comfort and well-being, often providing a literal shoulder to cry on. Doing so cost him nothing and it could mean the difference between a successful rescue and an utter clusterfuck.

But providing that care for Father Caffrey – Neal – was pure torture. Peter had been captivated by the physical beauty of the man from the instant he'd seen his picture. The clerical garb pushed a button, the knowledge that he was a Roman Catholic priest and had taken a vow of celibacy pushed another. Not even the knowledge that the Church considered homosexuality a mortal sin – and that Father Caffrey would likely be disgusted by Peter– lessened the attraction.

Rescuing Neal had been shockingly easy. Of course it helped that Collins was terminally stupid, not just forgetting to purge the location data from the proof-of-life picture, but putting just one guard on his hostage. Collins probably figured that no one would stumble upon the old military hut deep in the forest, and he was probably right.

However, it wasn't just having the GPS coordinates and taking out a single guard. Father Caffrey, despite his debilitated state, was able to help himself. Too many times, Peter had to deal with clingy, hysterical hostages, men and women who exacerbated the already-dangerous situation. But Neal listened and obeyed. He didn't fight or argue or demand.

He was almost too perfect, too compliant. That was a bad sign, too. Peter was worried that the extreme passivity would result in a situation akin to the Cape Town debacle. But on the other hand, a man of the cloth would be an unlikely candidate for self-harm.

It was only when Neal had broken down that Peter relaxed his vigilance. It was always strange giving comfort to a grown man, but it was important to forge a connection, to make sure that Neal knew that he was safe.

Except that safety was a relative term, at least for Peter, himself. Neal Caffrey felt too good in his arms. And then he had to do something completely stupid – he had to offer to help bathe him. That was utter, utter madness.

Despite the bruises and the obvious signs of short-term malnourishment, Neal Caffrey was just the type of man he liked. Which made him doubly a pervert, lusting after a priest and a rescued hostage. So he tamped down his desire and forced himself to think of Caffrey as a child in need of his assistance.

It helped that the rain was several degrees cooler than his normal body temp and washing Caffrey didn't give him a hard-on. As soon as he got Caffrey back into the cave, he stripped out of his sodden underwear and put some clothes on. It would also help to get the priest dressed, too.

He grabbed the duffle with the promised clean clothes and another bag with medical supplies. He needed to treat those wrists before infection set in.

Caffrey was rubbing at his chin, scratching at the weeks of scruff. He must have heard Peter because he looked up and smiled.

And Peter felt the impact of that smile like a punch to the gut. "Your clothes." He dropped the bag at Neal's feet.

"Thank you. You've been really wonderful, but could I ask for one more favor?"

Peter nodded. "What?"

"Any chance you have a razor and some shaving cream in that treasure chest?"

"I do, but let's get your cuts and bruises cleaned up, first. Then you need to eat, and then – if you're still awake – we'll see about a shave."

"Okay. Really – thanks." Neal scratched at the beard again and reached for the duffle bag with the clothing.

Peter turned his back; he didn't need to watch the man get dressed. As much as he wanted to.

"All decent, now. Not that it matters – you've pretty much seen everything I've got."

Peter like the humor in Caffrey's tone and turned to look.

I am so screwed.

Dressed in an indecently tight black tee-shirt, slightly baggy black cargo pants, his wet hair finger-combed, the image was going to be Peter's favorite wet dream for years to come.

Focus, Burke. Focus.

"Let's see those wrists."

Peter made quick work of the bandaging. There was bruising on Neal's face and he'd seen more bruises on his hip and shoulders.

"Father, I have to ask – "

"I told you to call me Neal."

"Neal, I have to ask – what did Collins do to you?"

"He grabbed me from the church just before I was about to hold confession – knocked me out with chloroform or something. When I woke up, I was chained – like you found me."

Peter sighed, he'd hoped that Caffrey understood what he'd asked without him needing to get specific. "You have bruises on your face and body."

"Well, they didn't treat me like I was the crown prince. I wasn't particularly cooperative and Collins and Marcos were pretty quick with their fists. And feet. Got kicked a few times."

"Anything else?"

Confused, Neal stared at him. "What else?"

"Did they … assault you?"

"I just said, I got punched and kicked, I was forcibly taken from the church. I think that constitutes 'assault'."

Priest or not, this man could try the patience of a saint. "I meant sexual assault. Neal, were you raped?"

The silence lasted too long and Peter desperately didn't want to hear Neal's answer.

Clearly ill at ease, Neal rubbed the back of his neck. "Ah – no, I wasn't. I didn't realize what you were asking. But why would you need to know that?"

"If you were, I'd have to get you started on an HIV PEP regimen, plus a course of antibiotics."

"You really do think of everything."

This time, Peter didn't bother with the snappy comeback.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"You really are a dumb bunny, Caffrey." Neal didn't answer, refusing to give Matthew the satisfaction.

"Now, how about dinner?" There was a forcibly cheery note in Peter's voice. "Chicken or beef?"

"Which one is less disgusting?"

"They really aren't all that bad. I think the beef MRE has a brownie for dessert."

"Have you ever tried them?"

Peter laughed. "I've lived on MREs for weeks at a time. It's definitely not cordon-bleu, but it's better than McDonalds."

"Were you in the military?" Then Neal realized just how stupid that question was. "Of course you were."

"A little over twenty years."

"Were you in Iraq?" Neal found himself intensely interested in his rescuer's history. "Afghanistan?"

"Both. But I started my career here."

"Really? In Central America?"

"When I mean here, I mean right here."

"Honduras?"

Peter gave him a bright smile. "No, right here. The hut where Collins kept you was a Special Forces listening post. I was assigned there in '93. This bolt-hole? My unit built it."

"Whoa." At a different time in his life, Neal might have given thanks to God for such a deliverance. "Did you know this when you took the job?"

"Not until I got the first proof-of-life photo – I recognized the hut. And one of the first things I did after I landed was to see if this cave was a viable hideout."

Peter handed him food. Neal took a dubious sniff, and it wasn't bad. Not great, but also not terrible. Just like Peter had said. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he really needed to eat.

"Aren't you going to eat, too?"

Peter gave him a wry grin. "Yeah, sure."

Neal took a few careful bites of what was supposed to be beef chili. It tasted more like the sloppy joe's that he'd eaten as a seminarian than what was on the label. The sense memory was comforting and he found himself spooning the food into his mouth almost faster than he could swallow.

"Take it slowly. You don't want to get sick."

Neal scraped the bottom of the bag, trying to get the last bits. He wondered if he could get another.

Peter handed him another bottle of water. "You really do need to take it easy."

Neal didn't listen to Peter and finished the water in three gulps. And then regretted it as the food threatened to crawl out of his stomach.

"Breathe through your mouth. Deep breaths."

This time, Neal listened and the nausea subsided.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Don't think I want the dessert, though."

Peter nodded. "Maybe later."

"So, what now?" Neal still wanted a shave, but he didn't know if he could manage. His wrists were bandaged; he'd probably get them wet and soiled and then would have to ask Peter to re-wrap them. The man had done so much for him already, it didn't seem right.

"Let me clean this mess up, check the perimeter, and if you still want to shave, we can deal with that, okay?"

Neal held up his hands. "I don't want to be any trouble. Any more trouble."

"Nah, it's fine. As rescues go, you're one of the easier ones. You mostly do what I tell you."

"Only mostly?"

"I told you not to scarf down your food."

Neal had to laugh. "That's true"

Peter cleaned up from their "dinner" and before heading to the front of the cave, he handed Neal a toothbrush and a tiny tube of toothpaste. Both were put to good use, and afterwards, Neal listened for him, trying to figure out what he was doing, but the rain and wind were too loud. As a child, Neal had loved storms like this. His parents would let him climb into bed with them and hold him as thunder shook the house. He never felt so safe and so loved.

"It's getting pretty bad out there." Peter was back and he used the towel that Neal had discarded to dry himself off. "Probably going to rain until morning."

"Are we going to be okay?

"Yup. This is a hard-rock cave, it's facing away from the wind and even if the storm turns, we won't get flooded. We – the U.S. Army – built this to last."

"I didn't know you were Army. For some reason, I thought you were Navy."

"Huh? Navy?"

"Yeah – a SEAL, or maybe a Marine."

Peter didn't answer.

"Have I insulted you?"

"Yes, but I'll forgive you. I was Special Forces – what you'd call a Green Beret – for twenty years. And if you mention Rambo, I'll give you back to Collins with a big red bow around your neck."

Neal knew Peter was joking. "I was actually thinking of the John Wayne movie."

"Okay – you're definitely forgiven." Peter fussed with something, pulling a cord out from the Humvee and plugging it into a small pot. "We'll get the water warmed up and do something about your beard. I'll be your barber if you trust me not to slit your throat."

Neal found the idea absolutely outrageous and infinitely appealing. He swallowed and managed to croak out, "I trust you."

"Good."

Peter Burke was the epitome of efficiency, setting out a disposable razor, a couple of clean clothes, a small can of shaving cream and a metal bowl. He put one of the cloths in the bowl and poured the heated water over it. "Use that on your beard, but don't burn yourself and try not to get the bandages wet." Before Neal could reach for it, Peter changed his mind. "Wait, I'll do it."

A few seconds later, Neal's face was wrapped in a hot towel and it felt positively decadent.

"Scoot forward a little."

He obeyed and Peter sat down behind him, straddling him. The heat from those thighs and chest was indescribably delicious and Neal prayed for control. Almost as hard as he'd prayed for rescue.

"Oh, sweetheart, I'd give anything to swap places with you." Neal wished Matthew would stop tormenting him. His commentary only made things so much worse.

"Lean back."

The hot towel on his face wasn't decadent. That was nothing compared to this. Peter's hands were gentle and careful; first as he applied the shaving cream, and then as he scraped the razor against his skin.

"I probably should have trimmed your beard first, but the one thing I didn't bring was a pair of small scissors."

Neal wanted to make a snappy comeback about getting Peter kicked out of the Boy Scouts but he couldn't talk. Not if he didn't want to end up with a mouthful of shaving cream.

He kept his eyes closed and enjoyed every damned moment of this intimacy. As a counterpoint to Peter's steady heartbeat and his abstracted humming, Neal could hear Matthew's laughter gently mocking him.

"Okay, all done." Peter climbed out from behind him.

His cheeks felt cool, but when he realized he was fully aroused, they turned hot in embarrassment. He did manage to say, "Thank you."

"Not a problem."

The shaving accoutrements disappeared as Peter cleaned up, obviously unaware of Neal's embarrassing state.

"Oh, sweetheart. You are in so much trouble."

Desperate to make some conversation and divert his own attention from Peter Burke's body and hands and everything, Neal asked, "Won't the car battery die with the lights on?"

"Good question, but no. This is a military vehicle and the lights are running on an ancillary battery. I do have a few hand-cranked lamps we'll use for illumination overnight."

"I keep saying it, but you are very well prepared."

"It's the luxury of experience. The last three years I was in the Army, my team specialized in hostage rescue and we learned the hard way about what was and was not 'essential' equipment."

Neal's curiosity about Peter Burke returned. "Do you like what you do?"

Peter shrugged. "It's necessary and my team and I are good at it."

Neal pressed, not satisfied with the vague answer. "That doesn't answer my question."

"I like the satisfaction of bringing people home safely. I like seeing families reunited. But sometimes the process is very … unpleasant."

Neal had to ask, "You've killed people since you left the Army?"

Peter didn't answer.

"I'm not judging you."

Peter finally replied. "I've taken human life when I've had to. Killing people isn't easy, it's not something I do without trying to find an alternative, whether they are 'the bad guys' or just faceless, nameless masses trying to kill me. Every life I've taken has its cost."

Neal wasn't sure what to say.

Peter continued, "The man who kidnapped you is a killer. I knew Collins when he was an FBI Special Agent assigned to the Office of International Affairs. He'd been sent to Afghanistan to investigate civilian contractor fraud, but he used the opportunity to smuggle opium. A young Afghani man who'd been working with my team had seen Collins pay off a drug lord. Three hours after he'd told me what he'd seen, the boy was found dead – shot in the head. Collins disappeared, but two days later, the vehicle assigned to him was stopped at a checkpoint near Kandahar – routine stop, the two soldiers assigned to the gate had no clue – Collins shot them, too. He shot out the security cameras and disappeared."

"I know you're not like Collins."

"If it would help, I'll make confession to you."

Neal was surprised. "You're Catholic?"

"Lapsed. But if you need me to confess…"

Neal shook his head. "Confession is a sacrament, it is a holy act. You can't confess if you don't believe that God will forgive you."

"That would be a sin?"

"It would be meaningless. A mockery."

Peter looked like he was about to say something, but just shook his head. "You must be tired, you should get some rest."

He was tired, but like a small child, he got stubborn. "I'm okay."

"Fine." Peter didn't argue, but he did set up an air mattress, which looked like heaven. "It's there if you want it."

"What about you?"

"I'll stay on watch for a while."

"You think Collins will track us here?"

"Nope, and especially not in this storm."

"So you're just being stubborn."

"I think, between the two of us, you're the one who needs a good night's sleep."

There was a thread of annoyance in Peter's tone, and Neal understood it. He was being foolish and there was no reason why he shouldn't sleep.

"I promise I won't let anything bad happen. No one will hurt you."

"I know. I'm just … " Neal struggled for the right words. "Antsy, maybe?"

Peter sighed. "You really do need to rest. Maybe if you just lie down and try to relax, you might just find yourself falling asleep."

That made sense, but he was still stubborn. "Maybe in a bit. Would you talk to me for a while? It's nice hearing someone else's voice."

"Sure, what do you want to talk about?"

"Would you tell me about yourself?"

"You already know the important stuff."

Neal didn't agree. "Tell me what were you like as a kid? Did you always want to go into the military?"

"I was your average kid. Grew up in a two parent household, my dad worked in construction and my mother was a legal secretary. Pretty standard life for a middle-class kid in America in the sixties and seventies. I'd thought about playing baseball professionally, was even scouted by the majors, but my arm didn't hold up."

"So, what did you do?"

"Went to college, joined the Army. Never looked back." It seemed to Neal there was a lot that Peter wasn't telling him. Neal understood and didn't press; some things simply weren't worth unpacking, especially with a relative stranger.

"How old are you?"

Peter chuckled. "You're getting very personal, Father Caffrey."

Neal was certain that Peter was using his clerical title to annoy him, so he didn't bother making the correction. "Come it, tell me."

Peter played coy, which seemed very out of character. "How old do you think I am?"

"Well, you said you were in the Army for twenty years, and I'd have to figure you've been out for a couple of years, if you've got your own business." Neal looked at Peter, but the shadows made it difficult to really see his face. "I think you're probably close to fifty."

"Fifty on the nose. Hit the half-century mark last August."

"Are you married?" Neal wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Peter, however, was surprisingly candid. "No. I can't imagine living with anyone. And I can't imagine anyone willing to put up with me."

"Why?"

"You really are nosy."

"Come on, tell me."

"I've been on constant deployment since I graduated from officer training school. And I've never been sent to friendly places where I could bring a family – even if I wanted one. I've been living in battle zones for two decades." Peter paused and Neal could feel the intensity of the silence. "And until recently, any type of relationship I'd want hasn't been compatible with a military career."

It took Neal a few seconds to parse what Peter had just said. "You're gay?"

"Does that bother you, Father Caffrey? That you were rescued by a sodomite? A faggot?" This time, there was almost a derisive emphasis on his title. "Are you now going to tell me that I'm going to Hell?"

In the back of his mind, Matthew was laughing like a hyena.

But Neal didn't find the situation funny at all. He found it cruel and unfair.


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GO TO PART THREE