elrhiarhodan

Title: We Shall Come Home - Chapter I
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: ~4700 (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 trying to get home. A tale of friendship, sacrifice, loss and ultimately, of love.

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



This epic has been heroically beta’d by my dear friends, jrosemary, rabidchild67 and elainasaunt. I must give a very special thanks to jrosemary, who has been reading this from the very beginning, and has bullied, begged, bribed and even occasionally threatened me with bodily harm when I said I was giving up.

This story is dedicated to my fur family, Taffy, Brandy, Oliver and Sammy who are now playing together in endless forests and great grassy fields. And to those fur children of my friends who have joined them.

Stories (at least mine) seem to come from the strangest of places. Last November, before my world crashed in on me, lionessvalenti posted a journal entry asking for prompts. I gave her a bunch, including a few potentially cracky ones - such as Peter and Neal are turned into dogs (which I had suggested as an antidote to all of the excellent Kitten!Neal stories). She graciously declined the cracky prompts, and I decided to write this one myself, it had really gotten my own creative juices flowing. At first, I was going to treat this story as something fun, but life has a way of really hitting you hard in the face, and the whole story suddenly turned rather serious. jrosemary classifies this as urban fantasy, and it’s now part of my White Collar Transformation series.

There are several sources of inspiration that I’d like to note: Sheila Burnford’s The Incredible Journey (I saw the original movie as a kid, but have never read the book), Greek mythology – particularly the story of Artemis and Acteon, and the classic (not Disney) Beauty and the Beast fairy tale.

__________________



How it happened and why it happened are two questions that will never really be answered, no matter how many times they are asked.

The official story, the one for the files, is a complete fabrication. It has to be, because the real story is simply not fit for either the jacket of a highly respected FBI agent or the one kept on his extremely effective (and occasionally troublesome) CI/consultant.

Yet the fact is, it did happen and the story, as it is told to those who officially need to know (and have indicated a willingness to believe), is a combination of high comedy and little emotion. The real story, known by those who are bound to the tellers by ties of love and friendship (and it is those ties that saved everyone), is filled with fear and pain and sadness and near tragedy. This is that story.

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CHAPTER 1 - WEDNESDAY MORNING

THEY HAD BEEN ON THE ROAD FOR THE BETTER PART OF FOUR HOURS. Without any warning, Peter arrived at Neal’s apartment sometime shortly after dawn, just about rolled him out of bed and into the shower. He briefed him as they made their way out of Manhattan. This wasn’t a pleasure trip; they were going to interview a suspect. Constantine Velton was the alleged mastermind in a massive pump-and-dump stock scheme, and he hoped to catch the man off guard at his country home in a very rural part of northeastern Pennsylvania.

The trip was difficult for both of them. Neal had a little less than four months left on his probation/parole – whatever you wanted to call it. But he refused to tell Peter of his plans. The only thing he’d say was that he was working on something. Peter had wanted to keep pressing him, but El finally told him to back off. He’d hoped that maybe during this trip, he’d be able to get Neal to reveal some of what he had in mind. But thus far he’d had no luck. The drive was an exercise in frustration and around the time they passed through the Delaware Water Gap, Peter stopped asking and Neal descended into a strange sulk.


“Peter, I think we’re lost. This road looks like it goes nowhere and I don’t think we’re even on pavement anymore.”

About forty minutes earlier, they had turned off of Route 84 onto a state road that cut through the game lands to get to someplace called Sylvania Lake, and they hadn’t seen another car in the last twenty miles.

“We’re not lost, not according to the directions Diana printed out for me.”

Neal disagreed, but while he was inclined to whine a little, he didn’t want to bicker. “I don’t know why we couldn’t take the Taurus. It has a GPS and a navigation system.”

“We don’t take personal vehicles for official business. You know that,” Peter grumbled at Neal. They’d had this conversation too many times.

Neal did, apparently, because he didn’t have a snappy comeback. This was good, as Peter was getting more than a little fed up with Neal’s complaints. “And for your information, all Federal vehicles have GPS trackers, just like your anklet.”

Neal just sighed the sigh of one oppressed, which was almost as irritating as the whining.

“Look, we’re in Pike County already.” Peter hoped that would shut Neal up for a few minutes, at least.

Neal was blessedly silent for about ninety seconds, but as he opened his mouth to utter the next fatal words, Peter cut him off.

“If you ask me one more time how long it will take until we get there, I’m going to…”

“What? What are you going to do? Turn the car around and head back home? Because frankly, that sounds like a much better idea than heading into the wilds of Pennsylvania.”

“It’s not the wilds, not by a long shot.”

“Do you know that there are more bears in Pike County than dogs?”

“That’s not true, at least not any longer.”

Neal kept up a quiet grumble. “You know, Peter, when I signed up for this, I thought I’d be kept within a two-mile radius centered in Manhattan. Not dragged out of a nice warm bed into the middle of Nowheresville, where you can’t even get a decent radio station, not to mention cell phone service.” He kept checking his Blackberry, but there was no signal. “At least if we’d taken your car, we’d have satellite radio. Maybe listen to Howard Stern.”

Peter wanted to tell him that in sixteen weeks, he could just stay in bed. Instead, he turned and glared at Neal. “Since when do you like Howard Stern?”

“I don’t, but I’d sure like to have the opportunity to listen to something other than static and the emergency road condition messages.”

“Look, we’ll be there in a half-hour.” Peter gritted his teeth, trying not to give in to his temper.

“Tell me again, what possible white collar crime could have been committed out here that needs or deserves the attention of the New York City office?”

He was just about ready to strangle Neal when a huge deer jumped out in front of the car. He swerved, trying to avoid the animal, but neither Peter nor the car reacted fast enough and they crashed into the beast’s hindquarters. The impact was sickening, and after the explosive rush of the airbags, they could hear the screams of the wounded animal, the thrashing as it fought to rise and run off on broken legs.

“You okay?” Neal confirmed that he was and they both struggled to get out of the car.

The poor animal was still trying to get up, to get away. Peter felt ill – this was a lord of the forest, a twenty point buck in the prime of its life, and if he didn’t do something, it would linger in pain for hours, if not days. Standing just out of range of the terrible, majestic spread of antlers, he pulled out his Glock, flicked off the safety, and chambered a round. The poor, broken beast stilled, as if filled with the understanding that Peter wanted to end its pain. He aimed for the center of one of those dark, liquid eyes and pulled the trigger. The buck died instantly.

Peter thought he heard something, a scream on the wind – or maybe it was Neal’s gasp of shock at the swiftness of this death.

He stepped away and reholstered his weapon. Peter wanted to get the carcass off of the road, but the flood of adrenaline from the impact drained out of him. His body ached from the bruises left by the seatbelt and the airbag, and he was weak and nauseated, his rapidly pounding heart the only thing he could hear.

He looked for Neal, and found him. He just stood there, eyes huge, pupils mere pinpoints in the bright light; then his outline wavered, and he became something else. Peter’s first thought was that maybe he was having a heart attack and his vision was fading from the lack of oxygen. He tried to reach out to the other man, tried to hold onto something. He didn’t want to die here, on this desolate, empty road.

“Peter, Peter? What’s happening?” Neal’s voice sounded like he was across a vast and empty room, echoing in his head, between the spaces of his pounding heart. Then Neal was silent but everything else was incredibly loud. He had never heard birdsong like this before, and not only birds but insects and the rush of wind and the shivering of the leaves. Yet, as amazing as these sounds were, the scents of a whole new universe surrounded him – the greenness of the grass and trees, the hot chemical odors of pavement, of rubber, the metallic smell of the spent cartridge and gunpowder. And overriding everything else was the scent of new blood and the musk of the deer, and Peter’s mouth began to water.

Beyond the utter weirdness of his senses, everything else felt strange; his clothing didn’t fit, it constricted and bound him like a mummy’s wrappings and he pulled at it, only to find that he no longer had hands. He had...paws. His whole body shuddered at the pain of standing upright on legs that wouldn’t support his massive torso, and he dropped to all fours. Instinct tried to take over and Peter fought to remain himself, but the pull of this otherness was very strong.

He bit and clawed and snapped and shook his body; fabric shredded under teeth and claws, but his front legs were still tangled in a complex set of leather straps. He twisted and turned, trying to catch the bindings and free himself, but it was no use. He couldn’t reach the buckle no matter how hard he tried, and he dropped onto his belly in exhaustion. Suddenly, another mouth, a muzzle, nudged at him, and began to chew at the damned straps, freeing him from the gun harness and then his shirt.

Neal? Standing over him was a huge dog with a rough gray and black coat. He knew this was Neal – something within his soul told him that this was his partner, his friend.

Peter? What’s happened to us? He heard Neal in his head – his voice cut through the sounds of the world, the beat of his heart, like a knife.

I don’t know…you look like a huge dog. You are a huge dog. Peter stood up, on four legs, and he caught something out of the corner of his eye, something long and red and a little snake-like. He spun around, teeth bared in a snarl, to catch it. He missed, spotted it again, and missed again. The third time was the charm and he snapped hard – and let go in a howl of rather startling pain. He’d bitten his tail. He’d bitten his fucking tail.

He heard laughter, almost silent, huffing laughter and found big-dog Neal, sitting on his haunches, mouth open and tongue lolling in canine amusement.

You think this is funny, Caffrey?

Neal’s muzzle shut with a snap, and his chin went down, but his own tail brushed back and forth against the sun-warmed ground. No, Peter. I swear, I don’t think it’s funny that you just bit your own tail.

Good. Peter didn’t believe Neal for a moment, because it really was too fucking funny that he’d gone slightly crazy and chased his own tail.

Shit – we are dogs, Neal. We’re a pair of dogs.

I know! Isn’t it the coolest thing? I can smell EVERYTHING! Neal walked around him and actually sniffed his butt. Peter snapped at him and he yipped, but that really didn’t deter Neal from doing just what dogs have done for millennia.

Stop that! Neal would enjoy this. Sit, stay – I need to think.

You know, Peter, for a dog, you’re still very good at giving orders. Sit, stay, roll over. What next? Fetch? Play dead?

Neal kept up a running commentary, much as he’d done for the entire ride to Pennsylvania. The rush of words was accompanied by a complex tangle of emotions. Peter didn’t try to tune him out – he was too afraid to lose that connection; he instinctively knew it linked him to his humanity, but it was making him panic – it was too much all at once. He tried dialing things back, filtering out everything but the underlying link between them. Something popped, like his ears clearing after takeoff, and the flood of emotions pouring through him was reduced to a mere trickle. He paced back and forth, desperately trying to ignore the dead deer and the so-enticing smell of fresh blood. Finally, he sat down next to Neal, who didn’t seem to have any problems with the carcass not ten feet away.

Why aren’t you panicking? Or at least upset? You’ve just shredded your suit. You’re a DOG! Peter knew that the suit was a silly thing to focus on, but at this moment, he couldn’t seem to think of anything that would rile Neal more than damage to his wardrobe.

Peter, I am a dog. I am a big dog. I am a big dog without a collar or a GPS tracking unit strapped to my ankle. I am FREE! Neal seemed elated, rather than concerned. And then he turned and looked back at the pile of clothing he’d left behind. Besides, my suit isn’t torn, not like yours. He gave a very convincing canine approximation of a disdainful sniff.

And with that, Neal lumbered to his feet – because he was, in fact, a very big dog, the biggest Peter had ever seen – and began loping down the road, tail held high and nose to the wind.

Where the HELL do you think you are going? Neal didn’t answer, he just kept going. Peter pushed all his will into his next call. Neal Caffrey! Get back here this instant. Just because you’ve got four months left doesn’t mean you can just run off!

Neal stopped, tried to keep going and then stopped again, finally dropping to his belly. Peter trotted over to him. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? He stood over Neal and nipped his ear.

Neal yipped at the pain. Ouch! Stop that!

I’ll ask you, one more time, where do you think you’re going?

Don’t know. Neal gave the equivalent of a canine shrug. Wasn’t going to go far…just wanted to get away from the thing – the deer. It made me … hungry.

Typical … dog or man, Neal had to make his own life just a little difficult. He nipped Neal again, this time on his shoulder. Come on, let’s get off the road. The bite was gentle this time, and Neal only looked at Peter in mild disgust.

They climbed up a shallow embankment and found themselves in a richly shaded forest of oak and maple. The edges of everything seemed clear and sharp and he could see great detail, even at a long distance, but something was different.

Where are the colors? It’s like living in an Ansel Adams photograph!

Peter remembered, then. Dogs don’t really see colors as humans do. It’s mostly shades of gray in the low end of the spectrum. Like colors in twilight.

That seemed to take a lot of the joy out of Neal. His tail went down, and his muzzle clamped shut. Maybe I don’t like being a dog so much. Neal plopped down on a pile of decaying leaves. What are we going to do?

That’s what I was trying to figure out when you took off like you didn’t have a care in the world. The only way we’re going to get through this is if we stick together. And whatever happens, we mustn’t get separated. You have to stay by me, okay? We’ll never get home if we lose each other. Think of it as the Golden Rule. Got that? Once again, he pushed the entire force of his will into the thought.

Yes. Neal’s agreement was just as forceful and unequivocal.

Peter sat down next to Neal. Keep quiet for a bit and let me think, okay?

Neal didn’t say anything; he just looked at Peter with those huge eyes.

Peter-the-man wasn’t the type to meditate or even let himself get taken out of the moment, but now, he desperately wanted to still everything, shut out all of these newly sharpened senses. He wanted to be able to think, to reason. He didn’t want every logical thought to be a struggle. As he closed off the sounds and the scents of the forest and concentrated on his breathing, he felt a curl of panic. It wasn’t his, though. It was Neal's.

Please, don’t shut me out. The plea was accompanied by a very canine whimper and a lick across his muzzle.

Peter relented and in his head, he kept something opened – call it a connection, a link, a leash between himself and Neal. The other man, dog, settled down and Peter tried to focus. His breathing slowed, and while he could feel Neal in the back of his mind like an itch, something else overrode the bombardment of new sensations, the enticements of scent and sound. What he felt, deep in his heart, his head, his soul, was the need to get back to Elizabeth, to the solace of her arms. If she could touch him, let him know that she loved him, that whatever he had done didn’t matter, then he would be all right.

Neal whimpered again, and crawled a little closer, resting his head on Peter’s paws. What are we going to do, Peter?

We are going to go home.


NEAL WATCHED, INCREDULOUS, AS PETER TOOK OFF AT AN EASY PACE, LIKE A TROTTING PONY. He was heading east; at least that’s what Neal hoped. He followed; he didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be left behind, it was that he couldn’t stop his body from getting up and moving and going after him. Peter was like a magnet and he was a helpless batch of iron filings. Not that he didn’t want to go with Peter – it was just that he slightly, ever so slightly, resented this need to follow. But lately, this was the way it had been. Peter said jump, and he didn’t even bother to ask how high?

It was funny that Peter was a big dog in life, now. Big and commanding, and he’d bet that one bark and Peter would have every dog in the county at his feet. When he had made that tentative break for freedom, back on the road, he’d known that he wouldn’t get far, and he really hadn’t cared, either. He hadn’t even thought much about it, except that he didn’t have the tracker on and he was ostensibly free. But Peter’s voice inside his head was worse than any leash, any tether. It stopped him cold, and it was all he could do not to roll over and offer the other man, the other dog his bare throat and unprotected belly. And the emotions from Peter – the fear, the worry, even a hint of anger. They were too much to deal with, they sent up echoes within him. Neal didn’t know exactly what had happened to shut them down, but almost everything he was feeling from Peter had toned down from a loud roar to a low hum, then to nothing. He relaxed, grateful for that small relief.

So now, he was loping slightly behind Peter-the-dog, heading home, except he had no home. Not that he didn’t love living at June’s, but it wasn’t his. It was a place he’d landed through a combination of luck and charm and guile. It wasn't the neat house with the white picket fence, and it never would be.

After a while, even that thought began to fade, lost in the forest with the birdsong and the leaves and all the sounds of the natural world. Their passage through the woods wasn’t quiet; stealth had never occurred to them. Neal caught the scents of rabbit and squirrel (though how his still human mind knew what those smells were, precisely, he wasn’t sure), and he neatly dodged piles of deer spoor and denser, darker piles of bear scat. He tried to chuckle at the whole concept, but the pace and his canine throat weren’t made for laughter.

He must have made a sound, because Peter stopped and looked back at him.

You okay?

Yeah...just trying to laugh at my own joke.

Wanna share?

It’s really not that funny.

If you’re amused, you’re doing good...so let me in on the joke.

Neal wondered if Peter could feel his embarrassment at his overly juvenile sense of humor. We passed a pile of bear shit.

He did feel Peter’s amusement, and it was like the first taste of a glass of champagne, bright and dry and sparkling. I guess bears do shit in the woods.

They kept on moving at a steady pace through the forest, which thinned and thickened between one stride and the next. There was a real joy in traveling like this, Peter in front of him or beside him. Moving through light and shadow without really a care in the world - fearing nothing, wanting nothing. He could feel Peter in the back of his mind, like a comfortable and well-scratched itch, he wondered if he felt that way to Peter. It was strange that he could be this happy. The tracker might be lying abandoned on a deserted road and a mystery for someone else to solve, but he was tied closer to Peter than he could ever imagine.

He had no idea how long they had been traveling, he just kept his eyes on Peter’s tail (not that he really needed to see Peter) and followed. When Peter came to a halt, Neal was completely unprepared and crashed into him.

Hey, give a guy some warning!

Peter didn’t answer, but Neal felt something … like awkwardness, discomfort. What’s the matter, Peter?

I have to go.

Yeah, I know, go home. To Brooklyn. That’s where we’re heading, hopefully.

No, not that. I have to go … take a shit. Like the bear.

If thoughts could be colored hot and red, Peter’s certainly were. Neal tried not to let his amusement show – if only because he was feeling the same need.

There’s a fallen log over there. Neal pointed over to the left with his snout. I promise not to look.

Peter gave Neal a dirty stare and a slight growl as he went and crouched behind the log. Neal found another convenient deadfall. In prison, he had lost most of his modesty when it came to bodily functions, and this didn’t really seem to matter too much. It was the sudden and intense urge to piss on every tree and bush that bothered him, that seemed so much more animalistic.

He forced himself to void his bladder in one shot (okay, two), and sat down, legs spread. He resisted the urge to lick himself, but not the urge to get a good look at his genitalia (those were a nicely impressive set of balls he was sporting), and waited for Peter to finish his own business. He got up and paced, sort of impatient to get going again.

When they met up, Peter seemed … well, worried.

What’s the matter now?

Have you given any thought at all as to what we’re going to eat or drink? It’s not like either of us can just walk into a restaurant and order a meal. And right now that’s not even an option – we’re about seventy-five miles from any sort of civilization. We’re going to have to get some fresh water soon. And solid food.

Neal sat down with a thump. He licked his chops, and started to pant, his mouth suddenly dry. This was going to be a problem. He tried not to panic. They could go without food, but without fresh water, they were doomed. He stuck his nose, his snout, in the air and let the dog senses take over. He felt something – a slice of coolness, satisfaction, liquid pleasure, and he knew he’d found it.

There’s fresh water over there.

Neal loped down a small hill and across a rocky outcropping to a running brook. Instinct told him to drink as far upstream as possible and he backtracked a few hundred yards. Peter followed without comment.

Neal plunged his head into the water, which was shockingly cold. He drew back and shook, flinging droplets all over Peter, who somehow wore the same expression he did when Satchmo shook himself dry. Neal lowered his snout again, this time just above the water, and began to lap. It took a few tries, but he quickly got the hang of it. Peter followed suit. Neal eventually had his fill, and then some. He walked as far from the stream as he dared and pissed. And pissed. And pissed some more.

Having fun, Jackson Pollack?

Neal looked back at his friend, just a little sheepish. And you haven’t marked your share of trees and bushes? My nose works quite well, thank you very much.

Peter chose the high road and ignored Neal. Come on, we need to get going before it gets dark. I’d like to try to find Route 84, which should take us back to some sort of civilization.

Neal wondered at Peter’s compass; he seemed so certain that they were heading in the right direction. Are you relying on your gut, Peter?

Peter didn’t answer right away. Something is pulling me in this direction, Neal. It’s like a big, bright arrow that says ‘this way home’. Call it instinct, a gift, my gut. All I know is that this is the right direction, and that we need to keep going for as long as possible. Peter paused his thoughts, but not his pace. You okay with that?

Peter, I trust you to get us home. Something rose up within Neal, something primal, something terrible and fierce. Neal was careful to keep it to himself. I’ll be right beside you, to the end. Whatever it takes, I’ll get you home to Elizabeth. Even if I die trying.

To Be Continued

Go to Chapter II