elrhiarhodan

Title: We Shall Come Home - Chapter X
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: ~ 3,700 (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. Peter and Neal are on their way home, when disaster strikes. Elizabeth and Moz confront the unthinkable.

We Shall Come Home is not a work in progress. New chapters will be posted once a week, on Tuesdays.
Chapter I | Chapter II | Chapter III | Chapter IV | Chapter V | Chapter VI | Chapter VII | Chapter VIII | Chapter IX

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CHAPTER X – SUNDAY AFTERNOON

PETER COULD NOT BELIEVE THEIR LUCK. He had gotten Neal on his feet shortly after dawn, and they kept traveling parallel to the southern side of Route 84. Neal’s hunting was erratic; he seemed more interested in sniffing than chasing, and in playing than killing – though he did present him with three rabbits this morning. As hungry as he was, Peter didn’t mind. He worried about Neal, the continued toll that the killing could be taking on him. Peter had no idea what was going on inside Neal’s head anymore and he was worried that he would never be able to bring him back from wherever he had gone.

A little after the sun was at its highest, and Peter struggled to remember that that meant it was noon, the arrow in his head pointed him out of the woods and onto some local roads. The area seemed deserted – an empty trucking depot, a few warehouses and a gas station. There was a single vehicle there, a beat-up gardening truck, and a man sitting on the tailgate with his head in his hands.

Peter couldn’t explain why he felt it was safe or right or important to approach this person. Considering that there was no earthly reason why he and Neal had been turned into dogs, he decided to trust his instincts – his gut – and moved towards the man. Neal followed at his heels, and Peter had the strongest sense of déjà vu. How many times had they approached a witness or a suspect like this – Peter in the lead, but Neal right behind.

He sat down, and was startled at how good the smooth, sun-warmed concrete felt on his ass. He resisted the urge to lie down and sleep in the sun. Instead, he sat there and watched a grown man cry. It was an interesting sight, but it made him uncomfortable; he was watching something he had no right to see. The man scrubbed at his face, pulled out a snowy white handkerchief and blew his nose.

The so-human sound surprised Peter and for the first time, he got a good look at the man’s face and let out a startled bark. He knew this man. He couldn’t remember his name, but he knew him. He lived about half a block away from Peter’s own den – no, the home – that he shared with … Elizabeth. He remembered talking to this man a few times – about something. It wasn’t important. What was important was that they could get home, soon. Maybe.

The man was friendly and Peter was startled to realize that he could clearly understand what he was saying. At least the metamorphosis that was slowly leeching his memory of everything he loved had not yet destroyed his human intellect.

Peter was amused to see Neal behave like a great big puppy, and he thought it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to play “dog” too, since he was one, for the moment, and he wanted to get back to Brooklyn. It was as if all the bad, evil luck they’d had since … however long it had been since they were transformed … had turned good.

Their new friend asked them where they were from, and Peter wanted to jump for joy. Instead he barked and ran to the side of the truck. While he had trouble remembering things that were important, like this man’s name, he did know that commercial vehicles had to display their operator’s address on the exterior. He didn’t question the fact that the only word he could read was the “BROOKLYN” painted on the driver’s side door. He just barked and scratched at it with his paws, hoping that his neighbor understood.

Not only did he “get” that they were from Brooklyn, but the guy had food for them. The only problem was he couldn’t seem to make himself eat it– at least not until Neal brought it over to him. What worried him was Neal’s refusal to eat. He had forced himself to leave a piece of the deliciously fatty steak for Neal, but Neal wouldn’t even look at it. It was even worse when his neighbor (and Peter wished he could remember the man’s name) opened up a second package of steak and put it in front of Neal. Neal wouldn’t eat it, and until Peter disciplined him, he wouldn’t touch the leftover from the first steak. Neal pushed the second steak at him, and despite his guilt at eating the meat intended for Neal, he consumed about half. Again, Peter had to nip at Neal to get him to eat. He didn’t want to think about the implications of that.

Finally, the man (who had taken to calling Neal “Lennie” and him “George” – good book, but stupid names) opened up the passenger side door. Peter jumped in, and barked at Neal to follow. Neal was reluctant, that wasn’t hard to tell, and just as Peter was about to get out and force Neal, he got in. It was a bit of a tight squeeze, but they all fit. He could not believe it, but they could be home tonight, instead of traveling another four or five days – dodging traffic, scrounging for food, worrying about Neal.

Then disaster struck. The passenger door slammed shut and the arrow in his head vanished. Peter was suddenly bereft – he had no idea how they would get home. He was utterly lost, but he fought against the panic. This truck was going to Brooklyn, it was going to take him and Neal home. Peter just kept trying to hold onto that, to force the anxiety recede. He listened with half a brain as the man (what was his name???) rambled on about his sister. Peter didn’t care. All he could think about was home, and he worried that they would get lost. He could picture the front of his house, but he could no longer remember the block or the name of his street.

Despite his worries about his loss of memory, he was happier than he could remember feeling in days. The miles flew by, miles that he and Neal had would otherwise have had to struggle and suffer through – even worse than traveling through the forest. It seemed like just a few minutes had passed before they were approaching the Tappan Zee Bridge and crossing the Hudson River. Despite his anxiety, Peter could barely contain his excitement and was so fidgety that the guy behind the wheel thought he needed to go. Well, he was a dog and he always could go. They stopped somewhere close to the western terminal and got out of the truck. Neal watered every bush and tree in sight, and Peter finally gave into the irresistible urge to cover Neal’s marks with his own.

When Neal sat down on the pavement and started scratching at himself, Peter didn’t bother to nudge or nip him. Instead he lay down on top of the other dog, which was just as effective a method of discipline as anything else he could have tried. The guy laughed and held the door open until both of them got back into the truck. The Sunday afternoon traffic was substantial, and it took the better part of an hour to get across the river. Peter thanked whatever power had put them in the path of this guy – this neighbor – who was taking them home. There simply was no way that they would have been able to get across this bridge alive. It was long, it was narrow, and there were no footpaths, which meant they would have had to dodge cars and trucks for the entire three mile span.

Peter tried to lie down on the seat, but he was too big and Neal was in the way – with his head out the window, seemingly enraptured by the feel of the wind in his face. The man looked at them and laughed. He said something that sounded like “crazy big dogs” but Peter couldn’t quite hear him over the sound of the rushing air and the confusion in his head.

As the miles passed and they drew closer to the city, closer to the place he tried to remember as home, Peter felt his sense of self start to evaporate faster and faster. He tried to hold on, but the harder he tried the faster his memories slipped away. Home – why was he so anxious to get home? He could remember the house, but he couldn’t remember where it was. Brooklyn, yes. But where was Brooklyn?

The road was relatively traffic free until they got to the more densely populated suburbs, and again Peter was grateful not to have to be doing this on foot. He struggled to remember how long it had taken them when they left New York – when they were human. A few hours? It was getting harder and harder to understand time. He heard a voice in his head say “time exists so everything doesn’t happen at once” – someone famous, someone smart said that – but it was meaningless to him. Every moment seemed unique now. What had happened to him before, his whole life, was drifting away, a fog burning off under the hot morning sun.

Peter tried to remember Elizabeth, but her face was fading. Not only her face, but her name, and after a while who she was to him. He tried to remember his own name. It wasn’t George, but then he thought, maybe it could be. As the truck rolled along, and his new friend talked and talked and talked, he lost more of himself. Why was he here? What was happening?

He looked at the other dog in the car and he could barely remember that his name was Neal, that he was his friend. But when Neal looked back at him, when he whimpered and nosed at his jaw, some things settled back into place. He closed his eyes and once again tried to find the arrow that would point him home. It was gone as if it had never existed. Maybe he didn’t need it anymore, and its absence bothered him less and less. He didn’t know how they were going to find his den – where he lived with his mate. Maybe he never would. He had Neal and Neal was his pack. They would hunt – or at least Neal would hunt and he would keep them safe. Maybe it didn’t matter that he couldn’t remember his name or where he lived or that he had a mate. Maybe all he needed to do was to stay with Neal.

That was what a pack did, and after all they were a pack, and the pack was all that mattered.


NEAL ENJOYED THE FEEL OF THE WIND IN HIS FACE AND THE SUN IN HIS EYES. The speed was good too. It was nice not having to get someplace by moving his feet, because they were hurting him. His whole body hurt, and he didn’t understand why. There were a lot of things he didn’t understand, but he didn’t care. He had Peter and he had this other dog as part of his pack now. He just hoped that the other dog wouldn’t try to take his place away from him. It was his responsibility, his right, to feed Peter, to bring him the food. But today, just this once, he let the other dog give Peter meat. Even though the meat was cold, and there was no blood, it was safe to eat – he made sure of that. Peter seemed to enjoy it – but maybe because Peter needed to eat. But Peter trusted him, and he wouldn’t eat until Neal gave him the food. He just wished he had been more successful hunting since the deer. But Peter didn’t seem to mind – he let him play and sniff and mark the trees and bushes.

He wasn’t hungry, though, and the meat didn’t make him hungry. It smelled like something that had been dead for a long time. But Peter wanted him to eat. And he could no more disobey Peter than he could walk on his hind legs.


THE DESPAIR THAT SHROUDED HER DURING THE NIGHT DIDN’T LIFT WITH THE SUNRISE. She went through all of the motions, though. Drank the cup of tea June made for her, ate some toast, stared at the telephone and willed it to ring. She supposed that she should call Peter’s mother and father and let them know that their son was missing. She should call her own family, too. They’d be here in a heartbeat, to care for her, to take on her problems, to smother her with their well-meaning attention. But she wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow.

“Elizabeth?”

June looked at her, sorrow and concern filling her eyes.

She smiled at the older woman and was immensely grateful for everything she’d done for her.

“I have to go, for a little while. Will you be okay if Mozzie stays with you?”

Elizabeth looked around June’s shoulder and saw Neal’s friend standing by the doorway. He gave her a small, sad smile and she returned it. Both of them seemed to be on the verge of tears.

“I’ll be okay, June. Mozzie’s good company.”

June brushed a kiss against her cheek and gave her a tight hug. “I’ll be back tonight – you have my cell phone number, so call me if you need me.”

Elizabeth wanted to tell June that she didn’t need to keep watch over her, but she couldn’t make herself say the words. Just having another person in the house made the nights bearable.

She let June see herself out and sat on the couch with Satchmo’s head in her lap. Mozzie walked around the perimeter of the room, waving a handheld scanner. Satisfied that there were no bugs, he sat down next to her and moved his hand to pet the dog’s back, but his hand stopped a few inches above the fur. Elizabeth saw, but didn’t comment on the abortive gesture. A man was entitled to his quirks.

“You doing all right, Moz?”

He didn’t answer right away. “I think I am doing about the same as you are.”

“In other words, like crap and barely holding it together?”

“Pretty much.” She sighed and continued to stroke Satchmo’s head. Except for last night, she’d never discussed Peter and Neal with June. And even that wasn’t so much a discussion as it was giving voice to her despair. But Moz, he was different. Neal’s quirky friend was an endless source of fascination for her, and she had a soft spot for him. Elizabeth also respected his intelligence and valued his opinion. So she couldn’t help herself, she had to ask.

“What do you think happened to Neal and Peter?”

The look he gave her was startling in its intensity, but he didn’t answer right away.

“You know something, Moz?”

“Not precisely.”

“But you do have a theory?”

Moz didn’t say anything, but he looked like words were about to erupt out of him.

“Moz, please. Tell me.” She wondered if she was simply projecting the faintest of hopes on him.

“El…” Moz licked his lips and fiddled with his rings. “I have a theory, but it’s crazy. You’ll think I’m crazy.”

She kept quiet, not wanting to spook him.

“Did any of the Suits show you the final forensic reports?”

“No – I only saw the one that said that there were dog hairs inside Peter and Neal’s clothing. The one that Diana showed both of us on Thursday morning.”

Mozzie grimaced. “There was another lab report. The Lady Suit let me read it yesterday morning. It had the results of the DNA analysis.”

“And?”

“And it was bizarre, to say the least. The thing is – the DNA they found on Peter’s shoulder holster was both canine and human.”

“In the same spot?”

“Yeah.”

“Whose DNA was it?”

“Neal’s. It matched the DNA they extracted from the sample I gave them – hairs from his comb.”

“What did they do to him? To them?” Elizabeth could barely restrain her sob. She envisioned black-masked captors shoving Peter’s holster in Neal’s mouth, then giving it to a vicious dog to chew on.

“I don’t think anyone did anything to Neal and Peter.”

“What?” She was completely puzzled.

“What if…” Moz paused, as if he were afraid to go on.

“What if…what?”

“What if …” Moz took a deep breath. “What if Peter and Neal were turned into dogs?”

Elizabeth stopped obsessively petting Satchmo and looked at Mozzie. She blinked. “I don’t think I heard you correctly. Did you say, ‘What if Peter and Neal were turned into dogs?’ ”

Mozzie ducked his head and didn’t say anything.

“People don’t turn into animals, Mozzie.” Elizabeth wanted to scream at Moz. She didn’t.

“I know – I told you it sounds crazy, but when you look at all of the evidence...”

“There was no evidence – we don’t know what happened to them.” She felt the hysteria returning.

“El, El – there’s plenty of evidence. And it all points to something so bizarre that we almost have to dismiss it out of hand.”

She tried to calm herself down. “Okay. Let’s pretend that this is some vast government conspiracy that’s performing scientific experiments on my husband and his partner. What do you see that would prove that?”

“First, I don’t think it’s a vast government conspiracy – but we can discuss that in a moment.” Moz donned a pair of gloves and pulled files out of his bag and laid them out on the coffee table.

She couldn’t help but notice that these were official FBI files. “Where did you get these?”

His eyes kept shifting, looking around the room. “A monster delivered them.”

Elizabeth didn’t want to go there.

He drew her attention back to the folders. “Take a look at this picture.”

The photo was of a pair of pants lying in the middle of a road. The belt was still clasped, as if the body that was wearing the pants had simply melted away.

“And this one.”

As in the other picture, the clothing looked less like it had been ripped off but more like pulled away from a body. The front of the shirt was torn, but the sleeves were caught in the jacket and the cuffs were fastened. She recognized the cuff links – that was Neal’s shirt.

The last picture he showed her was the most mind-blowing – a shoe with a sock in it, and around the sock was Neal’s tracker. Again, it looked like the body had just melted away.

She looked back at the first picture – those were Neal’s pants. She was sure of it.

“What about Peter’s clothing?”

Moz hesitated. “That’s a different story altogether.”

“Show me, please.”

Mozzie arrayed almost a dozen photos across the table and handed her a magnifying glass. Elizabeth recognized the fabric that was scattered on the road. It was from one of Peter’s summer suits – a lightweight gray polyester blend. Something she loathed, but Peter refused to get rid of. She swallowed against the rising nausea. This suit – or what was left of it – was shredded. Like Neal’s, Peter’s pants still had the belt on, but they were ripped at the seams, held together only at the waistband. The jacket and the shirt were in tatters. Socks and shoes looked like they’d been flung across the road.

“What does this mean?”

“The forensics report says that the seams on Peter’s clothing – his pants, in particular – were burst, not ripped. The jacket and shirt were attacked by claws and teeth, but based on the tearing pattern, they were not torn by an external agent. Coupled with the dog fur found inside the clothes...” Moz stared at her. It wasn’t hard to figure out where he was going.

“Whatever tore the clothing was wearing it at the time.” She scrubbed her eyes. “You know that what you are suggesting is ludicrous in the extreme.”

“I know, but discarding the impossibility of it, it’s the only logical conclusion.”

She felt like she was simply grasping at straws – to believe in something positive, just because the likely alternative was too painful to accept. “You said you didn’t think this was a vast government conspiracy.”

“I know, hard as you may find it to believe – not everything is the result of the shady manipulations of the Power Elite. Sometimes there are even greater forces at work.”

Moz sounded so self-righteous that she couldn’t help but give a watery chuckle.

“Okay – what greater forces?”

Moz dove back into he bag and pulled out, of all things, an ancient copy of Edith Hamilton’s Mythology, flagged in dozens of places.

She listened, incredulous, as Moz went through myth after myth – most of which centered around the goddess Artemis and someone killing a sacred animal. Her head began to spin after a while.

“Moz, Moz – these are fairy tales. They aren’t real.”

He blinked at her. “Maybe. Maybe not. You know that Peter killed a deer.”

She nodded.

“The deer – it didn’t belong in a forest in Pennsylvania. It’s almost extinct, and it’s only found in the Middle East and some of the ‘Stans.”

“Maybe it escaped from a zoo – or it was someone’s pet. It wasn’t a goddess’ sacred animal.”

“Or maybe it was there for Peter and Neal to kill. Or not kill. Maybe they were transformed as punishment? Or a test?”

Elizabeth flung herself up and out of the couch. She paced around the living room, feeling like a madwoman caught in a play. “Okay, okay. Supposing that this is what happened – and I’m not saying I agree with you – where are they now?”

Mozzie pulled one more book out of his bag. The Incredible Journey. “Ever read it?”

She nodded. “Yeah, in junior high school.” She calmed down and whispered. “Do you think they are trying to come home?”

Moz nodded. “I think, as strange and as unlikely as it may be, that’s what’s happened.” He licked his lips. “I am a man of science. I don’t like the idea of chance or fate or unseen powers, but everything fits. And I need to keep hoping.”

Elizabeth whispered, “Because if you stop hoping...all you have left is despair.”