Thanksgiving. The young man on the sofa sniffled and wiped a stray tear away. He should be over this. He should be used to being alone for the day. It wasn't really as if the day was much different than any other day. He didn't have to work so it just meant he spent a few extra days isolated. At the moment he didn't feel he had much to be thankful for. Every story had to have a villain. Neal found it ironic, sadly ironic, that Peter was shunning him, making him 'think about things' with the Fowler incident yet was taking Fowler's stories at face value and excusing Fowler's crap because the man's wife had been killed. Moz had warned him of a day like this. He'd warned Neal that when it came to a 'push and shove' the Suits cut different rules for themselves then they did for the Cons. He'd cried to Moz. His mentor and friend had been sympathetic but his words had carried an air of 'I told you so'. He couldn't hate Peter though. It would be as foreign to him as if someone had told him to quit breathing oxygen. No, he turned off those thoughts. It was simply fate, karma and all his fault. Every story needed a protagonist and an antagonist. He'd been scripted at a young age to be the antagonist and he seriously doubted it would ever change.

He got up and got dressed in a sweater and jeans. He wasn't going to stay. Peter had pointedly told him he wasn't invited. He didn't want to impose, but he had found Peter's favorite wine and felt Peter should have it to enjoy. He hoped one day he could figure out how to get Peter to forgive him without dying. He rather liked living, even on shitty days like this. He put on his tennis shoes. His fingers brushed the anklet and Neal winced. It didn't physically hurt. Well, it did once in a while when the skin under it got red and inflamed but no, the pain was psychological. It was a tangible reminder that he and Peter could never truly be friends, the anklet was the physical sign of the psychological Rubicon between them. Peter was the white hat and he was the black. Moz kept telling him that a nd how there would never be a happy ending for people like them. Deep down, Neal had ceased believing in happy endings long ago.

He pulled his shoes on and walked to the mirror. He carefully assembled the outward mask he wore. Neal wouldn't leave the apartment until every piece of the mask was firmly in place. Bad things happened if he failed in his ritual. He was checking the lights for the third time when he heard Samantha scream. He felt his blood run cold. He felt the surge of adrenaline at the terror. He didn't think. He grabbed the present and dashed down the stairs. Part of his brain that sounded suspiciously like Moz was warning him he didn't finish his ritual. The other part that sounded like Peter told him he was doing the right thing but for Pete's sake be careful. He quirked up a grin at hearing Peter saying Pete's sake in his head.

Neal raced down the stairs, seeing a panic June heading to the door. "June, no. Let me check on it." Neal called. He hit the bottom in a slight skid but recovered his natural cat-like grace quickly.

"Oh Neal, it's Sammy. She's out with Bugsy and those damn Rottweilers from down the block are loose. They are coming for her and she's terrified of them"

"Let me go grab Sammy and Bugsy. No offense but I can move a little faster." He looked down at the package. "Hold this for me. It's for Peter. He can't have thanksgiving without it." Neal steeled himself. The dogs scared him too. They had the whole neighborhood in terror. They were wild and vicious and their owner seemed amused by whatever they did. Neal had taken to walking Bugsy with the situation. He'd been needed to pick up Bugsy and dead sprint to the house for three times in the last two weeks. He flung open the door.

He was more scared inside then when he confronted Fowler. Each one of the behemoths outweighed Sammy. They were growling and stalking up to her. She had Bugsy clutched closely to her. The little dog was squirming and whimpering. Sammy was frozen like a statue and screaming. The noises and the smell of fear were adding to the other dogs excitement and agitation. Neal ran forward and scooped up Sammy and Bugsy. He knew his fast movements would mark him as a possible aggressor and a new target. He would put himself In that position gladly to save a child and he was also attached to Bugsy. Bugsy could annoy him sometimes and make him wish the little dog shared Satchmoe's disposition, but well he was Neal's little buddy and he was June's pride and joy – her little four-pawed child. Sammy meant the world to Neal. Through Sammy he could experience the childhood that had alluded him. No way in hell were these two jerkwads of the canine race going to hurt either one. He sprinted with the two to the door, his heart pounding loudly in his chest to hear the sounds of movement behind him.

He reached the door but tripped on the bottom step. He shoved Sammy and Bugsy through the open door as he felt one grab a hold of his leg. "June! Shut the door and call 911. Don't either of you come out until then."

"What about you?"

"I know a few things about this stuff from prison. I should be able to keep passable until they arrive. Just shut and bolt the door." Neal felt a wave of pain shoot up his right leg. "NOW!" Neal had dealt with guard dogs. There had also been a few guards that loved to sick the dogs on the prisoners when they were moving them from cell to cell. It hadn't taken long to see that for the majority, the purpose had nothing to do with prisoner management or crowd control. It was done for amusement by the majority. The more terrified a prisoner was of the dogs, the more visits they received.

He curled to a ball, putting his arms up to cover his face and his neck. He bit his lip to keep from screaming. It was terrifying to feel the biting and the tearing. He could feel the jeans shredding and blood flowing down unabated. The dogs were stirred on further by the sight, smell, and taste of the blood. They were frenzied, biting and pulling at Neal like he was a live action chew toy. He felt them begin to clamp down, shake, and drag him. He knew though he could not pass out and live. He had to endure to survive.

He turned his mind away from the feelings in his body. He chose to imagine the Burke's house. He could smell El's turkey seasonings wafting from the kitchen. She was whistling, her hair tied back in a pony-tail. She was wearing her red sweater and gray slacks, covered with a white lace apron. She was so happy. Neal knew El loved being a domestic taking care of her friends and family. He could see Peter putting the finishing touches on his snack mix, looking sheepish as El slapped his palm and warned him to leave some for the guests.

Peter would be wearing his jeans and one of his old college sweatshirts. He'd have snuck on those sneakers that looked to be held together by the sheer will of their owner. He would be stirring it for the finally turn in the microwave. In a minute he would go to the living room and begin to sit next to Satchmo. He would do his Thanksgiving ritual of watching football from the early hours of the morning until late at night. In a happier time, Neal would be sitting next to Peter nursing a beer and listening with half an ear to Peter attempting to explain to him the science and nuance of football. He was determined that this was some male bonding ritual Neal must partake in and master. Normally Neal wouldn't give two figs for football, but he's give all the figs in the world for Peter so he would put up with the lessons. Peter was a mix between the caring father and the teasing prankish older brother Neal had never had.

He felt the dogs' hot breath near his face. It seemed they were sniveling and growling right into his ear. He couldn't suppress a loud scream of pain as one of the dogs grabbed his ear and bit. He felt half of it torn off and felt warm blood run down the side of his face. He felt another bite into his hair and into his scalp. The dog was pulling and shaking. It was dislodging his scalp and the pain was agonizing. He wanted to pass out, to be in a place where he could no longer feel or hear. The dogs had ceased to see him as a person and he was simply a large chew toy. He began to doubt his bravado to June. He felt tears leak out. He was seeing the very real possibility that he could get mauled to death. He felt the dogs each grab an appendage and begin to drag him. He felt a wave of relief to hear the sound of sirens. He worked on focusing on salvation and not the feeling of being shredded apart.

He felt the dogs roll him. He could feel the tail of one whack him repeatedly. It was a new level of fear to sense that the dogs were enjoying this. He meant little to most of the human race, now he meant little to nothing to members of the animal kingdom. Peter and El had given him a taste of meaning something to someone and he'd been stupid and blown it. He sadly conceded that like so many other things in like the reward wasn't worth the cost. He felt the dog's snap and move his arms like kindling. His last thought before he felt one seize his throat was that he didn't want Peter to blame himself or to feel guilty. It warmed him to give those last thoughts to Peter and surrender them instead of selfishly retaining them. He gave into the siren's song and fell into the black swimming pool of oblivion.