A/N: This is my first story in the White Collar fandom, and hopefully I get to finish it. Everything has been planned out — I just have to finish writing it! Prologue to this story is basically an AU of 6x06. Spoiler alert!

PROLOGUE

One year after Neal Caffrey's death

Mozzie made his way to DeKalb Avenue, trying to his best to be on time and help Mrs. Suit feed little Neal and regale him with stories of his namesake — the Disney versions, of course. He walked briskly, stopping only when he spotted a wooden box on the Burkes' front steps.

He cautiously drew nearer, taking his time and mentally readying himself in case it was some sort of explosive. He reached the front steps and gingerly took the box in his hands. Too light to be explosives, to heavy to be a smoke bomb — but just the right weight to be a bottle of wine. He gently removed the top panel and was greeted by a bottle of Bordeaux nestled in packing straw.

Mozzie inhaled sharply. There was only one mutual acquaintance of his and the Burkes who would send a message like this: Neal Caffrey. Neal Caffrey had been shot a year ago. Mozzie had seen him with his own eyes. Mozzie had cried and exhausted every possible conspiracy theory. The body was real. The DNA was real. There was no choice but to accept it and move slowly, painfully, through the stages of grief.

And yet…

Mozzie turned the bottle over in his hands, looking for some kind of code or note etched or written into the glass or the brown label. Both he and the Burkes knew that a Bordeaux bottle meant goodbye for Neal — Kate had used it on him when she disappeared. Some part of him was jealous that Neal had left a message for the Burkes but none for him — he who had practically been his friend longer than Peter. Then he realized that Neal did send him a message.

The sudden flare of jealousy resided immediately as he absentmindedly brushed a free hand against his shirt pocket, the other hand holding the Bordeaux. Inside his shirt pocket was the Lady, the playing card that Neal had given him just before the heist, just before his death.

It was almost as if he knew.

Mozzie exhaled slowly, resigned to the fact that the bottle was just that — a goodbye. Until he saw the cork.

701. Just before his death, Neal had cryptically told him that he needed some things to be placed into safekeeping from the Panthers and Mozzie had directed him to a storage lot where old shipping containers were dumped until some use could be found for them. Neal had thanked him and disappeared for the rest of the day.

Mozzie bet that 701 was a number of a shipping container in that lot. It could hold answers to everything — all the little questions that had nagged at Mozzie from the very start. Again, jealousy reared his ugly head when he realized that Neal had no intention of telling him, but he had left a clue for Peter. But then again, Mozzie's rational side won out when he realized that Neal may have calculated that Peter would share it with him anyway, if he figured it out.

He gently placed the bottle back in the wooden box and replaced the top panel, giving it one final pat and straightening himself, smoothing down his shirt before climbing up the steps and ringing the Suits' doorbell.

The next day, Mozzie made his way to the storage lot and stood in front of the shipping container. He made quick work of the standard lock and opened the container's doors slowly, trying to minimize the creaking noise of the rusted metal. He made his way inside, observing the wooden boxes which probably held Caffrey original paintings, done by Neal over his years in New York. He saw the mannequin at the far end, staring eerily at him. He fingered the bullet hole in the mannequin's chest and his eyes slowly roved over the adjacent wall where a corkboard had been installed.

The poison of the puffer fish. The effects of this. A hired doctor and EMT responder. And finally, a year-old newspaper with the new Louvre security upgrade splashed across the front page.

And then he knew. He, Mozzie, with all his paranoia and suspicions and conspiracy theories, had been right. This was a con — Neal Caffrey's greatest con! As a professional conman himself, he could marvel at the intricacies of the operation: the actual dependence on Keller to shoot him, the timing between the self-administration of the poison and the arrival of the EMTs, and the effort given to fool his own two closest friends.

As Neal's friend, all his pent-up anger and frustrations built up until his hands were shaking. He balled his hands into fists and slammed them onto the table. Why hadn't Neal told him? Why hadn't Neal let him in? Why did Neal leave him behind?!

Well, no matter. He would simply follow, as good friends were wont to do, he thought sarcastically. Glancing around, he knew that Peter would eventually find this place and want to do the same. He grabbed a lighter from the table and swiftly set the newspaper alight, stomping out the ashes and leaving black smudges on the floor. Neal had done his hardest to ensure that they thought he was dead — there was no reason to let Peter know where he actually was. It would only cause unnecessary pain.

And besides, Mozzie thought selfishly, Peter had done enough for Neal. Where he and Neal would go, how they would live, Peter could never follow. All his efforts trying to lead Neal to the straight, legal path would all be in vain. No, better to let Peter know that Neal was alive and leave it at that. Peter could try, but Peter would never find them.

He took one final glance around to make sure that there was no other evidence leading to Paris and walked out of the shipping container, leaving behind the Lady. This was a new chapter in their lives — leaving New York behind and everyone, everything in it.

He closed the doors gingerly and replaced the lock, making sure that there were no signs of entry. He walked out of the lot, mentally making plans for his disappearance.

Which was why he didn't hear the footsteps behind him or the silenced shot that hit him in the base of his spine. He felt the ground rushing towards him, heard footsteps fading away and a car pulling up nearby.

Peter's worried face and frantic voice yelling into his cellphone for a 911 response were the last things he heard and saw before he blacked out.

The first things he heard were the steady beeping of machines nearby and his first sensation was of scratchy sheets and a dull pain in his right hand. IV connection, his sluggish brain supplied. I'm in a hospital. His eyes fluttered open and he vaguely registered the presence of someone else beside his bed.

"Hey Moz," Elizabeth said gently, squeezing his other hand in her own.

"Mrs. Suit," Mozzie acknowledged, turning his head to face her and finding his throat dry. "Shouldn't you be with baby Suit?"

"We got him a babysitter. I was so worried when Peter called. Oh, here, don't try to speak so much yet." Elizabeth held a cup of ice chips and placed one gently in his mouth. "This should help."

Mozzie nodded his thanks and let the ice melt in his mouth, the cool water running down his dry throat. Elizabeth let go of his hand and walked to the door, opening it and gesturing to someone outside. "He's awake, hon."

Peter entered the room and smiled at Mozzie. "Mozzie, how're you feeling?"

"It's Theodore Winters," Mozzie murmured. "Somehow, I didn't plan on getting shot twice and ending up back in the system again, but other than that…"

He froze. His body had taken time to wake up and now he realized that something was wrong.

"I can't feel my legs. Why can't I feel my legs?" He was getting more frantic by the second. Try as he might, he couldn't move a single muscle, not even wiggle his toes.

Peter and Elizabeth exchanged a mournful look. It was Elizabeth who spoke. "Moz, we can get the doctor in here if you'd like him to explain…"

"No, tell me now," Mozzie interrupted. eyes still focused on his perpetually still legs under the covers. "Why can't I move my legs?" His eyes were filling with tears. Peter moved closer.

"The bullet hit you in the spine, Moz. You were in surgery for six hours. The doctors were able to save you and get the bullet out, but…"

"…but I'm paralyzed from the waist down." Mozzie finished. tears running down his face.

"I'm sorry," Peter said sadly, sitting down beside the bed and putting a hand on Mozzie's shoulder. Elizabeth made her way to the other side and took Mozzie's hand in her own. "I wish I could have been there sooner," Peter lamented. "I didn't even see the shooter. There are no cameras in that area — no way at all to track him. I'm sorry, Mozzie."

"I didn't see him either," Mozzie replied brokenly. "Thank you, for saving me. I'd — I'd like to be alone now, if you don't mind."

Peter and Elizabeth's eyes met and agreed silently. "Of course, Moz," Elizabeth agreed quietly. "You know to call if you need anything. I'll be back tomorrow with your care package." She gave him a quick kiss on the forehead. "You're going to be okay. We'll be here." Mozzie nodded his thanks and watched as she exited the room.

Peter watched his wife leave and turned back to face Mozzie. "Mozzie, I feel terrible for asking this now…but I went to the container. I know now. Everything. Did—did you?" Peter's voice was dangerously close to breaking, but his eyes held on to hope.

Mozzie steeled himself for the final lie. If he couldn't get out of New York and ever follow Neal, then he would protect his escape for the rest of his life. Ironic, that his own greatest con would be protecting Neal.

"No, I didn't." He turned to look at Peter in the eyes, willing him to believe that it was the truth.

It worked. Peter sighed and leaned back in the chair. "Do you know where he is?" His voice was still eager, still believing that Neal had confided in Mozzie his location. With a pang of jealousy, Mozzie wished that Neal had. But he couldn't let Peter know that. Neal had gotten his freedom and paid the price — Mozzie would make sure that it wasn't all in vain.

"No, I don't." Mozzie broke eye contact and returned to contemplating his useless legs. He would need a specialized wheelchair. He'd build it himself if he had to, after a few visits to old friends…

"If you don't mind, Peter, I would like to be alone now." He infused his voice with every tone of the wounded invalid, needing time to come to terms with his condition.

Peter stood. "I understand. I'm sorry, Mozzie. I really am." With one last pat on Mozzie's shoulder, he left the room.

In the quiet of the hospital room, Mozzie gave himself time to grieve and cry, for himself and for the friend he would now not be able to follow.

"Be safe, Neal," he whispered to no one in particular. "Wherever you go, be safe — and steal a few paintings for me."

A/N: I hope to get the next chapter posted soon. Cheers!