A/N: Shauna is technically a Mary Sue. I just hope she's a decently written one. Her episodes will continue in a series of one-shots as long as my addiction to White Collar lasts, which will probably be until the show ends, which will hopefully be never. Rated T just in case. Will never be slash. Neal, Peter, and the rest of the gang do not belong to me, but to the brilliant writers of a brilliant show. This chapter has mild spoilers through Season 1, Episode 11.

Someone knocked on the door. Neal froze, his eyes darting about, and then he shoved a book in her hand. "Stay here. I've got to answer this."

She brought the open book to her face and held it there. She couldn't see the door, which meant their visitor couldn't see her, but she heard everything. "Hey, what are you doing here? I mean..."

Another pair of footsteps entered the room, and then the door shut. "Elizabeth decided it was time to get the house painted. The whole place smells toxic enough to kill."

"Uh-huh." Neal could be quite the non-conversationalist when he wanted to be.

"So I thought I'd come over here."

"I don't remember..."

"Su casa es mi casa, remember?" The new footsteps walked to the fridge.

"That's not what I said." There was an edge to Neal's voice. "Do you want me to get you a hotel? I can do that. You'd be sleeping on the couch here, and..."

"I don't mind the couch. It's better than feeling like I'm going to be poisoned to death in my own bedroom." The refrigerator door opened and closed, and then the footsteps headed towards the table. Towards the couch.

She pulled the book closer to her face, as if that was going to hide her entire body.

"But what if..." Neal trailed off.

She pulled the book down and made eye contact with the suit who had barged in without warning. He looked old at first, but then she decided it was stress that made him look that way. And he was definitely not smiling when he asked, "How old are you?"

She blinked. It was not the question she'd expected, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Neal shrug. Couldn't hurt to answer this one truthfully. "Sixteen."

"Sixteen!" The suit exploded, and he whirled back to Neal. Gone was the congenial tone of a guy coming to sleep on the couch. This guy was first and foremost a suit. "Neal, you've got to be kidding! I've turned a blind eye to a lot of stuff, but this – this is statutory rape!"

She sat up on the couch as Neal stared at the visitor. "What? Peter, I..."

"She's sixteen!"

"I didn't..."

The agent took a step towards Neal, his hands digging in his pockets for something. Handcuffs? "I've had it with your excuses!"

Neal's eyes were wide with innocence – not that his expressions were ever the best sign of his honesty. He held his hands up in mild surrender, but she could see his eyes darting about the room, marking escape routes. If it came to that. "Peter, I did not touch her. Seriously. I promise. That would be..."

"You promise." The suit – Peter – laughed wryly, but he seemed mollified for the moment and turned back to the couch. His eyes met hers. "Then why are you here? Don't you know he's a felon? Did he tell you that? Did he? Did he?"

Behind him, Neal was combining exasperation and innocence into one single eye-roll.

She met Peter's eyes. "He did. He told me."

"But you fell for him anyway."

"I did not fall for him." She tried to keep the disgust out of her face but didn't quite succeed. "No way."

Peter pressed his lips together. "Don't worry. He does that to everybody. What's your name?"

She hesitated just long enough to see Neal's nod, then smiled. "Shauna. Shauna Caffrey."

Peter froze.

Behind him, Neal raised his eyebrows and shoved his hands in his pockets, stepping forward. "Peter, let me introduce you to my little sister. Shauna, this is Peter Burke."

She grinned. Neal grinned. Peter Burke scowled, then stuck out his hand. "Let's start over. I'm Agent Burke. You better tell me that you're some random girl Neal picked up at a nightclub-

"I do not pick up random girls at nightclubs," interrupted Neal coldly.

"He has more class than that," Shauna told Peter.

"Oh he does, does he?" Peter did not look convinced, and she didn't really blame him. But then he shrugged. "So where did you meet Neal, Shauna...Doe?"

She wracked her brain for the surname on her current license. It had changed over the years. Jones, Mitchell, Davis. "Simpson. I'm Shauna Simpson. I met Neal in Central Park, and I'm eighteen."

"What was wrong with twenty-one?"

And as Peter looked genuinely curious, Shauna answered gave him an honest answer. "I only have one license right now. It says I'm eighteen, and Neal won't fix it for me. Or," she added, glaring at her brother but very much enjoying the horrified expression on Peter's face, "make me another one."

"Underage drinking and all that," said Neal, shrugging as if things like laws were of great importance in his world. "Wouldn't be right."

"Of course not," said Peter, shaking his head. He looked back at Shauna. "Nice to meet you."