Author's note: Hello all! Soooo this is my first ever fanfic. I've been reading them for years and years, but have never had time to actually write one. My new job affords me oodles of free time, so I figured, what the hell. Mise well start one of my own. And since I think it is entirely unfair that we have to wait 'til JANUARY for new episodes, I've started my own spin-off of the current story line. It WILL be a multi-chapter story, probably reaching double digits in chapters. It WILL be a completed story as well, so if you're looking for:

-Peter/Neal brother/father moments

-good old Mozzie humor and his conspiracy theories

-hurt/comfort

-Neal/Sara

-motherly Elle

-Action/Suspense/drama

-and a healthy does of whumpage for our favorite crime fighting duo, then you're in luck.

This story will have it all!

This story picks up right after Peter phones Neal and tells him about Sam being his father. I see a ton of different ways that the writers could take the show. Here's mine :)

Enjoy!

Disclaimer! This story is written purely for entertainment purposes! White Collar and it's characters, while oober awesome, do not belong to me. Only the characters I made up for the sake of this story do :D

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

A strange mix of relief, joy, and anger roiled around inside of Neal, unsure of how to react to the sudden news that Peter had just relayed to him via phone. He stared at the older man before him, sitting in the iron-wrought chair on the veranda, newspaper in hand.

"That you're my father," the declaration fell from Neal's lips in an almost breathless manner as he awaited Sam's response.

After a moment of silence whereby Sam merely seemed to be mulling over the declaration as if him being Neal's father was suddenly news for him as well. "Your F.B.I. Friend tell you that?" he asked, gruffly, setting the newspaper on the table before climbing to his feet.

Neal couldn't believe it. Was Sam actually going to try and run from this? "He ran your DNA."

This bit of information seemed to irk something in the older man and his eyes turned cold. "The napkin..." he said, realization dawning on him as he recalled Neal tending to his wounds when he was rescued by the younger man.

Neal merely shrugged. "Got sick of waiting for answers."

"You shouldn't have done that."

"Why not? What are you trying to hide?"

Sam responded with a terse shake of his head before storming across the room to leave. Neal was right behind him.

"Sam!" he called, anxious, no, desperate for some answers. He reached for the older man's sleeve and pulled, halting him to a stop just in front of the door. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Glaring daggers at the young man, Sam shook his arm free. "To keep you safe!"

"Wha—..."

"It's always been to keep you safe," Sam reiterated. "If Agent Burke knows who I am, if he ran my DNA through the system, then it's not safe for me here anymore. It's not safe for you to be around me," he continued, expression softening in response to Neal's deer-in-the-headlights-look. "I told you earlier, the people after me don't know about you. I want to keep it that way."

Finding his voice, Neal replied, "I want to help you."

"No."

"Sam, I—..."

"No...Neal. Just please...no," Sam said, an almost pained look etched within his weathered features. He ran a heavy hand through his hair and opened the door. "Look, I'll be in touch. I need to do some reconnaissance—make sure no one's found out about you. Once I find out that you're identity is still safe, I'll come back, and explain absolutely everything to you."

"Wait," Neal called after his father. "What about you?"

"I've been fine looking after myself for all these years. I know how to shake a tail if one pops up. I'll be fine. It's you that I'm worried about. These people...the dirty cops and agents after me, after Ellen's locket...if they find out that you're my son, they'll use you as leverage. They won't hesitate to kill you, Neal."

The prospect of death didn't deter Neal. He had only just found his father, had only just found his means to answers. He wasn't ready to just let his father just walk out again. "Look, Peter knows about you and I. Let him help you. He can give you protection."

Sam shook his head in protest. "Too risky, you know that," he smirked. "Look at you, the great Neal Caffrey, getting all bent out of shape over his old man. I'd find it touching if the situation wasn't so dire."

Neal struggled to stifle is own petulant scowl. "This isn't funny. You walked out of my life for nearly thirty years, and now your back, only to leave again without giving me any explanation as to what the hell happened to drive you away in the first place!" Immediately he clamped up and scrubbed a hand down his face in attempt to calm himself. He rarely ever allowed himself to lose control. He didn't like the sort of person he became when he did—unsure, panic-driven, angry, mean, childish...a complete one-eighty from the cool, suave conman he projected to others.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "Just...hurry back, please. You owe me that, at least. You owe me some answers."

James nodded in agreement. "I know," he said, reaching out and placing a strong hand on Neal's shoulder. "Take care of yourself, kiddo."

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Peter trudged along the path from his car to his house and pushed the front door open, relieved to be home for the night. After spending the last few hours at the office thinking about Neal and the results of the DNA test that confirmed that Sam was indeed Neal's father, he had to admit that his head hurt from thinking. Thinking of how things would change between Neal and himself, how Neal would handle the news of his father, whether this new connection with Sam would place Neal in danger or not from the men pursuing Sam. So many thoughts, so many worries, and not enough sleep or caffeine.

As he hung up his coat and removed his shoes, he couldn't help but wonder how Neal was at the moment. His young friend had mentioned that Sam was over at his place at the time that Peter broke the news. Did Neal kick Sam out? Was is a happy reunion? Did Sam try to deny it?

He supposed that such thoughts were fruitless at such an hour. Surely he would hear about it in the morning when he picked Neal up on the way to the office.

Peter was just about to turn off the last of the lights—Elle and Satchmo having retired a few hours earlier—when there was a knock at the front door. A passing glance to his watch told him it was well past one in the morning. And, while he couldn't deny his surprise at seeing Neal Caffrey standing on his door-step, he couldn't help the tired smile that crossed his face at the sight of his tired consultant trying, but failing, to hide a yawn behind his hand.

Neal was dressed fashionable as always, Calvin-Klein catalog worthy, but it was the beginnings of shadows beneath his usually bright blue eyes that gave him away.

"Tough night?" Peter greeted, ushering the young man inside and out of the bitter Autumn cold.

Neal shrugged, "You could say that," he replied, slipping out of his own coat and hung it in the closet next to Peter's. "Thanks for the bombshell, by the way," he added, tone oozing nothing but bitter sarcasm.

Peter raised his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, you're the one that submitted evidence with the request to run a DNA test. I was just delivering the results."

Neal rolled his eyes and practically fell into the couch with a heavy sigh, remaining silent enough for the agent to observe him. There was a familiar expression on his partner's face, one that he'd been seeing more and more of lately, ever since Neal had returned for paradise and Ellen was killed. It was a look of pained desperation, a need for answers, anxiety. Peter had to wonder if he was seeing more of the real Neal Caffrey.

"You wanna talk about it?" Peter asked, taking a seat in his recliner.

"Not really," Neal replied, gazing absentmindedly into space as if he were trying to transport himself to another place. It was typical Neal style—clamp up and keep his worries and emotions to himself.

"Nope. You don't get to plead the fifth of this one. It's one in the morning. Something possessed you to walk over here in the cold. What was it? Did you tell Sam about the results? Is that what this little visit is about?"

Neal shrugged.

Peter couldn't help it. He was tired. And when he was tired, his patience ran thin. "Damnit Caffrey. Look, I know that we're still on a bit shaky ground when it comes to trust, and I get that. I messed up. But you said you'd have faith in me if I had faith in you," he started, not entirely certain where he was going with his middle of the night pep talk. How he wished Elle was awake. She was oh so much better with this sort of stuff. "Look at me, Neal," his voice was stern, demanding compliance.

Neal's weary gaze tracked towards Peter's until crystal blue locked with warm brown.

"You're my partner, Neal. Partner's have each-other's backs. I trust you enough to have mine. Please trust me enough to have yours. I only want to help." Peter hoped that Neal would understand the sincerity of his words. It wasn't often that he professed aloud his faith and trust in the ex-con, after all.

A momentary silence fell between the two, during which Peter held his breath in anticipation for the young man's response.

"Sam...well, James..." Neal started, clearing his throat. "He didn't deny it," he added.

Peter raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh? What did he say?"

Silence...

"Neal?"

Again, Neal cleared his throat. "He was angry, at first, when he found out that we had his DNA ran through this system. Something about it being dangerous and would raise just the flags he was trying to avoid," Neal explained. "He's worried that whoever is after him will make the connection that I'm his son and use me against him. He left, said he'd be in touch, that he had to do some reconnaissance to assure that my identity remains hidden. He doesn't want me being used as leverage against him." He snuggled further into the plush cushions of the couch and sighed. "Peter, I'm a convicted felon. My DNA's already in the system. What if someone makes the connection?"

Peter's heart skipped a beat in panic over the sudden revelation, though he did well to keep his expression neutral. Clearly his friend was worrying. He didn't want to fuel that worry by joining in on the panic that Neal's life could very well fall under attack. He would have to pay the F.B.I. Databases a visit and submit a request that Neal's files be placed under lock and key for the time being. "It'll be alright. You've given no one any reason to make a connection between you and your father. Sam...James," he corrected, "He's doing you a favor by disappearing for a bit. You understand that, right? He's protecting you."

"I know," Neal mumbled. "I just...It's been nearly thirty years..."

"And you wanted some answers," Peter stated, knowing his partner well.

Neal nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "He said he'd tell me everything when this mess is over."

"Well, there you go," Peter smiled, clapping his hands together before he climbed to his feet. "Everything'll work out."

Neal offered his own tired smile and gave a weak nod. "Yeah..."

"C'mon," Peter said, gesturing towards the stairs. "It's late. Take the guestroom for the night. There's some of your sweats and a t-shirt from last time you passed out over case-files here. We'll swing by June's on the way to the office so you can change. Sound good?"

Neal's smile grew as he rose to his own feet. "Thanks, Peter."

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Dennis Flynn wasn't an imposing young man. Fairly average in appearance with short cropped, brown hair and steely gray eyes, he could easily disappear in a crowd of random, ordinary looking people. Not that he needed an extraordinary appearance to put him above a crowd. Not to say that he didn't have his fair share of muscle and agility, but being the only son of an Irish mob boss granted even the most ordinary of people power and authority beyond their wildest dreams that not even good looks could buy.

He sat, nursing a glass half-filled with whiskey, while a black and white scene played out on the big screen television splayed out across the wall before him in his private study of his mother's estate—an estate gifted to him at the time of his mother's demise some twenty years prior. Not even the feds knew that it belonged to the leaders of the Flynn organization.

As the footage played out and Flynn watched himself leave the dank warehouse room, leaving James tied and bloody to the rickety chair in the center of the empty room, another figure, tall and lean, entered the room with the practiced grace of one experienced sneaking in and out of places.

Intrigued, Dennis took a swig of his drink and reclined further back into the plush recliner. "And who might this bright eyed mouse be?" he wondered out loud, to no one in particular.

The scene continued to play out, and as the rescue carried on on the screen, Flynn's smirk grew. "It would seem that James made a friend..."

Just then, a small, nervous-looking man entered the lavishly decorated room. He drew near and handed Flynn an envelope of papers. "Let us hope here in rests some answers as to the identity of our little hero, shall we?"

The mousy, nervous man responded with a hasty nod of his head. His behavior alone around Dennis served as testament to the young man's authority. "Aye, sir."

"Our little mouse left behind his own fair share of DNA when he stole James from me. Caught up in the moment of rescuing James, Blue Eyes was none too careful in covering his own tracks," Flynn said, opening the envelope. He swiftly removed the few papers from within and read them over. If possible, the snake-like grin on his face grew even longer.

"They were hair samples I had collected from the scene. Well, a few of mine were as well, but you know," he shrugged, casually. Already there was an air of victory swirling around the Irishman. "The DNA match does not lie. Blue Eyes, our little mouse, is Neal Bennett, James' only son and child."

"Wh...what are you going to do, sir?"

Flipping open his cell phone, Dennis dialed a number. "You may leave," he muttered towards the nervous little man, whom himself wasted no time departing from the room.

It took only a moment for the call to connect before an overly chirpy, feminine voice responded on the other end. "Federal Bureau of Investigation, New York Organized Crime Division."

"Put me through to Special Agent Robert Connors," Flynn requested. A light chuckle laced his words.

"One moment, please," the receptionist on the other end replied.

There was a brief moment of random beeps before a gruff voice spoke. "Special Agent Connors."

"Robert," Flynn greeted. "I found our key to the locket."

"Dennis? Shit, you know better than to call me at this number," Connors sounded flabbergasted on the other end of the line. "If someone—..."

"He has a son, Connors," Dennis cut the flustered agent off. "James, he has a son. I thought that you would be interested in knowing who it is, as he resides in the very building you work in."

Silence...

"He's currently going by Neal Caffrey," Dennis took the silence as sign to continue. "He was born as Neal Bennett."

"Caffrey? He's in White Collar," Connors confirmed. "You mentioned the locket..."

"Yes, the locket that bitch, Ellen, hid before I killed her? Yes, that locket. I'm thinking we could use Blue Eyes—..."

"Blue eyes?"

"Caffrey," Dennis replied. "He has the most extraordinary pair of blue eyes I've ever seen. Perhaps when I'm through with him, I'll keep them as trophies," he smirked, draining the last of his whiskey.

"You think Caffrey knows where the locket is?"

"No," Dennis replied. "But I'm bettin' his old man will sing like a canary once he finds out we have his little boy."

"And if James doesn't? If James doesn't even know where the locket is, then what?"

Dennis shrugged, casually, "Then at least I get some small token of revenge on James, through his son of course, for sending my old man away. No one double crosses my family and gets away with it."

Another momentary lapse of silence drifted between the two, during which the shuffling of papers could be heard on Connors' side of the phone.

"What do you want me to do? Caffrey is serving out a four year prison sentence as a C.I. for White Collar. He's pretty close with his handler, Peter Burke. They make a hell of a team. If Neal goes missing, Peter won't just let that slide. He'll look for him until he finds him," Connors explained. "You better be careful with this one, Flynn."

"Oh, I will. I won't need long with Caffrey. I trust that you can distract Burke and his lackeys long enough for me to work on my end?" Dennis replied, rewinding the footage back enough to watch Neal enter the room and free James again. "Bennett Junior and I have an important appointment."

To be continued...

Thoughts? Questions? Complaints? Reviews? You know what to do :)