Author's note:

Slightly AU, although I tried to stay as close to cannon as possible. The ages and timeline are as follows:

Neal took off for NYC around the age of 16/17, where he and Mozzie became fast friends. Neal got caught by Peter around the age of 20. Neal escaped from prison by 21, was recaptured, and later in the same year released into White Collar custody. Peter is in his mid 40s. I chose this AU timeline because this means that Peter really is old enough to be Neal's father. At the end of season 4, when Neal blurts out to Sam that "Peter is more of a father to me than you ever were!" I said I little "aww yisss!" because I ship fatherPeter!sonNeal (can you refer to a 'ship where it's nonsexual? Don't know if I've seen the term used that way….)

I started this little story when I was wrapping up season 3 and starting season 4. I made some jumps that I found later actually came to pass. Minor Spoilers for Season 5 Peter is the head of the White Collar division. Diana and Jones have both been promoted as well, heading up their own respective teams. Neal has yet to be indebted to The Dutchmen (he's in jail still), and he's still desperately trying to stay on the path of reformation. Assume Peter's promotion came without any of the Senator Pratt debacle, and that's the alternate universe where this story is nestled…

One final note: I am toying with doing a completely gen series that introduce Neal's backstory while he and Peter continue to solve new cases….but I haven't finished season 5 yet. Once I finish the rest of the season—and wrap up my Harry Potter stories (sincerest apologies, it's been one helluva year)—I will reassess all the White Collar questions regarding the personal history of the infamous Neal Caffrey. If they have not yet been answered, well, the plot bunnies might come roaring to life. Please let me know if a "Neal's History" series (sans spanking, I'd be completely cannon) is something you'd want to read.

Anyhow, that's where I'm coming from, enjoy this little story for what it is….Much thanks to M who asked me to write it. I enjoyed the father/son with a spanking scene challenge and I hope it exceeds your expectations

Reeeeaaaaly sorry I got long winded with this author's note. Let's begin, shall we?

Neal stepped off the elevators and into the bullpen, a jaunty saunter in his step. He flipped his fedora into his inbox and set his cup of coffee on the edge of his desk while quietly surveying the atmosphere. There was a quiet hum this morning; the agents seemed unusually tense.

"Diana! How was your weekend?" Neal slid into his chair, unbuttoning the bottom button on his suit jacket.

"Caffrey." Diana greeted him with barely a nod. She continued to flip frantically through the stack of loose papers on her desk.

Neal, brow wrinkling in suspicion, stood up, hoping for a better view of the jumbled papers Diana was determinedly shoving into various blue folders.

"All right! Let's go!" At the sound of Peter Burke's voice, Neal's gaze involuntarily snapped up to where his FBI 'handler' was standing, imposing, outside his office.

Diana stood and scooped up the mess of folders and papers. She hurried toward the conference room, joining the small cluster of the other agents in the White Collar Crimes Division. Neal followed, curious. It was unlike Peter to have a large case and not immediately call his confidential informant.

Neal surreptitiously flicked a paperclip at Jones' coffee, hoping to lighten the mood. Jones pointedly ignored him. Neal pulled another paperclip out of his pocket and after a second to aim, flicked the paperclip into Jones' coffee. He was rewarded with a snicker from Diana and a glare from Jones. Grinning, Neal pulled another paperclip from his pocket to continue his fusillade, but stilled when Peter walked into the room.

"What's up, boss?" Neal reached for a folder, and carefully tucked the paperclip over the stiff blue cover.

Peter furrowed his eyebrows at Neal, as if to scold him for the paperclips. Neal smiled guiltily, earning an eye-roll from the exasperated agent. "Jones, go ahead." Peter motioned for his senior agent to begin the power point presentation.

Jones fumbled with the remote. A crisp, color portrait suddenly filled the screen.

"Fuck!" Neal froze, eyes widening. He hadn't even realized he'd cursed aloud. Peter, however, noticed. Peter noticed everything.

Jones took a deep breath and started on his case details. "Saint Louis native, Frank Ammon, was recently seen casing the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He's on their no-access list." Jones glanced at his notes. "Given that he attempted stealing one of their Matisse paintings a few years ago, this isn't a surprise."

Peter was watching Neal, expecting him to interject a witty comment or show up Jones' level of knowledge regarding the thief. However, Neal had hastily covered his initial shock with a tight swallow and was keeping his face schooled to stillness. He was pouring over the blue folder, and praying that Peter would not ask him to consult on this case.

Any other case. Any other suspect. But Neal couldn't do this—he couldn't face Ammon again.

"Which painting?" Diana asked, momentarily distracting Peter from his study of Neal.

"Um…." Jones hurried flipped through his notes. "I think it was 'Green Stripe?' Does that matter?" He clicked a button the remote, and the screen changed to a blurry security footage video. Peter gave a slow nod when Neal finally opened his mouth to contribute.

"Green Stripe was of Mattise's wife. He probably tried to steal The Young Sailor Number Two. And yes. It matters. Ammon collects art of pretty, young men." Neal had spoken out of reflex, almost against his own wishes—he didn't want to explain how he knew Ammon's tastes. He didn't want to feel Peter's heavy gaze as he analyzed and categorized this new information about Neal's past.

Jones glared at being one-upped on his own case. He mashed the remote again, hoping to cut off any further art lecturing by Neal. "Okay, so, what we have here is a list of known associates—"

Neal stood up suddenly, cutting of Jones mid-sentence. "Excuse me, I'll be right back. I need to get, that thing, in my desk, just a sec…." Neal threaded his way through the agents and chairs and around the giant conference table, mumbling excuses. He tilted his head so that his chocolate colored hair would shield his eyes from Peter, as he slid by his boss. Peter's hand shot out, but he stopped himself from grabbing Neal's elbow. He let him leave, watching him with heavy concern until Neal stepped onto the elevator.

Jones, at this point resigned to continual interruptions, continued his case file summary. "Ammon is staying at the Mark."

"A few blocks away from the Met?" It was a question, but Diana's tone made it a statement.

"Yes. So far he hasn't done anything except, perhaps, skip out on his parole. We're waiting on the report from Saint Louis PD."

Peter cleared his throat, shaking his head to distract himself from his CI's suspicious behavior. "No, we've spoken with his parole officer. He's been given special dispensation due to a death in the family. Still, he's met with several known criminal associates, and we believe he's planning something big."

Jones, relieved that his boss wasn't angry with his haphazardly prepared presentation, added, "Yes, and the Met is having a Matisse exhibit this week. Both sailor paintings will be there." He held up his phone, and added with a tentative smile, "Google."

Peter took a gulp of his coffee. "How do you want to handle it, Jones?"

"I say bring him in for questioning. While we pick him up from the hotel we can plant a bug, see if we can't get any information that way."

"Direct, aggressive, I like it." Diana closed her folder. "Should I go collect him, boss?"

"Wait for the warrant; I want to be able to search his room when you get him. But you and Jones may each pick a team and start surveillance, one at the Met, and one take the van to watch the hotel." Peter tossed his folder on the conference table and walked out off the conference room listening to his agents bicker over who would get stuck in the van, and who would investigate the Met's security. Peter stepped into his office and picked up his phone. After a few seconds of thought he decided to dial.

"Yes, I'd like the information for tracking anklet 0194, this is Special Agent in Charge Peter Burke, badge number 58835." He was silent while the agent processed his request. He muttered quick thanks, and hung up the phone. A glance at the clock determined he'd be taking an early lunch today. He said as much to his secretary, and headed for the elevators.

Peter knocked once, politely, despite the growing ball of anxiety in his gut. After a few seconds, he knocked again, this time declaring, "Neal! I know you're in there."

Peter smacked the door with the heel of his hand.

No response, despite his increased volume. "June gave me a key!"

The door opened quietly. Neal attempted his infamous conman smile. He hoped he could hold it together long enough to convince Peter that nothing was wrong. "C'mon in, Peter. Can I get you a drink?"

"Yes, water, as we're both on the clock." Peter said pointedly.

Neal grabbed a bottled water from the refrigerator and tossed it to Peter. "Look, I'm sorry for bailing. Some stuff came up…" his voice trailed off as he watched Peter's expression change.

Worry and anger clouded Peter's face. With a sigh, Peter growled, "Neal. God dammit. Why do you have to lie to me? Why can't you just tell me what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wr—" He choked on his denial as Peter made a sudden movement with his hand. Neal swallowed and scampered back, keeping the table between him and Peter. Peter's eyebrows shot up so high they might have crawled into his hairline. He had only been reaching out to set his bottle of water on the table.

"Okay. You have two options for the rest of today. You may stay at June's—house arrest, Neal, I mean it—or you can come back into work. Neither of those options require any explanation from you. Whatever is bothering you, I'm going to let you have your secrets. But, if they continue to impact work, like this morning, Neal, I want answers." Peter took a step toward Neal. With his trained agent's eye for detail, Peter noticed small changes in Neal. His breathing sped up, his hands momentarily clenched at his side, and his eyes did a quick dart around the room before Neal slid his easy-going mask into place. He established eye-contact with his boss and gave a tentative smile.

Peter pointed his finger at Neal's chest, and added, "And I will get those answers, I promise."

Neal, silent for once, simply nodded.

"Well, what's it gonna be?" Peter fished his keys out of his pocket.

"Work." Neal took a deep breath, and willed himself toward the front door—even though that meant stepping closer to Peter. The sudden reappearance of Frank Ammon was causing Neal to have flashbacks. Seeing Peter angry had kicked Neal's fight-or-flight responses into overdrive. He had to act like nothing was wrong, or else Peter would start digging—and Neal did not want to have the conversation that would ensue when he learned exactly what Frank had done.