Disclaimer: I don't own anything, just having fun.
A/N: My first White Collar fic. I couldn't resist! A cute little lighthearted fic which I hope you will enjoy.
Chapter One
It was Neal Caffrey's day off.
While the knock at his door at quarter past nine in the morning wasn't so surprising—Mozzie was always expected to drop by at his own leisure—the sounds that bounced off the walls in the hallway caused him to peer over the columns of text in front of him and raise an eyebrow. A child's incessant, high pitched wails echoed from the other side of the door, howls that belonged to what Neal could only guess was a newborn infant rather than a youngster somewhere between the ages of two and five. For the life of him, he couldn't understand why a baby would have any reason to be in June's home unless Mozzie was in fact standing outside his door and had a lot to explain to him. When the knocking resumed, Neal clambered to his feet in such a rush that the newspaper scattered across the outdoor balcony.
June called to him from the hallway. Her voice was tinted with concern. "Neal?"
Neal's heart began to race in his chest, as if her panic was a tangible, contagious entity. He took a shuddering breath and pulled open the door at last, greeted with the sight of the matronly owner of his not-so-humble abode cradling a squirming, red-faced infant in her arms. Neal had to give the kid credit for having a hell of a set of lungs.
"June," he addressed. "Come in—who's our little guest?"
He offered her a grin which was quickly cancelled out by the elder woman's stoic expression, soft brown eyes swimming with genuine distress. They had known each other long enough for Neal to realize that was never a good sign. He shuffled out of the way to let June and the baby across the threshold into the apartment, closing the door behind them. He couldn't get a good view of the infant swaddled in a mess of pastel green fabric other than two small arms flailing and tiny fingers grasping at the air.
"You never told me you had a great-grandchild," Neal continued over the baby's cries. He wasn't sure why his mouth was so determined to keep spitting out empty words and statements unless it was his mind's latest defense mechanism to cope with particularly strange situations.
"That's because I don't, Neal," June declared. Neal acted as if he wasn't expecting the answer. Even though that wasn't true.
The crying stung his ears. "Then where—"
"A nice young woman came by here scared out of her wits," June explained. "She didn't say much. But I saw the look in her eyes. She told me she couldn't be a mother to this sweet little baby and wanted to drop her off somewhere safe. I said it might be a better idea if she left her in the care of a hospital, but she wasn't hearing any of it."
Neal's eyebrows knit together. He could hear the blood pulsing in his ears, could feel his heartbeat increasing. The distant sounds of traffic on the street below came sharply into focus somehow, above the screeching child in a cocoon of plush fabric.
"Did she say why?"
"No, but she gave me a letter."
"To you?"
June hesitated for a moment. "To you."
It felt like all the air had been forced from Neal's lungs. His breath hitched, throat tightening in on itself enough to make him feel as though he was choking. He raked an unsteady hand through his bed-tousled hair and hoped that the room wouldn't spin. Perspiration surfaced on the back of his neck and his temples, and his clothes felt damp against his skin. Of all days to be in such a perplexing situation, it would be this one. The day that was supposed to be stress free and relaxing, spent lounging around the apartment and perhaps putting a brush to canvas if inspiration struck him. But of course in his world, twenty-four hours of relaxation were few and far between.
And he wasn't exactly sure how to respond to this. In his storied arsenal of calm, charming, and witty comebacks there wasn't a protocol for being faced with a wailing child whom—and he could barely get himself to think of this realization, much less process it rationally—he might have fathered. Because what other reason would cause a young woman to pawn off her child and place all the responsibility onto his shoulders with only a note in her wake? Neal didn't understand what her thought process had been to decide that a conman who'd served a four year jail sentence and was still under the scrutiny of the FBI would make a suitable father to a newborn baby. It wasn't that Neal didn't like children. He did. A lot, in fact. He just didn't know how to take care of them on a long-term basis. The idea of having a helpless days-old infant completely dependent upon him was frightening.
June dug the hastily written letter out of her pocket and offered it to Neal. He took the wrinkled piece of used paper without saying a word, thankful that the child's screams had decreased in volume, although she was still crying profusely. Neal unfurled the paper and leaned against the table to read it. He recognized the handwriting; small, concise, made up of half-cursive loops joining certain letters together. An image of a petite strawberry blonde woman flashed in his mind's eye. They hadn't spent all that much time in each other's company, but it had clearly left a lasting impression.
Neal,
For starters, I apologize. I'm a coward for not having this conversation face-to-face, but I don't have much time, and I need to move on before someone picks up my trail. I realize this is going to be a shock to you. I was afraid to tell you and for awhile I weighed the options. My life is no place for a child, and you know I don't want to leave it all behind. I can't. It's all I'll ever have. And it's not like we were ever planning to settle down together. I'm not the mothering type, Neal. I wouldn't be of any use to her, and she doesn't feel like mine, anyway. I'm not asking you to raise her but I wanted you to at least know she exists. Make sure she gets to a good home and people who will give her everything she needs. I owe it to her to let her have that chance. Her name is Gemma Matisse. She's yours.
-Annalise
Neal let out the breath he hadn't noticed he had been holding while he read the note several times through, blue eyes scanning the loopy cursive-and-printing mix until the words no longer made sense and the information swirled around his head. He lowered the note onto the table beside him, his weight still against the edge. His gaze found June and the baby, who was too scared to stop her whimpering and occasional crescendo of sobs.
"Well?" June asked.
He scratched the back of his neck. The news was not processing well, despite the two cups of Italian roast coffee in his system and a full night's rest. "I have a daughter."