A/N: Hello and thanks for choosing this story! This is one of my first fanfic's so please patient with me! Hope you enjoy! Please feel free to review and tell me what you think!

Disclaimer: I do not own White Collar.

Neal opens his eyes to the sun, slicing into his sleepy pupils like knives. He squints and moans. He rolls in his thin sheets to the other side of his bed. He knew he should get up, Peter would be pissed if he hadn't made it to work on time. But hey, he had been doing good the past two weeks. Only about thirty minutes late each time. One of his bright eyes pops open and looks at the grandfather cloak in the corner of the small apartment. He had to stare at it for a long moment so his brain could assimilate what the clock read. 8:41. Yeah…Peter will be pissed. Two hours late…there was really no reason to even try to go in today. He'll just half to hear the wrath of Peter later. But maybe he can slide into the Burke house so Elizabeth will save him. She's good at saving him. He buries his face in the silk down feather pillow under his head. Another part of him said to get up and at least try to go in. He will be late but at least he tried….right? He lay there for a moment, sucking in air through the thick pillow. That's when he hears something click beside him. One of his electric eyes shoots from the pillow and spots a person standing over him. He was so caught off guard by the sight he gasped and practically jumped to the foot of the bed. Grabbing a handful of sheets to guard himself from the intruder. His heart jumped to his ears as his tired brain told him it was alright. "It's about time you got up twinkle toes. Did it not cross your mind when you looked at the clock that you were a tad late?" Peter asks, angrily placing his hands on his hips.

Neal sighs and glares at him. "Jesus, Peter! What are you doing in my house!" He found himself almost yelling at him.

Peter raises an eyebrow and laughs. "This isn't your house. It's June's."

Neal jumps from the bed and throws the sheets on the foot. He trudges to the counter and fills a glass of water for himself. After he takes a few sips he looks back at Peter, who is furious by the redness in his face.

"It's my apartment," Neal tells him.

"It's a room. Nothing is yours."

Neal narrows his eyes at Peter. "It's my room…June let me have it. Either way, What are you doing here?" He already knew the answer…but there was no reason Peter had to be standing over him like a stalker.

The agent wipes a hand down his tired face. Why is he playing stupid?

"I'm here to get you. Hoping you were dying. At least that would give you an excuse for being lazy," He snaps.

Neal lets a laugh escape him. "I'm sorry I didn't want to get up at five thirty to go to a job I didn't want." He snaps back.

Peter points at the hallway leading to Neal's closet. "Go put on some clothes and let's go." He demands.

Neal growls at him and walks to the hall.

It took him about thirty minutes to prepare himself. To pick out a suit, matching shirt and tie. Fix his hair and find a fedora to top it off. After all he did half to look good no matter if he wanted to or not.

Once he walked out of the closet he met Peter at the door.

"Almost three hours late. Good job, Neal. Now I'll have to hear it from Hughes." He grumbles.

Neal ignores him and walks from the room. With Peter breathing fury down his neck.

About twenty minutes later him and Peter walked into the bureau. It was a quiet ride here, and Neal disliked that. He never liked silence, but he didn't feel like trying to talk to the fuming agent. It would have been useless. Considering them talking would probably only lead to arguing, and Neal didn't feel like bothering with that. Hughes meets the men as they enter through the thick glass doors. He stands on the balcony above and gives Peter the famous 'two finger point.' His head wipes to Neal and glares at him. 'This is your fault!' Was written all over his face.

"Sit down and wait for me to return," He tells Neal.

Neal obeys and sits at his…desk. As Peter disappears into Hughes office he lay his feet atop if the small wooden box he was forced to call a desk. He looks around at the people giving him faces. They still aren't quite use to having an ex-con bounding around their quarters. Touching their stuff and trying to make conversation with them. Which was the hardest thing ever. It has only been two weeks though. Two, long…hard weeks.

Neal catches the eyes of Jones, who's desk is directly across from his so he can 'watch over' Neal. Which wasn't necessary. He was consistently monitored by this stupid anklet, he couldn't possibly do anything. Three miles wasn't even enough to get to the nearest bathroom.

Jones looks over to Hughes office and lifts a questioning eyebrow at Neal. "What happened?" He mouths.

"He got up late," Neal mouths back.

Jones makes an O with his mouth, telling him he understood. But their was still question in his face.

Soon enough Peter was out of Hughes office and calling everyone to the conference room. When they all entered, Neal sat next to Dianna and gave her one of his beaming smiles. None of the ladies could turn down the Neal Caffrey smile. She blinks and frowns at him. "Don't do that," She tells him.

His dark brow knits together. "Why? Falling under my spell?" He teases.

"Have I yet?"

The question lingers in the air.

"No,"

"Well then, there's your answer."

Dianna was an odd soul to Neal. She was one of the only women he couldn't make melt with a lift of his eyebrow or a slow seductive smile. She was a very beautiful women, she had great taste in art and didn't mind beating some people up. But maybe that was why she didn't fall for his tricks. She was way to smart to deal with a teaser like him.

"Okay, we have a new case." Peter announces catching everyone's attractions.

"A man named Conner Blankly stole a painting from a museum two days ago -"

"What painting did he steal?" Neal cuts in.

Peter's eyes bolt to Neal. His words are dark and frustrated. "Something called The pioneer, by Winslow Homer," He slowly answers.

Neal lifts an eyebrow. "Winslow Homer? Really? This Blankly guy in an armature." He replies. "If he really wanted to steal something worth going to jail for life; he would want to steal a Picasso or Monet. Those are worth it. The way they blend colors and let your mind wonder is why they cost millions. And are worth taking."

Everyone lay quiet, most just stare at him. As if they were scared. His eyes shift around everyone and he smiles.

"Just thought that would help," He adds in.

Peter grumbles at him. He then takes a deep breath and continues.

"Thank you for that, Neal. But anyway, we defiantly want to find him. He was spotted at a bank on central about twenty hours ago." He slides the black and white surveillance photos onto the glass table.

"He was probably depositing the hundred he got from selling the painting," Neal sarcastically states.

Peter tried to ignore that comment.

"Where exactly did he steal the painting from again?" Dianna asks while examining the photos.

"A place called the Metropolitan," Peter answers.

Neal laughs at this and shakes his head. "There's no possible way he could steal anything from The Met. Actually, there's no way anyone who doesn't have full knowledge of the Met could steal something from there. That place is one of the most surveillanced places in New York."

People stare at him again, but this look was soaking in what he said. Not fear.

"So then he's an expert," Jones throws out.

"Not likely. Like I said there is no way anyone could steal anything from there unless…" He trials off.

"Unless what?" Peter asks, placing his hands on the table. "Unless they were you?"

Neal's eyes shoot up to meet the agents.

"Don't be disingenuous, tell us!" Peter insists.

Neal shifts in his seat with discomfort. He didn't like where this conversation suddenly went.

"I…" He pauses to gather the right words. "I could probably do it."

"And how would you go about that? O, master of taking?"

He swallows down his words. His foot taps the hard floor in thinking. He didn't like that Peter was putting him on the spot, even that he was being sarcastic. This is his department. He is the one who is suppose to be the sarcastic one. He didn't like the spot he was now in, and his body language told them all that.

"I can't tell you that." He simply replies.

"And why is that?" It seemed as soon as Neal finished speaking Peter was right there, picking up on another nettling question.

"Because you want to try?"

These words burn in the already tense air. Neal's throat tightened.

"If you want to, by all means go ahead. Right now, I wouldn't mind throwing you back into jail."

With these words, Neal stood and walked to the door.

"Where -"

"I'm going home. I don't feel like having you interrogate me!" Neal cuts off.

"You can't leave!" Peter demands.

"If it's in my three mile radius I can do what a want!"

And with that he walks out and slams the door behind him.