Disclaimer: White Collar belongs to Jeff Eastin, USA Network et al. This is for fun, no copyright infringement is intended.

Author's note: Written for the prompt "Have we met before" by kriadydragon over at collarcorner.

Neal hated being dirty. Or hungry. Or lonely. And most of all he hated that he was all three of these things at the moment.

He could smell his own body odor since it was the fifth day without a good wash. His clothes had stains and a few tears from when some older boys had shoved him to the ground and held him down while their leader searched his pockets, taking away the candy bar he had gotten from the chatty old lady. His stomach growled painfully after almost a week living of scraps he could slip off restaurant tables or might get from some compassionate passer-by. He ached from sleeping or rather taking short naps in hidden corners and behind dumpsters, never spending more than one night, always taking care to move on continually, to stay off the radar of well-meaning eyes who might see to much and inform the police or – his secret nightmare – Child Welfare.

Child Welfare took you away from your parents and gave you into orphanages where you were beaten and starved or they gave you to foster families where the father would do unspeakable things to you. Neal knew because he read a lot and also his mom had told him. Well, more like shouted at him, after that one time he had talked to this friendly former neighbor, Mister Cotton, who then came to talk to mom. She had been really, really angry and also really, really afraid and that had scared Neal more than her yelling. Moms were not supposed to be afraid. Not like this. After that they moved more often and Neal never again aimed to be friends with their neighbors.

Which was one reason why he had not even tried to get help from anyone when he took out the trash and the door fell shut on him with the keys inside. The other reason was that then it would have been inevitable for someone to notice that his mom was not at home.

Mom always told him how proud she was of him for being so grown-up and responsible. And it made Neal proud to know she was proud and so he never complained when she left him alone for a day or two or lately even a week, never said anything about how scared and lonely he sometimes felt when it got dark outside and the rooms were so very still and empty. He knew that mom only did it because she had no choice, that she only went away to earn money to pay the rent and for food and clothes. He understood her careful explanations that those several-days jobs got payed better, he was already ten, after all. OK, almost. Close to. Well, getting there, eventually.

So the more humiliated and horrified he had been now to be so clumsy. Several minutes he had stood simply staring at the closed door in speechless terror. Then he had heard a sound on the stairs and quickly hurried off, trying to look casual and self-confident to the world. He had gotten rid of the trash and after that just kept walking, pathetically grateful that at least it was summer recess and the weather fine.

Neal was a bright boy, he knew he could not stay in their neighborhood where they knew his face and would eventually start wondering what he was doing outside all the time. Mom had said she would be back on Sunday, still a daunting six days away when the accident happened but manageable … or so he told himself with all resolution he could muster.

Now, however, five days later, all he wanted to do was sit down and cry.

Neal rubbed a grubby hand across his face, trying to ignore the way his wrist stung since his terrifying encounter with that gang of older boys yesterday, and sidled closer to the outdoor area of the fast food restaurant he had selected as his next target. Fast food places, he had quickly discovered, were easiest to pick up some leftovers, you only needed good timing to avoid the cleaning staff. And there were many of them, he had not had to hang around one twice since he was on the streets.

Just then the doors to the indoor sitting places burst open for a new group of people and he jumped then hastily pretended to just lean on the low fence. The noisy, animatedly talking group settled at several tables very close to him and started unwrapping their food, swapping things around with much laughter and teasing. They were young men, athletic and trim, probably all around twenty though Neal found it rather difficult to guess the age of grown-ups. Jeans and T-shirts gave them a casual air but they all had bolo ties fastened around their necks – a black leather cord and silver slide with an orange dot in the middle that glimmered in the sun.

Catching an enticing whiff of deep-fried stuff and roasted onions Neal had to swallow quickly. His poor stomach growled again painfully. He couldn't take his eyes off the wonderful things on the closest table. He was so occupied, in fact, that he simply froze in place when the young man sitting directly by the fence suddenly turned in his chair, extended his arm and asked with a smile:

"Hey, you want some fries, kid?"

For an endless moment Neal could only stupidly gape from the smiling young man to the nearly full box of french fries he held out to him.

"It's OK." The young man shook the box once for emphasis. "Go on. Get them."

Neal closed his mouth with a snap and tentatively took the offer. He couldn't believe his luck but the fries were still a bit warm! It was only after he had already devoured half of the delicious, fat-dripping potato sticks that he remembered his manners.

"I … uhm … thanks," he mumbled somewhat embarrassed then added defensively, "Some boys took my lunch money."

Well, they had taken his lunch but it was close enough.

"Uh-huh," the young man nodded sympathetically, "Looks like they worked you over pretty good as well."

"Taking in strays again, Bobby?" now someone at the next table, where up to this point they had ignored the little exchange, interjected with an wry grin.

Neal frowned but the young man – Bobby – just shrugged and spread his arms with an easy laugh.

"Hey, give and you shall be given."

"Then Don will never be given anything," the one in the chair next to Bobby quipped and handed Neal the rest of his soft drink. Now the whole group roared with laughter.

"Wow, there's one for the books. Christian has a witty day," Don returned immediately; but it was without rancor and the group laughed even more at this comeback.

"Play nice, boys, we've got a guest!" it shouted from the back and a burger was looped through several hands to Bobby who passed it on to a wide-eyed Neal.

"Don't mind those idiots," he advised, grinning again easily. "We just won a exhibition game; they are insufferable after that."

Involuntarily Neal's eyes wandered to the bolo ties they all wore. The slides holding the black braided leather cords, he now saw, had been inlaid with a diamond-shaped, amber-colored stone. It looked daring and neat and really, really cool. Bobby noticed his longing gaze and tapped the one around his throat.

"That? It's our team symbol. We are the Tigers!"

And though most of the group had returned to their own conversations at this they all promptly pumped a fist in the air and chanted UH-UH-UH like a war cry. Bobby laughed at Neal for his bewildered expression.

Neal hastily took some huge bites of the burger, swallowed and then pointed at the inlay. "What's that stone set in there?"

"It's called a Tiger's Eye. Fitting, eh? Our coach got us these last season."

Neal nodded quietly, his eyes roaming over the faces of the group, so different and yet all united in wearing those bolo ties... God, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to have one of them, wanted it like he had never wanted anything before. Not so much for what they were but for what they symbolized – belonging to a team, not cast out alone on the streets with no food, no place to sleep. Not standing outside looking in but being part of the group, teasing and being teased, safe in the crowd. This sudden longing was like a flash, a sharp pain in his guts, tearing his heart out and choking his breath until he thought he could bear it no longer...

"Speaking of the coach," someone said abruptly, "He'll have a fit if we are late for the bus and it's quarter past."

This caused much noise and shuffling as the whole group started clambering to their feet, stuffing last bites into their mouths and mock-tackling each other. Those at Bobby's table waved good-bye to Neal and Bobby himself took the opportunity and slipped some bills in Neal's hand with a little wink.

"Take care, kid."

Neal automatically closed his fingers over the money though it felt like lead in his grip. He shoved it in a pocket. Staring mutely after the departing team he felt hollow and empty except for a fierce ache in his chest. He looked at the half-eaten burger in his hand and tears rose in his eyes.

"Hey, kid," said a new voice.

Turning in surprise Neal found one of the young men looking down on him. He hadn't really noticed this one before, though now he thought he might have sat silently at one of the other tables. Sharp brown eyes held his gaze. And then the young man reached up and slowly moved the slide down a bit, pulling the cord over his head. Neal's mouth fell open as he calmly went to one knee in front of him and suddenly it didn't seem to matter that Neal smelled or that his hair was greasy because the young man quietly placed the leather cord around his neck and arranged the slide carefully so it rested at the hollow of Neal's throat. Crossing his arms on the low fence separating them he then gave him a long look and finally nodded seriously.

"Looks good on you," he said and smiled. He had an odd way to do it. First one corner of his mouth curved up then the other followed and finally a warm light touched his eyes. "Keep it."

In speechless wonder Neal lifted his hand and touched the smooth surface of the slide with his fingertips. Then he gripped it with all his strength.

"But – but won't you get in trouble with your coach or something if you give it away?" he asked breathlessly as the young man got back to his feet.

The older one cocked his head, giving him another of his curious and this time a little sad smiles.

"Well, if he doesn't understand this I can't help it."

He bumped Neal's shoulder gently with a fist and turned away. Neal watched him jog to catch up to the others with the smooth, rolling strides of an athlete and gripping the slide tighter he also turned and ran off; ran as if his feet had wings, his heart so light it felt like he might be able to fly.

Sunday came as well as his mother and there were hugs and kisses and crying as she learned what had happened. They moved again soon afterward. She still left him alone though it never was as long as before. Besides, school started again and things were always easier then.

Neal never again wore the bolo tie in public. He was only ten but he had already learned that to keep something safe you best kept it hidden. Yet for many months he put it on when he went to bed and fell asleep holding the slide and what it promised tightly in his fist.

It didn't last, of course. Eventually he grew-up (or harder) and more self-contained (or less trusting in other people) and as the face of the giver and the reality of his own despair faded in memory the bolo tie went into a drawer. Still, it was one of the few things he took with him when he left, after learning the bitter truth about his father. Turbulent years went by, he lost the black leather cord eventually in one hasty exit or other but the slide somehow always made it from one secret stash to the next without much conscious thought. And so, when it turned up in the contents of a box he had sent Mozzie to fetch because he needed something out of it, Neal's foremost reaction was not so much surprise but a passing Oh, there it went and he put it on one of the shelves at his apartment at June's and mostly forgot about it again.

What was, in retrospect, a thoroughly bad idea considering Peter's sub-conscious reflex to snoop through his things whenever he happened to be around. An annoying habit that was completely and entirely different from his automatic check for secret ways in and out of any room holding something valuable. But still, Neal would have never ever in his wildest dreams expected Peter to suddenly pluck it from the shelf while talking about a case and exclaim:

"Oh, hey, you've got a Tigers slide."

Neal opened and closed his mouth for a split second like a fish out of water before he managed a somewhat strangled "Uhm – Tigers?" in response.

"Yeah, old team of mine. Where did you find it?"

"Oh – well – see – phew," Neal puffed a breath, his mind racing, and coming up with the perfect solution he continued with more of his usual confidence, "Some flea market or other probably. They sometimes have really nice things at flea markets, you know. A lot of trash but sometimes people don't know what they... Peter?"

This last because Peter had turned the slide in his hand and suddenly visibly recoiled. Neal frowned.

"Peter?" he repeated.

The older man blinked as if coming back from some far away place. He glanced over.

"Where – where did you say you got it?"

Neal's frown deepened, accompanied by a growing sense of disaster.

"A flea market … probably? Why?"

Peter released a long breath.

"It used to be mine," he said quietly, "I put my initials on the back – see?"

And just like that Neal's whole world tilted sideways.

Thankfully Peter was still staring at the slide and didn't notice. Recovering on instinct – the rest was still shell-shocked – Neal cleared his throat.

"Really? What happened, you lost it?"

"No... Gave it to a street kid. Had the biggest blue puppy-dog eyes I ever saw." He threw his CI a sardonic look. "Until I met you, of course."

"Oh, ha, ha! Funny, Peter," the experienced conman in Neal returned with just the right amount of indignation though the rest of him still felt as if the ground had given way under his feet. And because the con requested it he added with a suddenly sinking heart: "You want it back?"

For a long moment Peter turned the slide in his hand, his face dark and distant. Then he abruptly set it back on the shelf with a click and shook his head.

"No. I gave it away." His voice became somewhat bitter. Or maybe resigned. "I really thought... Never mind."

He snatched up his coat and strode to the door without a backward glance. "See you tomorrow, Neal."

Neal stared at the closed door for a long minute, listening to Peter's fading footsteps on the stairs. Then he took a shuddering breath. His knees felt weak as he slowly walked over to the shelves and lifted the slide with trembling fingers. He rolled it in the palm of his hand.

Yes, of course he had noticed the three round doodles with a line on their left scratched in the back of it. But up to this very day he had never had the faintest idea you could see it as the initials P. B. put above each other with the B slid up into the P. He suddenly shook so hard he sat down abruptly.

Peter. Good god, it had been Peter.

Peter who had seen him at his lowest, had seen his heart's desire and he couldn't bear the thought.

Time and distance had blurred the images of that day, of that week. But he still remembered his despair. His fear. His need to belong. Neal abruptly clasped his hands, the slide cutting into his palms. No. No! He wasn't that child any more. He wasn't that desperate thing eager to be a part of something, anything. That desperate boy who locked himself out of his home. He was he; he had defined himself instead of letting the world define him and he was proud of it. He was Neal Caffrey, his forgeries were legend, there was no lock he could not pick, no con he would not dare. That child who had wanted the bolo tie so fervently was gone, the past, an embarrassing reminder of when he had been small and helpless and he wasn't so any more. He wasn't so anymore. But what must Peter think of him should he ever put two and two together? What must he think?

In a sudden fit of rage Neal surged to his feet and already his arm was up and back, about to hurl the accursed slide across the room … but then he didn't.

He couldn't shake the look of what he now recognized as disappointment on Peter's face as he had said I really thought...

I really thought – what? That it mattered? That it meant something?

Dropping down on the couch again Neal groaned and flopped his head back.

Only Peter. Really. Only Peter.

Calmer now he held up the slide, watching the inlay change color as he tilted it into and out of the light. Almost convinced now that he was overreacting. He had given Peter a perfect explanation how it might have come into his possession, the agent simply had no reason to suspect otherwise, right? He would never put the pieces together as long as he didn't get hold of a childhood picture of Neal to jog his memory. So all he had to do was make sure he never did. Piece of cake, really.

Meanwhile Peter stood down on the street, halfway to his car, and thought about blue eyes and coincidences and probabilities. He abruptly turned and looked back at June's. He even took a step. Then he thought about Devore suits and fedoras and a brilliant smile masking evasive answers. He thought about a bolo tie slide with an inlay of Tiger's Eye and time. He exhaled slowly. In the end he continued to his car.

He didn't know if his curiosity would allow him to let the matter rest indefinitely but for now … it was a small enough gift to give.

The End