Disclaimer: I do not own White Collar, sadly.

This is my first attempt at a White Collar fic. Thanks to those who have followed me from my previous Psych story, I hope this is just as good (:

White Collar Quote of the Day: "No, Peter, menacing. You look like someone whose kid just struck out." ~ Neal

-O-

Chapter 1

Let the Games Commence

The federal prison was busy that day. Lawyers in dark business suits and inmates in bright orange suits infested the hallways, visiting rooms, and jail cells as the city prepared for its biggest trial since Neal Caffrey. Over a dozen members of one of the most violent gangs in New York City had been arrested several days ago, and even some pedestrians had come to watch the goings-on of the preparations.

Down a side corridor, far away from the main rooms, stood a solitary figure. He moved casually, striding forward as though he was used to being respected, and in some cases feared. A briefcase swung idly by his side, matching the black color of his suit. He stuck to the side of the corridor, staying out of direct light and making it look as though he were nothing more than a shadow. His head was tilted downwards, but he looked up and glanced at the jumble of prisoners and lawyers in the adjoining room.

Nodding to a guard, he made his way out of the building. He walked purposely over to a gray Honda Civic, popping the trunk and putting the briefcase in the back. He pulled out of the lot, just as the sirens started blaring their warning. But they were too late. Mathew Keller had just escaped.

-O-

Neal stood in front of a giant easel, his brush gently stroking the canvas, creating the sloped line of a tree with ease. He stood back, dipping the brush in a glass of water as he admired his work. He stared at the sloping lines of the trees, the dry brushstrokes of the long, waving grass surrounding the rundown house on the edge of the woods, and realized this must have been the first time in his life he hadn't been painting a fake of an original. Mozzie would be shocked.

The door opened, and Mozzie barged in.

"Speak of the devil," Neal muttered, setting down the brush.

"Excuse me?" Mozzie asked, stepping over the threshold. He seemed hurt by the comment, but despite that, was already on to another topic. "That's nice. What is it, a Monet? Picasso? Da Vinci?" he gestured at the painting.

"Uh, no, actually, it's an original."

"Yeah, but an original what? You know, who's is it?" Neal gave Mozzie a skeptical look, and Mozzie understood. "Wait a minute, you mean-? You painted that? From here?" he touched a hand to his temple.

"Yeah, Moz, I did," Neal said. He walked away from the painting and towards his friend. "What do you want?"

"What? A guy can't just visit his friend because he feels like it?" Mozzie was taken aback, hands spread wide.

"Not with you, Moz," Neal sighed.

"Okay, okay, you're right. I didn't drop by to say hi. I also wanted to steal a glass of your magnificent wine," he moved toward the wine rack, only to stop as he received a slap on the hand from Neal. "What?" Neal raised an eyebrow at him. "Okay, fine," he conceded. "I think I have a tail."

"I thought you knew how to slip tails. Old Mozzie's not losing his touch, is he?" Neal teased, earning a glare from Mozzie.

"This one's different. I think it's a suit," Mozzie lowered his voice, as though his supposed tail that probably didn't even exist was watching them even now.

"I'll see what I can do," Neal sighed. He made a note to ask Peter later.

"Good. Now, may I please have some wine?"

Neal moved away from the wine rack in answer.

The two friends sat at the table for awhile, sipping from the wine glasses and talking about the goings-on of the world. Each danced delicately around the whole Kate/music box situation, not sure if now would be the time to bring it up. Eventually, night fell, and Mozzie left. Neal put the glasses away, rinsing them in the sink before stashing them. He made his way back to the painting, and picked up his brush.

An hour later, there was a knock on his door. He let go of the brush, wiped his hands on the smock around his waist, slipped it off, and walked over to the door. He hesitated before opening it. What if it was Peter? He had been planning to give Peter the painting for his birthday, and he couldn't see it before it was finished. He backtracked, grabbing a folded cloth from the couch and draping it over the canvas.

"Neal?" June's voice was muffled on the other side of the door.

"Yes?" he asked, pulling the door open and leaning against the frame. He frowned. If his visitor had been Mozzie or Peter, they would have just shown themselves up.

"There's a man here. He says he's an old friend of yours."

"What's his name?"

"He didn't give one," June answered, sounding perplexed. "Do you want me to let him up?"

Neal hesitated. Usually, when someone didn't give a name, it was because they didn't want to be recognized. "Yeah, sure."

She left, closing the door behind her. Neal glanced at the locked desk drawer where he kept his gun – the one he'd bought at a yard sale (they'd asked to see a permit, of course) so that Peter wouldn't know about it – wondering if he should unlock it or not. The decision was made for him, the door opening before he had time to make up his mind.

Neal froze, staring in shock at the figure in the doorway. The figure in the doorway smiled, stepped over the threshold, and drew something from his pocket.

-O-

Peter Burke sat opposite his wife, Elizabeth, as they ate dinner. The clang of silverware against plates was interwoven with casual dinner conversation.

"So how was Neal today?" Elizabeth asked, swallowing a mouthful of chicken pot pie.

"Surprisingly helpful," was Peter's answer. "He made a breakthrough on the art smuggling case we've been working on."

"Art smuggling," She nodded. "Sounds exciting. Did you catch the guy?"

"No, but we're close."

"Does this mean you have to go into work early tomorrow?" Elizabeth teased, making a mock-pout face.

Peter glared sarcastically at her. "No, actually. Jones is the one doing all of the 'early work'. I just have to be there for the finale."

"Ah, I see. So that you can see the look on the bad guy's face when he realizes you aren't actually a client."

Peter chuckled. "Something like that."

His cell phone rang abruptly, cutting of his next words. He finished his sip of wine, glanced apologetically at his wife, and reached into his pocket.

"Peter Burke," he answered.

"Peter, it's Neal," It was Diana's voice, and she sounded upset.

"Whoa, whoa, slow down. What do you mean, 'it's Neal'?" He glanced at Elizabeth, who shrugged.

"Neal cut his anklet, Peter. He's gone."

-O-

So, what'd you think? Reviews are much appreciated (: