AN: Last year, in my story Model Employee, Neal told Peter the National Gallery in London had commissioned him to reproduce a couple of paintings for an exhibition on fakes and forgeries. Unsurprisingly, Peter was less than enthusiastic about the idea. Really, it was nothing but a throwaway bit, but it's kind of stuck with me since then, and this seemed like a pretty good time to explore it a little bit further. It absolutely isn't necessary to have read the other story to understand this one.

A Portrait of Trust

Cheride

Neal Caffrey sat with a slight smirk on his face, staring across the desk at his FBI handler, and waiting for Peter to give up on the prank. But when Peter didn't laugh, or crack a smile, or even get that distinctive twinkle in his eyes that only showed up when he was deliberately tormenting his CI, Neal got worried. The smirk faded and his own eyes slowly widened.

"You're kidding, right?"

Peter arched an eyebrow. "Do I look like I'm kidding?"

"You do not," Neal admitted. He took a breath. "But, Peter—"

The agent raised a palm. "Stop. This isn't negotiable beyond the choices I already gave you. You're lucky the Bureau is willing to let you make money off these forgeries at all; you can't seriously expect to be left to do it unattended."

"They're reproductions," Neal answered sullenly, "not forgeries. And I can't believe you don't trust me at all. I don't know why you even got me back out of prison."

Peter sighed and took a moment to rub at his furrowed brow before he looked back at his consultant. "I got you out because you didn't deserve to be there, Neal, and because you do good work here. But while I hope working here doesn't actually feel the same as still being in prison, you are still serving a sentence, and that comes with some restrictions."

"Yeah, that part I got. And I appreciate you not even bothering to argue the trust point." Neal pushed himself to his feet. "If we're through here, I told Mozzie I'd meet him for lunch. If that's okay, of course." Sarcastic obsequiousness notwithstanding, he didn't wait for permission before turning for the door.

"Caffrey."

Neal wanted to ignore the stern voice, keep going just to prove he could, but he really didn't want to escalate things even further. He sighed slightly and twisted back to look at his handler. "Let me think about it. I'll let you know my decision after lunch, okay?"

Peter held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded once. He bit back the instinctive warning to stay out of trouble, and settled instead for, "Say hi to Mozzie for me."

Despite his frustration, Neal crooked a small grin at that. He shook his head ruefully. "It really is just lunch, Peter; I'll behave. We both will."

Relieved, Peter offered a small smile in return, then waved the other man on his way.

"You've let him get to know you too well," Moz said, eyeing the sauvignon blanc while Neal picked at a chicken Caesar salad.

"Too well to trust me, you mean? And stop pouting about the wine. We could've ordered by the glass and then you could've had whatever you wanted."

"And pass up the chance to take home the doggie bottle? No, thank you. Even boring white wine is better than no wine." He took a long, mostly appreciative sip just to prove his point.

"And I didn't say he shouldn't trust you," Mozzie finally added, "but, in his place, would you?"

"You're defending him now?"

"Perish the thought! I'm just saying he's always known what you're capable of, and working with you has only deepened his understanding of your psyche. You need to put some distance between you so you can still con him when you need to."

"I don't want to con him, Mozzie; that's the thing he can't accept. I don't know what I have to do to prove that to him."

Stabbing another bite of his rigatoni funghi e piselli, Mozzie's reply was drier than the wine. "You could probably start by telling him you're looking for Kate's killer."

Neal glared across the table. "You are defending him!"

"I'm really not. I'm pointing out that you're letting the enemy get too close. You can't be what you're not, Neal, any more than he can. The suit knows that, even if you haven't accepted it yet."

"Peter's not the enemy," Neal said firmly, "even if you haven't accepted that yet." Then he blew out a sigh. "But I get your point. Peter being Peter means expecting me to be me, even when I'm not."

Moz nodded. "Exactly. Whether or not he's the enemy—or even a friend—you can't forget that he's not like us, we're not like him, and none of that's ever going to change." He took another drink of wine while he watched the disappointment flash across his young friend's face so quickly most people would never have noticed.

When Neal silently resumed his meal without further comment, Moz huffed out his own small sigh. He let the silence linger for a couple of minutes, but as much as he wanted Neal to understand the dangers of getting too caught up in a web of suits, he never wanted the kid to feel abandoned, disposable. There'd been far too much of that in Neal Caffrey's life already, and especially now, Moz knew Neal was barely holding things together as it was. He looked up from his pasta, compassion in his eyes.

"Of course, none of that means he doesn't care, you know. He seems as confused as you are about where suitable lines should be drawn."

It wasn't immediate, but Neal finally glanced up with a grateful smile and a slight twinkle in his eye. "Suitable lines, Moz?"

Mozzie just shrugged, grinned, and then said, "Forget him. Let me tell you about this job I've got lined up next week . . ."

"Neal!"

Neal looked up from yet another boring mortgage fraud file to see Peter's double finger point beckoning from upstairs. He sighed and did as instructed. His lunch with Moz had mellowed his hurt and anger somewhat, but it hadn't totally erased his annoyance.

He'd actually been excited about being selected to make reproductions for London's National Gallery—proud, even. But Peter's overbearing attitude about the whole thing was taking all the fun out of it. Still, he knew there was nothing to be gained by any continuing animosity.

Peter was waiting just outside his office when Neal reached the top of the stairs. He followed his CI inside, then closed the door behind them as Neal dropped into his regular visitor chair, doing a passable imitation of his normal self.

Peter got himself seated and gazed across the desk in silent inquiry.

Neal licked his lips and asked calmly, "Could you at least tell me why? I mean, I kind of get that you might be concerned about the paintings, but I showed you the commission letter. It's probably the most legitimate money I've ever made with my art. Allegedly, I mean."

Peter's mouth twitched at the corners, but he tried to keep up his stern expression. "Paintings aren't the only things you know how to forge, Neal."

Inclining his head fractionally in acknowledgment, Neal said, "There are these things called telephones, you know. You could call and check."

"I did."

That surprised the young man. "Then why—" But he stopped himself. "Because I'm me," he whispered. More loudly, he added, "It could all be a con."

"Gonna deny it's possible?"

Neal shook his head slowly, then locked his eyes on Peter's. "But it's not."

"Okay." Peter held his gaze steady. "But that doesn't change your options."

Recognizing Peter didn't intend to be swayed, Neal sucked in a breath and focused on keeping the grimace from his face. "Your house doesn't really have the best north light," he began.

Peter gestured expansively around the room. "All the northern light you could want right here at the office," he told Neal. "Or any other direction you might want."

"Please don't make me try to create here, Peter. It's . . . soulless."

The agent wasn't surprised. "So?"

Neal shook his head. He should've known this was a foregone conclusion. "All right, but I have conditions."

Peter smirked. "You have conditions?"

"Yes. And you should know you're not going to enjoy this weekend any more than I am."

"So you're just gonna be petty then?"

Another headshake. "No. But this weekend has a purpose, Peter. It's about art, creating art. That means no TV, no sports, no talking over case files. There's going to be wine and classical music and old masters. I'm going to paint and you—well, honestly, you're probably going to be bored. But if you insist on babysitting me, if that's what it's going to take to convince you I'm not up to something, then you have to let me do what you've already agreed to let me do."

Peter considered him for a few beats before finally nodding grudgingly. "Fair enough. I'll bring along a few crossword books and a stack of case files." He quickly held up a placating hand. "For myself only; I won't bug you with them." Neal raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Promise," Peter assured.

"Then I guess we have a plan," Neal said as he rose. "Let's just hope it goes better than the last time you stayed over."

"Let's hope." Peter smothered a grin as he got to his feet. This probably wasn't the time to be amused by Neal's pout. "Anyway, I'm just going to wrap up a few things here and then I'll go home and pack a bag. I'll swing back by and pick you up at five."

"You don't have—" He broke off when Peter's eyes narrowed, and gave in gracefully. "I'll be ready at five."

"For what it's worth," Peter said suddenly, once again stopping the consultant just before he could make his exit, "I don't really think I'm going to be bored. In fact, I'm kind of looking forward to seeing you work." He winked. "It'll be fun, you'll see."

"Hoping to learn the tricks of the trade?" Neal asked, keeping his voice light, trying to match Peter's teasing tone.

"Not exactly, though a little turnabout might be a good thing. You're certainly learning a lot about our playbook."

"Fair's fair," Neal agreed with a slightly fake grin. "Hopefully you'll give me a chance to call my attorney if I do anything too incriminating."

Peter's own grin dimmed a bit. He was trying to smooth things over, not ratchet up the tension again. "I meant—"

But Neal waved it off. "I know what you meant, Peter, it's fine. Five o'clock, then?"

And with those words, Neal made his escape downstairs.

He managed to be conveniently away from his desk when Peter left the office half an hour later, but he wasn't so lucky when Agent Hughes stepped out of his own office and shouted down at him.

"Twice in one day," Neal muttered as the senior agent crooked his fingers toward the CI. "Great." But he wiped his face of any annoyance, pasted on a professionally pleasant expression, and trotted upstairs.

"Yes, sir?" he asked from the relative safety of Hughes' doorway. But he should've known it wouldn't be that easy.

"Close the door and sit down," Hughes directed.

Neal didn't let himself swallow around the sudden dryness in his throat. For once, he hadn't done anything wrong—wasn't even planning to do anything wrong—and he wished the feds would just give it a rest already. But he did as he was told.

"So," Hughes said after a moment, "the National Gallery."

"Yes, sir."

"That's impressive."

"Thank you, sir. And, thank you for allowing me to take advantage of this opportunity. I know it's technically against the terms of my probation, and I appreciate you making an exception." Neal was sincere about that. No matter how overbearing the feds were being, he knew they could've stopped it all entirely, and he was honestly grateful they had not.

"I think we're all better off if we encourage you to use your talents legally," Hughes answered drily, and Neal ducked his head to hide a grin.

"And," the agent continued, "I wanted to take a minute to thank you, too, for not giving us a hard time about my conditions, and to make sure you understood."

Neal's head snapped up again. "Your conditions?"

"Well, technically, it was one of the muckety-mucks at the DOJ who strongly suggested you do your work under strict observation. But when it seemed clear Peter disagreed, I'm the one who made it more than a suggestion.

"You know, the Bureau, the Justice Department—agencies like that can have long memories, and at the moment, their memories of Peter are of the agent who got suspended for tangling with OPR. He can't afford another black mark next to his name right now."

"No, sir; I understand completely. And I wouldn't—" He broke off and reconsidered too broad an assurance. Hughes wasn't Peter, but Neal wouldn't want to lie to his handler even by extension. Better to stick to the issue at hand. "And this won't cause him any problems. It's all completely legit, I swear."

"I wouldn't have allowed it if I thought otherwise, but it's good to hear you say it so directly."

Neal wondered for a moment if the entire unit was wise to his tricks. He'd prefer not to be so transparent, but all he said was, "Yes, sir. I'm not trying to make anything more difficult for Peter. Or any of you."

Hughes nodded. "I'm glad to hear it. Good luck with your painting, and you two try not to kill each other this weekend, all right?"

Grinning again, Neal got to his feet. "I'm sure everything will be fine. I don't imagine it's going to be a whole lot of fun for Peter, but I'll make sure he at least stays happy enough that we both make it back here Monday morning."

"Don't torture my best agent, Caffrey," Hughes growled at Neal's retreating form. But Neal just laughed and closed the door behind him.

"You're very prompt," Peter observed as Neal slid into the passenger seat.

"It's a slow Friday," Neal answered with a shrug.

"And you want to get started painting," the agent added with a small, fond smile.

"And I want to get started painting."

They lapsed into comfortable silence for the drive uptown.

Though his consultant wasn't being any more loquacious than he'd been earlier, Peter sensed a difference in attitude. He discreetly watched as Neal scrolled through a couple of text messages, sent a short reply, and then quietly stared at the slowly passing traffic. He wondered what had changed in the brief time since he'd left the office, but he wasn't surprised Neal was keeping things to himself. It usually took a lot to get the kid to show anything beyond his carefully cultivated congeniality, good or bad. Peter understood that, even if it made him a little crazy sometimes.

Some miles into the commute, he broached a relatively safe topic. "I didn't get a chance to ask before I left, but did you make any progress on those cold cases?"

Neal turned from the window, his lips curving upward into a cheeky grin. "Peter, I'm impressed. Almost twenty minutes before you asked about work. That's gotta be some kind of record."

"And almost twenty minutes before you gave me any of your smart-ass lip. Personal bests all around."

Peter grinned as Neal let out a delighted laugh. It was a sound he'd heard far too little of lately, and he was relieved they seemed to be back on an even keel again. Surprised, maybe, but relieved just the same.

Still grinning, Neal gestured toward the messenger bag on the floorboard at his feet. "I brought you a couple to add to your weekend reading—Marquez and Reid."

"Solved them?"

"Solve, no. But I did find you some leads that we can follow whenever you're ready to put them front and center in your crosshairs again."

The rest of the ride to June's was filled with Peter's questions about the cold cases, Neal spending too much time fiddling with the radio dial (and getting his hands batted away for his trouble), and both of them almost looking forward to the weekend ahead.

After talking with Hughes, Neal's attitude about his babysitter had changed drastically, but he still didn't intend to stand on ceremony. "You know where everything is," he said as they entered the loft. Then he continued through the main room and disappeared into the back hallway, leaving Peter to stash his duffel bag in an out of the way corner and help himself to a beer from the fridge.

When Neal returned, he'd changed out of his bespoke suit and into a well-worn tee shirt and loose-fitting sleep pants, both of which were streaked with occasional splotches of paint in various hues that still somehow managed to look artful and deliberate. Peter just rolled his eyes and gestured at the loose pages he'd been looking through on the dining table.

"I see you started without me."

Neal rolled his own eyes. "Just the studies. Even I don't just sit down at a canvas on a whim and whip up a Renoir, Peter. Besides, even if they weren't drawn on modern sketch paper, they're all signed and dated."

"I noticed," Peter replied with a smile that was almost proud.

Smothering his own smile, Neal moved to the kitchenette to pour himself a glass of wine. "But the only other thing I've done," he commented, "is prepare the canvases."

"I noticed that, too."

Neal crossed back to where he had two easels set up, canvases ready and waiting. "I may not agree with all your rules, Peter, but I follow them when I can."

Peter huffed as he pulled out a chair and sat down to watch for a while. "When you can? I'm pretty sure you always can."

The only answer was a shrug, a slightly sheepish expression, and a complete lack of apology.

Then Neal pointed at the easels. "Manet, Renoir," he said, gesturing between the two canvases.

Peter looked back at the sketches, pictures of one man and one woman. "Not the subject matter I would've expected from you."

Neal shrugged again as he picked up a graphite pencil. "The gallery is focusing on portraits for their forgery room." He sorted through the studies on the table, selected one to attach to his easel, and began a light sketch of a woman on the smaller canvas.

There wasn't any more conversation then, and Peter sat silently observing as Neal's face cleared of all artifice and pretense and his entire body relaxed as all his focus narrowed to the canvas in front of him.

Amid all Neal's studies, there were also several pictures of the original painting, and Peter pulled one closer. Head of Gabrielle, the page proclaimed, and he felt sadness wash over him as he took a closer look at the picture Neal was busy sketching. The young woman with long brown hair and alabaster skin would never be mistaken for Kate, but he had no doubt it had been those basic similarities that drew Neal to select this particular portrait. He closed his eyes and took a long drink of beer, also swallowing the urge to offer some kind of comforting words that he knew wouldn't really be a comfort at all.

After a while, Neal stepped back, cast an appraising look at the drawing, and then set his pencil aside. He stretched his arms wide, twisting and bending, easing the muscles that had constricted as he sketched. It was only as he turned to pour out a bit of brownish paint that he seemed to notice Peter still at the table, still watching. He smiled ruefully.

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's a side of you I haven't really seen before."

"Contrary to popular belief, I do have some sense of self-preservation. It's generally considered a bad idea to recreate Renoir in front of a fed."

Peter chuckled as he rose and went to grab another beer. "It's probably considered a bad idea to send dinner to a fed's surveillance vehicle or call him when you're on the run, but that never stopped you."

"No, it didn't." Neal dipped a brush into his paint and began putting some simple lines on the second canvas, just the barest hint of a person.

"No sketch this time?" Peter asked, reclaiming his seat.

Neal shook his head. "Manet didn't use a pencil; just a rough outline with umber paint."

"Of course you'd know that."

"It's my job, Peter." He stilled his brush momentarily and looked at the man behind him. "Was my job."

Peter chuckled again briefly, then sobered. "Look, Neal, I'm not here to trip you up, you know; not looking for a reason to lock you up. In fact, just the opposite."

After studying his partner a moment longer, Neal gave a single nod and turned back to his painting. "I know." He peered closely at his sample photo before adding, "You're here to protect me from myself—no matter how unnecessary that might be." Then he threw another glance over his shoulder and offered a small smile. "But it's the thought that counts."

Peter had just settled back more comfortably in his chair, still watching Neal's process, when a loud rumble cut through the silence.

Neal laughed, and Peter clasped a hand quickly against his stomach.

"Sorry, sorry," Peter mumbled.

"It's fine. I'm almost done here for now, and our dinner should be ready soon."

Peter raised an eyebrow quizzically. "What do you mean? I just figured we'd order out."

"I figured that's what you figured." Neal didn't stop painting. "And we'll probably have to resort to that the next couple of days. But for tonight, I thought we might do something a little better than that."

"What are you planning?"

"Nothing you need to worry about," Neal assured him. "Just dinner."

"No shenanigans?"

"No shenanigans. Not even any hijinks or tomfoolery."

Peter narrowed his eyes and tried to glare at the gentle mocking, but ultimately settled for just not giving in to the grin that was threatening to erupt. He jabbed a finger across the table. "Just finish your picture."

"So, who's the Manet?" he asked after a minute.

"Georges Clemenceau."

"The French prime minister, wanted Germany to make reparations, 'war is too important to be left to the military' guy?"

Neal's eyes widened in surprised approval. "That's the guy. He also said Americans make bad coffee."

"So he had a few good ideas, then. Still, if you're focusing on portraits, I would've expected you to go for another pretty girl."

"Thought one girl, one guy would be a nice balance." Then Neal grinned as he cleaned his brush. "Besides, maybe I'm developing a soft spot for hard ass bureaucrats who believe they can make the world a better place."

"Hah. You're lucky I'm nowhere close to the hard ass he was. Pretty sure he never let serial criminals out of prison."

"He didn't know what he was missing."

Before Peter could retort, there was a quick, rhythmic rap on the door, followed immediately by Mozzie bustling into the apartment. "Glad tidings, mon frère." He grimaced. "Suit."

"Hey, Moz." Neal flashed his friend an eager smile. "Everything ready?"

Instantly on his feet with his hands resting on his hips, Peter was less welcoming. "Is what ready? Mozzie, what are you doing here? This is supposed to be strictly a one con artist weekend, you know."

"I am well aware of your Draconian restrictions, Suit, and believe me, I do not intend to dally." He turned to Neal. "Everything is indeed ready. My contribution is completed and tested, and Maria just finished setting up your repast."

"Perfect." Neal tugged on Peter's arm as he started toward the door. "C'mon, I want to show you something. Mozzie, help yourself to a bottle—"

"Or two," Moz interjected.

"Or two. It's worth it. Thanks for your help." He held open the door, looking at Peter expectantly. "Well?"

But Peter still hesitated. "What are you up to? And what about him?" He jerked a thumb toward Mozzie, who was already perusing the wine rack.

"We're just going downstairs. And what's Moz going to do with a couple of barely started old masters?"

"That's what I'd like to know," Peter muttered, not quite under his breath, but he finally followed Neal out of the apartment.

"He's not going to do anything, Peter," Neal assured him as they padded down one flight of stairs. "Besides, I need him there for a minute for demonstration purposes."

On the next floor down, Neal steered Peter to the far end of the hallway into a spacious and comfortably appointed room.

"Byron had a man cave," Peter drawled, looking around approvingly.

Neal chuckled. "I think he called it a smoking room, but yeah. June said we could use it this weekend."

The wall of windows was nowhere near as expansive as those in Neal's loft, but it still provided a breathtaking view. The gauzy drapes hanging in the windows kept out any harsh glare, but were sheer enough to let the men appreciate the golden rays bouncing around outside as the last minutes of the day dwindled into twilight.

At one side of the room, clustered around a large stone fireplace, were a sofa and two easy chairs upholstered in rich brown leather that had been worn to perfection, its suppleness plain to see. But today, the fireplace was obscured by an eighty-inch television that had already been tuned to the Yankees pre-game show. Peter's eyes grew wide with appreciation. Just to the right of the screen, another, smaller television rested on a rolling cart, though it wasn't powered on.

On the other side of the room, a card table had been covered to become a dining table, and it was set with two plates covered with silver domes. A basket of crusty bread was in the center of the table, along with a bottle of wine and a chilled bottle of imported beer. The rest of the six-pack was in an ice-filled wine bucket on a convenient table-side stand. Neal made an after you gesture, and Peter smiled as he took his seat, which was perfectly situated with a clear view of the televisions.

"What is all this?" he asked.

"Dinner, I told you. And baseball."

Peter lifted the cover from his plate to reveal a grilled to perfection New York strip steak covered with mushrooms, fluffy baked potato, and steamed broccoli and cauliflower drizzled with cheese sauce; Neal's held the same.

"I know hot dogs are more traditional," Neal continued, "but I didn't think you'd mind."

"This looks delicious. And that TV is fantastic." Peter looked up from his plate, his eyes softening as he met his partner's gaze. "But, Neal, as much as I appreciate all this, you know I can't—"

Neal held up a hand to fend off the objections. "I'm not finished." He picked up a small remote lying beside his plate and pointed it at the darkened television. When the set came to life, it held not a baseball game, but a security feed, showing segmented views from multiple cameras, all of them in Neal's loft. They could see Mozzie making what appeared to be his final selection of wine, setting the bottle next to one already waiting on the counter. Then he spread his arms and waved them around expansively, indicating the far corners of the apartment.

"Who does he think he is, Vanna White?" Peter muttered.

Neal shushed him. "Just watch."

As if he could hear them—and for all Peter knew, he could—Mozzie began making his way around the apartment. He crossed from the wine rack to the sleeping area, over to the dining table, then stood next to the fireplace. He even opened the doors and walked the terrace from end to end and never once did he step out of sight of the cameras.

Finally, Moz made his way to the back of the apartment, down the short hallway, into the oversized closet with the hidden observation panel, and back out again. Only when he stepped into the bathroom and closed the door did he disappear from view.

"Sorry," Neal said with a small grin, "but I had to have a little bit of privacy there." He indicated a couple of buttons on the remote and showed Peter how to navigate through the different camera angles, zooming in on anything he wanted to see more closely, zooming out again to see the entire apartment.

He watched his handler closely as he continued his explanation. "This isn't me trying to play the system, Peter, or trying to get rid of you so I can . . . well, whatever it is you think I might do. But no matter how intriguing it might be for you to have a ringside seat into my . . . reproduction process," he ignored Peter's quiet snort of amusement, "I know you're not going to be happy spending an entire weekend in my world and without whatever sports you want to watch. I can't work with the game on, but you can't leave me unsupervised—this seems like the perfect compromise." They watched as Mozzie made his way through the apartment once again, snatched up his two selected bottles of wine, then waved a genial farewell to the cameras before disappearing out the door.

Peter took the time to savor another bite of his steak before responding. "How did I never know your place had such good security?"

"Because it doesn't. Didn't. And come Monday, it won't again, so don't get any ideas about supplementing your tracking data. You have no idea what it took to get Mozzie to set that stuff up after all the work he puts in making sure the place stays observation proof."

"I bet." Peter chuckled as he returned to his meal.

"You're still free to come and go as much as you want, of course. Or after dinner, we can both go back and you can literally stay with me all weekend, just like we planned. I just wanted to give you some options. I know you didn't have to let me do this at all; you shouldn't have to be miserable because of it, even for a couple of days."

Between bites, Peter cast an inquisitive glance up at his young partner. "Why the change?" He had no doubt Neal would understand the question.

Neal took his time, using his own meal as a distraction for several long minutes, though he knew Peter would wait him out. Finally, he gave a slight shrug and answered with a question of his own.

"Why didn't you tell me you were ordered to be here?"

Surprised, Peter gave his own shrug. "You needed a place to direct your anger, and it didn't change the outcome. I didn't figure it mattered."

"It matters to me," Neal told him, sincere blue eyes latching on to Peter's accepting brown ones. "I know I don't always make it easy for you to trust me; I appreciate it when you do."

This time, Peter didn't try to stop the smile spreading across his face. "I'll tell you a secret: it's not always as hard as you might think."

Neal ducked his head quickly, his attention back on his plate again, mostly hiding the pleased flush spreading across his cheeks.

Peter let him off the hook. "Hey, the game's starting. Turn up the sound, would ya?"

Neal hit the mute button on a second remote then pushed them both across the table. "All yours."

"I know you've got a lot of work to do," Peter said, "but maybe you could hang around for a while after dinner. I'll teach you some of the finer points of baseball." He reconsidered. "Or maybe the very basics of baseball."

"I'm not totally clueless, Peter," Neal retorted with mock offense. "But yeah, I'll stick around for a while, maybe until the end of the first quarter or so."

"The first quarter?" Peter sputtered, almost spitting out his beer. "This isn't foo—" He broke off as he saw the gleeful gleam in Neal's eyes and shook his head ruefully. "You said that on purpose!" Under his breath, he added, "Asshole."

"Not totally clueless," Neal reminded him with a laugh. "But, yeah, I'll watch a couple of innings."

Dinner was companionable, and they were both still smiling as they finished eating and moved to the more comfortable chairs, watching the game, drinks in hand. Neal waited until the changeover at the bottom of the third, then got to his feet.

"I've gotta get back to work, Peter; I want to get the first layer on the Renoir tonight."

Peter glanced up at him but didn't move. "I'm looking forward to seeing it. I'll be back up after a while."

Neal smiled and waved a hand at the television as he moved toward the door. "You know where to find me." He turned back just before he left the room.

"I think you were right, by the way." He didn't wait for Peter's quizzical expression to morph into an actual question, and a smile lit his face as he explained.

"This is gonna be fun."

~END~

Well, my quest to learn how to write fluff continues, because this isn't anywhere close to the story I thought I'd tell when I started this thing. Still, is there anything more quintessentially White Collar than some sort of exploration of trust? I think not.

So, happy Caffrey-Burke Day, everybody! Can you believe it's been twelve years since we first met these two? It really has been a fun ride.

Thanks for reading, and we're hoping there'll be other contributions to #CaffreyBurkeDay2021, so keep an eye out on your favorite fandom sites.