AN: Thanks to my Beta Deej1957 for a doing an awesome job!

Disclaimer: White Collar belongs to USA Network and Jeff Eastin.

CHAPTER 12

The drive took about five hours. It was mostly quiet and comfortable, and although Neal started fumbling with the buttons in the car making Peter crazy at first, he finally settled on a Jazz station and they drove the rest of the way in relative calmness. Peter noticed that Neal seemed to absorb the scenery like a sponge. He had asked him earlier if he had ever been fishing before and Neal had admitted he'd actually never been anywhere like that before.

Peter's cabin was located in Southwest Ontario County. It was on the shore of the smallest of the Finger Lakes, Lake Canadice. Whereas most lakes in western New York were heavily developed, this one still had beautiful wooded shores and hillsides. The atmosphere of remoteness contributed to the "unspoiled" atmosphere of the place.

The cabin wasn't big. It only had one bedroom and Peter announced to an argumentative Neal that he would have to sleep on the couch. Of course, the couch was perfectly okay, Neal had slept in much worse places, but he liked exasperating Peter. Satchmo seemed a bit skeptical about the place at first but after he gave it a good sniffing, he settled himself beside Neal's backpack on the couch and observed them while they brought all their things from the car.

Peter made a couple of sandwiches and they settled on some chairs in the porch to eat them. Peter could see that Neal finally seemed to be unwinding from everything that had happened lately. It was nice out there, just the three of them and nature.

In the afternoon, Peter grabbed all the fishing gear and led Neal down to a small dock. He'd taken their small boat out of the storage garage an hour ago and they loaded everything into the boat. Fifteen minutes later, they were somewhere in the middle of the lake fishing.

"So, what kind of fish are we going for?" Neal asked.

"Well, there's mostly trout and smallmouth bass in this lake," Peter responded.

"How do you know where to stay? I mean, where to put the boat to make sure you're going to catch something?"

"It's not so much about the place. You have to take into consideration the habitat of course, but the most important thing is presenting the right bait, in just the right way, which varies with time and location."

"Mmm… kind of like the work you do in the Bureau, then? Baiting criminals in just the right way to catch them?" Neal asked with a smirk.

"Yeah, something like that." Peter moved closer to Neal and sat beside him. "The perfect bait here is flies and spinners for the trout, and jigs, crankbaits or topwaters for the smallmouth bass." He grabbed one of the rods they had brought along and proceeded to explain the essentials to Neal.

Neal paid attention. He really did, but who knew there were so many parts to a fishing rod? There was the tip top, the tip, the windings, the guide, the butt guide, the ferrule, the butt, the hook keeper, the reel seat, the handle, the butt cap… It was a good thing that he actually had good recall or he wouldn't have been able to keep up. Peter proceeded with patience and asked him some questions along with the explanation, making sure Neal was getting it all.

After the "Fishing 101" explanation, Peter watched Neal, who was peering intently at the water where his line had disappeared. He smiled and leaned back in his seat. "Neal, keep the line taut. You'll be able to respond better if a fish bites."

Enjoying the peacefulness surrounding them, Peter eventually took another look at Neal and then turned his gaze back towards the water and started talking slowly, relaxation oozing from him with every uttered word.

"My dad," Peter started, "who might be the best person I've ever met, used to bring me here every year. We'd sit in this boat for hours. Every year, we had a weekend getaway. It started when I turned 5 and even when I grew older and got married, we still came."

"He sounds like a good dad." Neal commented moving his fishing rod nervously in his hands.

"He was. The best you could wish for." They sat in silence for some time. "He died; prostate cancer. About 4 years ago."

Neal nodded in acknowledgement.

"I miss him," Peter stated. "You know, he used to say things like: 'Marry the right person. That one decision will determine ninety percent of your happiness or misery,' or 'work at something you enjoy and that's worthy of your time and talent'. He always put things in perspective. He always gave the best advice," Peter said smiling at the memories.

Neal smiled back at him. It was nice, to contemplate a life like Peter's, to imagine a perfect childhood, with loving parents, and traditions like fishing trips with your dad every year.

Neal concentrated on his fishing rod and the still water around them. He wasn't a patient person, at all, but being there with Peter was…pleasant. It was almost as if he was actually another person. He thought about the waitress of the diner earlier and how easily he could pretend to be Peter's son. How he could create a new alias and step into the role.

"So, what's going on in school?" Peter asked, startling Neal out of his reverie.

"Nothing interesting," Neal replied. Peter gave him a pointed look.

"Really, Peter," Neal said nonchalantly, "the classes are so easy."

"All those AP classes you're taking? They're not hard?"

"Easy," Neal reaffirmed.

"Have you made any friends yet?"

Neal hadn't. No one had asked what had happened or where he came from. No one had actually claimed that Peter and El weren't his real parents, but there wasn't a chance that he could hide the anklet during gym. Teenagers were ruthless. End of story. No amount of Caffrey charm actually worked against the anklet and the stories invented by his classmates.

"A few. Here and there." It wasn't lie, Neal thought. Some classmates did talk to him. They just weren't friends.

"Mmhmm…" Peter didn't buy it.

They stayed there, sitting side by side without saying anything for a long time. By the end of the second hour without any bites, Neal was starting to feel restless. He liked the nature, and this place was nice, especially with Peter beside him, but he just wasn't accustomed to doing something that didn't give you anything in return. It wasn't like him to do something without winning or without expecting a prize for doing it.

He'd always enjoyed the rush more than the stealing part. It was addictive; the thrill of knowing you'd do a con and get away with it. It was easy and fulfilling and the prize was immediate. You'd con someone and you'd get an instant reward. This was nothing like that. It was basically working hard and waiting to "possibly" get something in return. So, what the hell was the point?

Peter had noticed Neal's restlessness climbing at an incredible rate for the last twenty minutes or so. Neal was tapping his foot repeatedly and playing with his fishing rod, causing ripples all through the water around them. Peter reached over and put a hand over Neal's knee, trying to still his tapping. He let the knee go when Neal looked up at him and stopped.

"Fishing is supposed to be a contemplative sport, Neal," Peter said. "It doesn't matter much what you catch, or whether you catch anything to keep."

"Then why do you do it?" asked Neal genuinely puzzled.

Peter sighed and settled back in his seat.

"The water is one of the best places to sort out your thoughts. When you're out here, no one is bothering you, and the only sounds you hear are those of nature. This is one of the best places for reflection." Peter swept his arm trying to encompass everything around them. "All of this, the sound of the water flowing beneath you, the quietness… it's special. There's no better place to get to know yourself."

"So, you basically sit here. Doing nothing, just thinking about yourself?" Neal asked. "It sounds awfully unproductive and self-absorbed. You don't even expect to catch anything?"

"Yes Neal, I do expect to catch something. It's fishing after all…" Peter responded. "Patience," he said after a quick pause. "There are some things in life that don't come quickly and easily. Fishing is one of them."

Neal contemplated the words and forced himself to try to relax and absorb his surroundings once more. He started talking quietly after some time. "You've been asking me about my dad. I think my mom told me what any kid would want to hear."

"That he was a hero?" Peter asked.

"He wasn't," Neal said forcibly. "He was a dirty cop."

Peter nodded but remained quiet.

"What did my file say he did?" Neal asked not looking at him.

"It said that he was a cop, who died in a bust gone bad," Peter responded.

"He was dirty," Neal repeated emphatically, like that was all that actually mattered.

"Neal, you're not him," said Peter reassuringly.

"If I'm not my father's son… who am I?"

Peter shrugged and looked at him. "Certain things are…"

"In my blood," Neal interrupted.

Peter shook his head. "I don't believe that."

Neal shook his own head at that and Peter knew he didn't believe him.

"Do you miss him? Your dad?" asked Peter.

Neal gave him a look that plainly said: You think?

"It's not so much that I actually miss him. I miss…the idea of him." He missed something he had never had. What would it be like to have a father? Doing things with his father like Peter used to do with his father? Things like fishing and talking… like what you're doing with Peter right now? Neal thought treacherously, and tried to banish the thought from his head.

"What about your mom?"

Peter could practically see the walls coming up again after his question. Neal locked eyes with him and smiled charmingly before responding.

"You know, I've always been kind of a loner. Orphan kid missing his parents, isn't that so cliché, Peter?"

Peter tried to ignore his walls and kept prodding. "You were left alone when you were smaller?"

After his dad died, his mom was devastated at being left alone. It wasn't only the fact that his dad had died disgraced as a dirty cop, but he also died leaving a lot of bills behind. So, his mom worked hard. She had 3 different jobs that paid very little money.

Neal adored her and he knew - he knew that he wasn't only her son Neal. He was also a 24/7 reminder of his dad as well. He'd seen pictures and heard comments from all their acquaintances. His dad had the same brown locks of hair, the same blue eyes, and the same carefree smile. His mom used to tell him stories about his dad. Stories about how they met, of where he took her for their first date, and of how he could charm practically any living thing with a smile. She had loved him, deeply, and he had left them.

She never went on dates with other guys and her little free time was spent at home with him. Unfortunately, it wasn't a lot of time. Even when he was small, he learned to be independent and tried to do as much as possible to help his mom. She was just so tired most of the time.

Neal sat pensively for a couple of minutes and he surprised himself and Peter when he actually replied. "My mom was pretty busy so I handled things on my own, most of the time."

"How long is most of the time?"

"Let's put it this way. When I was ten I skipped a week of school before anyone noticed."

"When did the panic attacks start?"

Neal answered distractedly, "I was five…" Neal suddenly stood up and grabbed his fishing rod tightly. "Peter! I think I have something!"

Peter stood up too and watched as Neal struggled with the fishing rod. Neal's heart was pounding hard, this time not from any kind of panic attack, but from his excitement. This was it, the struggle between man and fish. Neal against nature, he thought. He took a breath as Peter suggested and tried to do everything that Peter kept saying.

Five minutes later he held a squirmy and slimy fish in his hands. Holding it, Neal felt a sense of accomplishment, knowing that he caught it, and that all his work and patience actually paid off. He finally understood that all of the time he spent waiting for a damn fish was actually worth it.

Peter watched Neal struggle and finally get his fish out. He'd been dying to help him. He'd wanted to take the fishing rod and pull it out himself, but he didn't. He remembered the excitement when he caught his first fish. It had been wonderful.

Neal dropped the medium sized trout on the deck and Peter watched as he grabbed it and held it up with both hands. The smile in Neal's face was completely genuine. No walls, no con. It lit up the whole world around him. Peter grinned back. He patted Neal on the shoulder, and swore to himself that he'd try to do anything in his power to keep that smile on the kid's face.

It was getting late. He pulled his own fishing rod out, took out the camera, and snapped a few pictures of Neal and his trout for El. They gathered their stuff, and taking animatedly about nothing in particular, they turned the boat around and returned to the cabin.