A riot of birdsong awoke Peter from the cloudy world of sleep. He sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes and automatically reaching for his phone. The grainy display proclaimed that it was half past seven in the morning; the lemony sunlight streaming through gauze curtains confirmed that this was true. Peter sighed contentedly and sank back on his pillows. Monday morning. Unlike most people in the country, the prospect didn't actually fill him with dread. Peter Burke loved his job. He smiled to himself as he sketched out his day in his mind. In about an hour, he would sweep into the office, espresso in one hand and files in the other. Diana would bring him up to speed on the weekend's events and Jones would natter away about the latest lead he had discovered. But before the office there would be the relaxed breakfast with El, the morning papers and the crunchy nut cornflakes. It was all ahead of him. A slow smile brightened his features as he planned his morning. He would go down and make El some coffee. Maybe they would shake things up a bit and go out for lunch later, really seize the day… Peter paused in his musings. There was something wrong. Something that he was overlooking.

Neal.

Peter swore and threw off the covers. Neal was downstairs on the sofa! The teenager was staying with them as part of a foster program that doubled as a manipulative scheme designed to extract information. Peter had told the kid as much last night. Last night when Neal had lied to his face and swore that he didn't have the microchip. Only they all knew that he did. Keller and Neal had broken into the secure facility, stolen the thing, and hidden it somewhere obscure. It was his job to find it. Grumbling incoherently to himself, Peter pushed himself out of bed (leaving his sleeping wife cocooned like a caterpillar in the all-encompassing duvet). He stuffed his feet into slippers and shuffled downstairs.

En route to the kitchen, Peter had to pass the living room. The last thing he wanted first thing in the morning was to spark up a discussion with a grouchy teenager, so he prayed that Neal was still asleep. He wasn't. Peter cursed when the kid looked up from where he lay curled under a mountain of blankets and grinned broadly.

"Morning Peter."
"M'ning." Peter grunted. All his cheerful energy had dissipated since he had been reminded of his responsibilities, and he had relapsed into a groggy, unresponsive mood. Neal was slightly more alert. He sat propped up on the sofa wearing socks decorated with miniature policemen. He wore nothing except grey pyjama bottoms – his bare chest looked pale under the layers of bandages that enswathed his bruised ribs. He had balanced his injured ankle precariously on a stack of cushions, seemingly unconcerned at the way the pile was tottering, and he had his hair fluffed straight upwards. From somewhere under the mound of quilts, the tracking anklet glowed green. Neal had a bowl of dry cheerios resting on his torso and a mug of tea on the floor beside him. The TV was on, a flickering light that gave the room a cosy, safe atmosphere. Peter rolled his eyes. The kid looked like the lord of the freaking manor.

"You made yourself at home." He remarked. Neal looked slightly hurt.
"Sorry, Peter – I, I should have asked. Elizabeth told me to help myself to the kitchen and the telly, so I did." He sounded genuinely apologetic. Peter didn't buy it for one second.

"What you watching?" He asked, as the silence brushed against the realm of awkward.

"Lost." Neal smiled, as if amused to be caught watching a programme almost as old as he was. "I was watching it on Netflix before…" He trailed off. Peter knew that he meant before I was arrested. "Before… I came here." Neal seemed anxious to change the subject. "I noticed you had series 3 on DVD." Peter turned to look at the screen. It showed an obese man with long curly hair staggering through a jungle, flies buzzing around his head, a chocolate bar clasped in one meaty fist.

"No way." Peter squinted closer. He had watched Lost avidly with El when it had been live on TV years ago, and seeing it now brought long forgotten memories swimming to the surface. "I remember this bit! The monster is going to pop out any second now." They both fell silent, watching the show together. Nothing happened for the briefest of moments. Peter contemplated that this was actually quite nice. Watching TV with a teenager. Exploring their common interests. This was what being a foster parent was all about. He wondered if he would ever get close enough to Neal to consider him a member of his own family. At the rate Neal was lying and holding back his numerous secrets, probably not.

"RRROOOOOAAAARRRR!" Right on cue, the monster leapt of the greenery and the man on the screen screamed and tripped over a log. Neal and Peter both jumped, then turned to face each other, laughing. Who knows. Peter thought. Maybe this fostering could work after all. Maybe, one day, Neal will trust me.

"I'm gonna get some coffee." He said aloud, once they had recovered from the brief scare. "You want some?" Neal nodded to the cup of tea next to him.

"No thanks. You need any help?"

"Nah." He pottered off to make the drinks, leaving Neal to his programme.

Once Peter was out of the room, Neal closed his eyes. All this lying was exhausting. He pulled his phone out from a under a pillow and thumbed his way onto snapchat. Part of the terms and conditions that came with the tracking anklet said that he wasn't allowed internet access unless it was for educational purposes, but there was absolutely no way he was going to follow that rule. Neal had easily hacked his way through the restrictions surrounding apps like Snapchat, Skype and Facebook within seconds of regaining his phone, and had set up a secure communications network between him and Mozzie last night before drifting off to sleep.

Hey. His slender fingers flew across the screen, tapping a gentle rhythm. Moz? There was moment of silence, then his phone vibrated stridently as Mozzie replied.

Neal! Gods above, it is good to hear your voice. Or, more accurately, read your message. Neal smiled and hurriedly typed his reply. Peter was nearly finished in the kitchen and the last thing he needed right now was to get his phone confiscated. He arranged a meeting with Mozzie and slid the phone beneath the pillows just as Peter rounded the corner, two cups of steaming coffee gripped in his hands. The pair of them exchanged nods as Peter shuffled past and started the slow ascent up the stairs.

Peter's feet gradually disappeared from sight and Neal sighed wearily. This fostering – if you could call it that – was going to be a nightmare. He was still weak from his injuries and the stress of being arrested in the first place, and he wasn't sure if he had the energy to maintain the web of deception that had ensnared his mind for so long. The truth was… he had the microchip. He had had it for years, ever since he and Mozzie had broken into the secure federal facility and stolen the famed Datum 815. That was lie number one. Contrary to what Peter and the feds thought, Keller had never actually been involved in stealing the microchip. Neal doubted that the lumbering oaf even knew it existed. The plan he and Mozzie had concocted was simple – steal the microchip, make billions of dollars and frame Keller in the process.

But the plan had gone amiss. Somehow, the FBI had realised that Nealhad been at the scene of the crime as well as "Keller" (though the DNA that supposedly belonged to Keller had actually been swiped off the crook's beer glass by Mozzie and artfully planted). Placing Neal at the crime scene had set Peter into believing that Neal had the microchip. Which had led to Neal denying it profusely in a bid to save his neck as well as Mozzie's. Which had led to a visit from a sinister psychiatrist, which had, in turn, led to this ridiculous foster programme.

Neal rubbed his temples. A headache threatened to drown his thoughts in hot throbs. He hated lying to Peter. He hated having to claim that he didn't have the microchip when everyone knew that he did. If he told himself the blunt and honest truth, if he looked deep inside himself to reveal his most innermost thoughts - he actually wanted nothing more than to forego the lies and return the microchip into the possession of the FBI. It would make Peter happy.

Neal knew that Peter's job was on thin ice at the moment, and it was all his fault. Last night, Peter had received a call from Hughes at White Collar. Apparently OPR had been in touch. They had heard about Neal's escape and the foster programme, and had set a worrying time scale. If in 6 months Peter hadn't reclaimed the chip, he would lose his job. Simple as that. Relinquishing the microchip would ensure the financial security of Peter and Elizabeth, the two people who cared about him despite his flaws. But… there were just too many other factors for him to do what was right.

Firstly there was Mozzie. If he gave up the chip, Mozzie would be incarcerated for sure, as well as losing his source of income. Mozzie had been using the microchip to make money in small amounts for years. He couldn't betray his friend like that. And then there were… personal reasons. The microchip was hidden in a secure vault at a secret location somewhere in the country. It was hidden with the rest of Neal's treasures: his stolen paintings, his forgeries, his stacks of money and his priceless jewels. All the riches of a lifetime. The work of his entire career. To give up the chip would be to lose it all. Not only that, he would lose the Burkes. Though lying was tedious and he knew that Peter was a long way off from ever trusting him, Neal actually quite enjoyed the foster program. So far he had been cared for and fed, kept warm and safe, out of prison. Could he really lose all of that, all that he had worked for, for the sake of doing the right thing? The question burned inside him. He didn't know how to answer it.

Peter slouched into the bedroom, setting the cups of coffee on top of a threadbare copy of A Game of Thrones and snuggling back into bed. He was content to just lie there, in those precious moments before he had to don his suit and hit the office, and think of Neal. What was he possibly going to do now that there was a teenager in his life? One of the numerous questions swirling through his mind was how on earth he was going to finance it. The bureau would provide a monthly allowance for the upkeep of Neal, but he suspected that that money would equal the amount of green needed to care for Neal in prison. That would be enough to cover all the bills and food for him, El, and Neal, but Peter knew that the kid would need all sorts of added extras. School books, pens, pencils, clothes. Not to mention the stuff needed for Neal's bedroom. He would be staying in the guest room, and somehow Peter didn't think that the teenager would be overjoyed to have room painted pink and cream with flower fairies adorning the walls. They hadn't had the time to redecorate the room since they had bought the house a few years back, and the guest bedroom was still kitted out to cater the visual needs of a three year old girl. Peter laughed at the thought. Knowing Neal, the kid wouldn't even mind the garish décor. He was a conman, and if there was one thing that conmen were good at it was adapting to their surroundings. If Neal could escape from his school using a packet of tic tacs and a fedora, then he could definitely cope with a flower themed bedroom. Neal Caffrey – chameleon extraordinaire. Chuckling softly to himself, Peter rolled out of bed and jumped in the shower. It was time to face the office.

It was eleven thirty in the morning. Peter was at work, which left Elizabeth and Neal alone to entertain themselves at home. Neal swung his legs off the sofa (not liking the unfamiliar weight of the tracking anklet against his skin) and hobbled to the kitchen where he helped El with a late breakfast. Once they had eaten, Neal was shown to his room.

"I'm sorry about the decorations." El smiled as she watched Neal examine his new bedroom with interest. "I guess we could paint over the ballerinas and fairies-"

"No, it's alright." Neal grinned, eyes bright and earnest. "I don't want to hassle you, Elizabeth. The room is wonderful. Thank you so much for having me here." For once, the words weren't said for the purpose of conning his way into people's good books. He delivered them with genuine feeling, and was rewarded by El's look of warm appreciation.

"You're very welcome, Neal." She glanced around the room, as if noting how bare it was. Just a bed and an empty wardrobe. Boxes piled high with some of Neal's possessions from his apartment at June's littered the floor. Jones had brought them over on Sunday (after searching through them with painstaking detail). Wordlessly, Elizabeth and Neal started to unpack. It was a strange hour they spent together. Elizabeth, though kind and surprisingly empathic, seemed quiet and withdrawn, almost to the point of sullen. Neal supposed that in the cold light of day, she was struggling to come to terms with the fact that the boy she had hit with her car two nights ago would now be living in her house for six months. She was a foster mother to both a stranger and a criminal, and he guessed that that would take some getting used to. He was still getting used to it. It was a Monday morning, but Neal wasn't at school. That in itself wasn't unusual – his illegal antics often gave him cause to miss lessons – but whenever he skipped school he would always be skipping it with Mozzie. The fact that he was with the Elizabeth Burke instead of his friend was an unsettling sensation. Neal reassured himself with the reminder that he would be seeing Mozzie that evening.

After several failed attempts at conversation, Neal finally got the ball rolling by asking El about Satchmo. That got the words flowing like ink from a fountain pen, and the time spent unpacking suddenly whipped by as El summoned her faithful dog and demonstrated to Neal all the tricks he could perform. Laughing so hard it made his weakened ribs burn like acid, Neal gasped for breath as he helped El make up his bed with fresh linens. Stuffing his arms inside the covers and grabbing the quilt so that it smothered his body like a huge white tent made Neal feel seven years old again. He shot El a dazzling grin and together, they gathered up the quilt and threw it onto the bed. Finished.

That night, Neal slept in his new room. The light was on in the landing outside his door, and the soft glow seeped through into his pink walled bedroom irritatingly. Neal knew that Peter and Elizabeth didn't usually sleep with the outside light on. They had put it on for his benefit, should he be scared or confused or lost in the middle of the night. Though he appreciated the effort, sitting there in the dark with rays of light stabbing into his eyes was not his idea of fun. Groaning, Neal checked the time. It was one in the morning. Mozzie would be here any second now…

Knock. Knock. Knock. Silence… Knock.

Neal smiled and rolled out of bed, hating the way the tracking anklet caught the blankets when he did so. Though he had been initially glad to see the tracker, now that it was a part of his life he detested the plastic monstrosity with a passion. He couldn't go ten minutes without thinking of a way to get rid of it. Maybe Mozzie would know how to crack the lock on the bloody thing.

Neal edged over to door, avoiding the creaky floorboards, and slowly teased the handle open. Like a shadow in the oily night, he slipped out of the room and into the hallway. His pyjamas and socked feet were silent in the hush of the house. Creeping forward, Neal tiptoed his way past the door to Peter's room and hit the stairs without incident. Mozzie was in the kitchen. The knock was their signal – it meant that his short friend had found a way through the backdoor and was successfully inside the house. As per their arrangement. Smiling, Neal took the stairs one at a time. On the last one, his badly sprained ankle betrayed him and he lost his balance. One hand shot out to steady himself against the bannister. The stair creaked in deafening protest. Loud enough to wake the dead. Neal froze, heart pounding. If Peter woke up…

Silence descended. Neal held his breath, waiting, ears pricked, eyes strained. One Mississippi, two Mississippi…His instincts kicked in, adrenaline flooding his veins, fight or flight –

Nothing happened.

Sighing with relief at the close call, Neal padded downstairs and into the kitchen. Mozzie sat at the oak table with his feet propped up on the surface, face obscured by shadow. Grinning, Neal sidled over to him and sat next to his friend behind the kitchen table.

Peter sat bolt upright in bed. Details trickled into his mind like ants on a march. It was one in the morning. The house was silent. The neighbourhood was still. But… something had woken him up from his slumber. Breathing heavily, Peter blinked away the fogs of sleep and tried to remember. Knocking. He had heard knocking. Puzzled, Peter sat, shrouded in the quiet, listening intently. Nothing happened for a few minutes. He slowly sank back into bed and began to relax. He had probably imagined the sound. Nothing was amiss. Neal and his wife were fine…

A shrill creak shredded the air. A creak like floorboards shifting under the weight of a person. An assassin? A burglar? An OPR representative?! Peter swore under his breath as the plethora of possibilities ran through his mind. He reached for the gun that he kept by his bedside. The sound had come from downstairs. Neal could be in trouble. Without hesitation, Peter ripped off the covers and sprinted out the door and onto the landing. Neal's door was open. No. This was bad. This was really, really bad. Peter bounded down the stairs, taking them two at a time. His slippered feet skidded on the wooden floor as he rounded the corner and burst, panting, into the kitchen. He stopped dead in his tracks.

Peter Burke was dumbfounded by what he saw.

Hey everyone :) I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I really appreciate all your comments and I would love to hear your thoughts on this one :D