Neal sat surrounded by stacks and stacks of files. The yellowed tomes reached almost up to his ears: bulging with papers, reports, post it notes and documents. He sighed, staring at the mound before him. His eyes were heavy, his face was streaked with highlighter pen (he had fallen asleep half an hour ago with a marker in his hand) and his fingers were covered in printer ink. He was supposed to be sorting all the files into alphabetical order, but in his current state, there wasn't a chance in hell that that was going to happen. He was too exhausted to see properly, let alone slough his way through mountains of paperwork.

Neal took a deep breath, trying his best to keep his eyes open. The darn things kept on drooping shut… he yawned expansively – trying to alert himself to wakefulness. But it was to no avail. The events of the past few hours washed over him: the party, the night in the prison cell, the sickening hangover and now this – filing stacks of old documents in a warm, poorly lit room... With a half contented smile, Neal succumbed to the after effects of his wild night and fell, somewhat reluctantly, into a deep sleep.

Jones found him there three hours later, his curly brown head resting on a pillow of files, his features relaxed and untroubled. Neal was snoring peacefully. Jones put a hand to his mouth, trying not to laugh, as he tip-toed past where the young forger lay sprawled on the floor. Neal's limbs were splayed in all directions. Jones stepped over the kids hands – careful not to accidentally crush those talented fingers beneath his shoe – and made it to Neal's head without incident. He stooped low, trembling from the effort of holding back the tide of laughter. What he was about to do was exceedingly childish. He hadn't done something this silly since he was a teenager – young and happy, messing around with his brothers.

It suddenly struck Jones that he hadn't actually had any proper fun in a long, long time. It had been ages since he had laughed at work, ages since he had smiled broadly enough to reveal his teeth. But then Neal had arrived, and everything had changed. Life was suddenly a lot more... interesting. There was something refreshing about the young teenager. He brought out the best in everyone. His youth was a shining beacon in the dreary office of White Collar, where everyone wore grey suits and drank coffee that tasted of cardboard. Neal brought all the fun and banter and games that came with being a fifteen year old kid – and if it wasn't for the fact that it was Neal lying there on the floor, snoozing away, Jones knew that there was no way he would have done what he was about to do. He took a deep breath, stooped down as low as his creaking knees would allow and cupped his hands to his mouth. Then he shouted as loud as he could:

"WAKEY WAKEY!"

The reaction was definitely worth all that time spent holding back the giggles. Neal sat bolt upright with a startled yell, hands flailing all around him. His eyes focussed on Jones who was howling in the corner, gasping for breath and nearly crying with mirth. Neal swore through gritted teeth and staggered to his feet, one arm shooting out to steady himself against the wall.

"Jones!?" he shouted, taking deep breaths as though in an attempt to calm his racing heart, "What the hell was that for? I was sleeping! SLEEPING! Don't you know it's bad luck to wake a man when he's sleeping?"
"Ah, but you're not really a man, now are you?" Jones gasped, clutching his sides. Neal drew himself up to his full height.

"Oh, I'm not really a man, am I? I'm fifteen years old, Jones! That should make me an adult in anyone's book – you're just being ageist!" Jones took a step back. He was amazed at how eloquent and talkative Neal was; after all, the kid had just been woken up in a rather violent manner and he no doubt had a splitting headache. Jones remembered his time at university where he too had dabbled in the world of alcohol – the hangovers had been pretty diabolical. But despite all that, Neal was still managing to string together a cogent stream of insults. "Jones, I swear – if you ever, ever do something like that again, I'll-"

"You'll do what, exactly?" Neal froze as an icy voice overrode whatever it was that he had been about to say. Hughes had entered the filing room. The old man stood with his arms crossed, looking perfectly formidable beneath the harsh electric lighting. Jones, who had been sniggering away all through Neal's lecture, abruptly stopped laughing and turned to face his boss.

"Sir, umm… Neal here was just… doing some filing and I gave him a bit of a fright…"

"Shut up, Jones. I was talking to Caffrey." Neal swallowed and took a step towards Hughes, hands unconsciously reaching for his hair. He toyed with the long strands for a moment before saying,

"I was going to tell Jones that… he was the best agent in the whole of white collar?" He didn't mean for it to sound like a question. Hughes raised an eyebrow.

"I seem to recall your exact words being, "Jones, I swear – if you ever do something like that again, I'll…" You'll do what? I'd love to know." Neal looked nervously at Jones. His eyes held a message. They pleaded with him to play along with whatever he was about to say next.

"If you ever do something like that again," Neal started, "I'll give you the award for best agent ever. That's what I was going to say. Right, agent Jones?"
"Riiigghhhtt." Jones nodded, sharing a conspirator's grin with Neal. Hughes didn't look like he believed a word of it, but he turned his back on the pair of them and said over his shoulder,

"Perhaps it would be better if we left the filing for another day. Caffrey, come with me. And Agent Jones, don't you have some work that you need to do?"

"And that's how you get out of filing," Neal whispered to Jones as he walked past him after Hughes. Jones smiled.

"See you around, Caffrey."

Neal followed Hughes out of the little filing room where he had had so pleasant a nap and up into the central area of the White Collar Division. There was something distinctively weird about being inside the FBI building he had walked past every day on the way to school, back in the days before Peter had arrested him. Neal could feel the contradictions swirling inside him – his criminal nature contrasting sharply with the law and order of his surroundings. Rubbing his temples (he had an awful headache) he kept pace with Hughes as the elderly man led him past all the agents tip-tapping at their computers and up into Peter's glass –fronted office. Neal sighed, totally unsurprised by the choice.

"Peter." Hughes knocked once on the door, then entered without waiting for a reply.

"Oh, that's right, just come right in, why don't you… Oh! Agent Hughes!" Neal had to stifle a snicker as Peter hastily got to his feet to welcome his boss. "Sorry, didn't realise it was you there! And you brought… Neal." Neal averted his gaze. The situation between him and Peter was strained at the moment. Ever since the agent had found out that Neal had hosted an illegal party, he had been nothing but disappointed and Neal found it hard to be around him. It was difficult to find words to fill the silence.

"Young Caffrey here was found sleeping in the filing room," said Hughes frostily, "I was hoping that you can keep him in line. This isn't a hotel, you know."
"I know," said Peter, shooting an accusing look at Neal, who swiftly looked away and said,

"I know."
"Good." Hughes glided towards the door, leaving Peter and Neal standing alone in the middle of the office. "Peter – look after the kid. Don't let him get in the way. If you can't send him home, set him to work on those signatures. I want to know which are forged and which are genuine by tonight. A report with diagrams and graphs would be splendid." He left the room with a whisper of shiny shoes against the carpet.

"Signatures are over there," Peter grunted, gesturing across at a stack of documents. "Hop to it." Neal wandered over and delicately extracted the first report off the tower.

"Ha!"

"What?" Peter asked, looking up from his computer.
"This one's a fake."
"Great." His gaze flickered away from Neal, dancing back to the screen before him. "Put it in a report. With diagrams and graphs." They worked silently for half an hour. Neal wasn't sure what to do. He had never before been at such a loss for words – it unnerved him like nothing else. The rift between him and Peter was growing. If he didn't heal it… well, soon there would come the time when it was beyond healing. And his relationship with the fatherly agent would be over. Neal took a deep breath, mentally composing himself for what he knew he had to do next. Then he stood up and walked over to Peter's desk.

"Peter."

"Yep?"

"Could I… could I speak to you for a moment?" Neal sat down with a thump on the single, padded chair in front of the desk.

"You just did," said Peter, with the ghost of a smile. But he nevertheless minimised his browser. "What do you want to talk about?"
"I'm sorry." Neal ran straight into it. He knew that if he hesitated, if he beat around the bush and circled the subject, he would never have the courage to say what had to be said. "I'm sorry about the party. I know that throwing a party like that was irresponsible and incomprehensively dangerous." Peter listened in silence, fingertips resting against each other. Neal ploughed on. "I'm sorry that I didn't ask you for permission. I should have trusted you. I should have asked you. But I didn't, and…" he paused. This was the bit that was the hardest to say, the bit that he had been dreading because saying it… saying it meant that he would have to acknowledge it. He would have to factor it into his life and let it encircle his personality. Saying the words would make it the truth. He closed his eyes and whispered, "You're my dad, Peter. I should have asked you, yes – but I'm just not used to having a father to run things by. I usually make the decisions by myself. I'm not used to having a dad."

The words hung in the air like a thundercloud. Peter swallowed hard. Then he did something that Neal had never expected, not in a million years, not in a billion years. Peter Burke stood up, blinked back tears, and hugged Neal around the shoulders. Neal froze. His heart jumped. He had to force himself not to run, to dodge and recoil and escape the hell out of the bureau. But the words he had said not minutes before whipped through his mind, you're my dad, Peter, and he relaxed slightly. It was the truth. At least for the time being.

After thirty seconds of embracing, Peter broke away with an embarrassed cough.

"Ok, Neal. Thanks for telling me that. Apology accepted." And with that, the two of them continued with their separate tasks; Neal sorting through signatures and Peter typing up a report. But when Neal knew that Peter wasn't looking, he allowed himself a small smile. And when Peter noticed that Neal was engrossed in the forgeries, he smiled too.

The next day, Peter and Neal sat in the trusty mint green Volvo with the engine purring and the heaters on full blast. It was nearly the end of January and they had put it off long enough. It was time for Neal to return to school.

"Peter, I'm not too sure about this." Neal felt like he was going to throw up at any moment. Merrinote loomed above him, all gothic arches and grey stone walls. He grimaced and looked away. "Seriously, Peter, I don't think I want to go to school." Peter scratched his chin, staring at the boy beside him. Neal was wearing his old school uniform: a royal blue blazer, smart white shirt, black trousers and a tie the same blue as the jacket. He looked marvellous – if a tad overdressed.

"Here," Peter reached across and messed with Neal's tie. "You look way too uptight. Have your tie looser and – there you go – untuck your shirt."
"What, like this?" Neal loosened his tie, untucked his shirt and undid his top button, letting the collar sag open.

"That's better!" Peter smiled, "now you look like a normal teenager!" They laughed weakly. Neal's fingers fribbled at his shirt buttons, betraying his frayed nerves.

"I can't believe you just told me to break the rules, Peter." He joked, extracting his phone from his pocket and checking – for what must have been the thousandth time – that it was on silent.

"I just want you to be happy, Neal." Peter shot a glance at his watch. "Now go on, otherwise you'll be late. Want me to walk you in?"

"No!" Neal looked like he had been stung by a bumble bee. "God no. Bye, Peter. Thanks for the lift to school." He tried to inject his smile with genuine happiness, but the endeavour fell flat. He opened the door, ready to join the throng of students streaming in through the front gate, but just before he could get out of the car, Peter grabbed his sleeve.

"Yeah?"
"Have a good day, kiddo," said Peter seriously. "I know you'll be fine. Just be yourself and try to forget that anything bad ever happened. Remember – nobody has to know about the tracking anklet and your current situation unless you tell them."

"Well, the teachers know," said Neal, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder. "Thanks for that, by the way. Now they're all going to judge me. I can't stand people judging me."

"Yeah, well…" Peter trailed off. "I did what I had to. Now have a good day. Want me to collect you at three?" Neal blinked, surprised.

"You have work." It wasn't a question. He knew Peter's timetable inside out.

"Neal, it's your first day back at school. I don't think Hughes will mind if I take half an hour out of work to give you a ride home." Neal raised an eyebrow – he was pretty sure that Hughes would mind, and besides, in New York City, it was probably quicker to walk than drive anyway – but he didn't voice any of his objections. Instead he said,

"Thanks Peter. I really appreciate that. Enjoy your day at the office."

"Enjoy your day at school." And with that somewhat disjointed goodbye, Neal got out of the car and slammed the door. Already he could sense people looking at him. A few girls in the year below turned, saw his face, then dissolved into a fit of whispering. A smartphone clicked as someone took a picture of him for no apparent reason, and a guy on a rickety old bike swerved violently to avoid him, nearly careening into a group of sophomores. There were a few shouts of "hey Nick! Cool party!" and "yo mate, glad you're back", but the positive calls were interspaced with the negative ones. He heard someone yell "go back to prison!" and there was even a shout of "murderer!", though he couldn't tell where or who it had come from.

Neal sighed through his nose. He was back. Back at the school where he had been arrested, back where he was known by the alias Nick Halden, back at Merrinote where his reputation was surrounded by shadowy rumours. He supposed that all the kids here had seen him be arrested. They had no doubt noticed that he had been missing for the past few months. In the absence of solid information, they had done what all kids do – make assumptions. They had put two and two together… and concluded that he was a murderer. Neal swore bitterly. He supposed that it made sense. The kids here had seen him dragged away by the police – murderer was a likely reason. Great. He thought, trying to push down the rising sense of anger. Just great.

Neal walked up the steps, weaving his way through the crowds until finally he made it into the foyer. Sara was waiting for him.

"Neal!" she hissed, prowling over and catching his arm. "What the hell happened to you? The party… you were arrested, again! I was so worried about you! I didn't think that you would be coming into school today, but then I saw something on twitter – and then I saw you!" She stood up on tip-toes and threw her arms around his neck, ignoring all the people who were staring at them. Neal wasn't so willing to forget his surroundings, however.

"Come on," he murmured, tugging on her sleeve, "let's go somewhere else." She slipped her hand into his and together they started to walk down the corridor in the direction of their first lesson (which, if Neal remembered correctly, was French). But before they had taken five steps, a smartly dressed boy materialised in their path.

"Hey, Gordon," said Neal, surprised to see the other boy from London. He hadn't seen Gordon Taylor in ages and it was spooky seeing him now. Gordon didn't return the smile. He brushed past Sara and stalked right up to Neal, stopping mere millimetres away from his face.

"You have some nerve coming back here, Neal," he growled. Neal instinctively took a step back. There was something menacing about the way Gordon was looming over him, something hostile in his voice. And the way he had called him Neal… Neal shivered. Nobody apart from Sara and the teachers knew the truth about him. To the rest of the school, he was Nick Halden – apparently Gordon hadn't received the message.

"It's good to see you too, Gordon," Neal tried to sound confident, but the truth was that he felt desperately frightened. He was a conman, an artist, a bond forger. Physical combat wasn't exactly his forte.

"Neal – you're not welcome here. You're nothing but a crook – get the hell away from Sara." Gordon's voice rose to a near shout at the end. Already people were stopping to stare at them.

"What? No. You can't tell me what I can't do. I'm not a crook, Gordon."

"Shut up, Gordon," implored Sara quietly, "please, you don't have to do this…"

"Things have been unsettled ever since you got arrested." Gordon snapped, overruling her. "You made this school look bad. And I don't want to share the same classroom as a murderer." At the word 'murderer', Gordon stepped forward and shoved Neal in the chest. Neal staggered, nearly falling from the force of the blow, but somehow managed to keep his footing.

"I'm not a murderer." He snarled, before he launched himself at the pale English boy. They went down in a tangle of limbs, pounding on each other's backs, fists flailing, legs kicking mightily. Gordon managed a lucky punch to Neal's face and he swore as blood exploded from his nose. His vision swum, but he fought through the pain and kicked at the other boy, heaving a punch towards the temple (that missed) and trying again for a jab to the stomach. The second strike was more successful than the first and Gordon doubled over, swearing. The other students crowded around them, keeping to the edges of the corridor, as far back as they could go without missing the action. They shouted and yelled, the cries blending into one and another, a horrific cacophony of catcalls. It was over all too quickly.

"ENOUGH!" Mr Harris, Neal's maths teacher, hit the scene. His roar was enough to silence the entire hallway. Neal stopped, his head snapping up at the shout, and Gordon took advantage of the distraction to land another punch to Neal's head. He went down like a sack of potatoes. Then Gordon was gone, whisked away by the maths teacher who had grabbed hold of the wiry teenager's arms in an effort to keep him away from Neal.

"Get off me, get the bloody hell off me." Gordon spat through gritted teeth, shrugging off Mr Harris' grip and storming into the nearest classroom. He slammed the door behind him with a resolute thud. The corridor was still teeming with children, but following the arrival of the formidable Mr Harris, each and every one of them was silent.

"Neal!" Sara's voice cracked the quiet like a hammer blow. She ran to his side, helping him to sit up, dabbing at the blood on his face with a tissue.

"Everyone, go to your first lesson. I assure you that the school will treat this incident with the upmost severity. You can expect interviews from senior management over the course of the next few days as we try to get to the bottom of this event." The teacher's words were officious and soothing. The students departed with a whole lot of whispering,

"Gordon whacked him, he whacked the murderer-"

"Neal, she called him Neal – I thought you said his name was Nick?"
"GO TO YOUR LESSONS!" Mr Harris bellowed, and after that everyone scarped. He whipped around and in one fluid movement, was at Neal's side. "Get up."

"What?"

"Get up. Follow me. Sara, go away." Mr Harris walked off down the corridor without waiting for a response, passing a few bewildered teachers who had, too late, ventured out of the staffroom to see what was going on. He nodded at the headmaster and pointed in the direction of the classroom where Gordon had moped off to, then shoved open a door and held it open for Neal. Neal hobbled into the room and sat down next to the maths teacher, dabbing forlornly at his bloody nose and trying hard to focus.

"I'm not a murderer," he said the first thing that came into his head.

"I know that." Mr Harris steepled his fingertips together. "And I have a plan. You want the kids here to stop hating you?"
"Yeah," said Neal thickly. "That would be nice."

"Well listen up, Neal Caffrey. Because I know how to make them like you again."

Hey guys, hope you enjoyed this chapter! I'm sorry that I haven't updated for a while, I've been a bit busy with exams and whatnot at school. Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter and please drop a review :)