A/N: OK, after just completing 'Sometimes You Have to Pay,' with all of its heavy themes, I needed to work on something lighter. And some recent pictures from the White Collar set inspired me.

Did he own a pair of jeans? What kind of question was that?

Neal was grumbling to himself as he opened the wardrobe and pulled out… wait for it… YES! A pair of jeans.

Peter's call had been cryptic, to say the least. Of course he owned jeans – and Peter had told him to put the jeans on. Also a t-shirt and tennis shoes if he had them.

What kind of game was Peter playing?

As Neal started to dress, in his Peter-preferred wardrobe choices for the day, he thought about the call again. It was Saturday, and Peter had previously told him that he had 'something special' planned for the day and Neal was coming along. That alone had made Neal somewhat nervous, but the promise of an Elizabeth Burke-cooked dinner, accompanied by wine that came from a bottle with an actual cork, had won him over.

Besides, there was nothing very exciting to do in his radius that weekend.

But the original invitation – for lack of a better term – had not included any wardrobe instructions. Not that Neal had been expecting something requiring a tuxedo or anything… but this was still very odd.

Hopefully it would at least be something outdoors, because it was a beautiful spring day in New York.

He topped the jeans with a t-shirt, and laced up his cross-trainer shoes. If there were any public tennis courts within his radius he'd have actual tennis shoes, because he loved the game. But these should do…

For whatever he was getting himself into.

The knock on the door meant he might soon find out some answers. But he was somewhat surprised when he opened it. "Elizabeth!"

"Hey, Neal, are you ready?"

He shrugged, grabbing up his keys and wallet. "I don't know. Peter was a little cryptic this morning."

Elizabeth's answering shrug was equally cryptic. "Peter's waiting downstairs."

Neal gestured for her to lead the way, and he followed her out of the apartment. He was a little surprised to not find Peter talking with June when they got to the main floor, but after a farewell wave to his landlady – friend – he continued to follow Elizabeth outside, down to the curb…

Where he stopped short at the sight of Peter Burke leaning against the side of the car, supported by crutches, his left foot in a cast.

"Peter," he greeted. "New fashion accessories?"

"In a manner of speaking," the older man replied.

"What happened?"

"I might have had a little incident with the ladder this morning while cleaning some windows."

"Ah, so you're looking for a replacement window washer? I'm not sure menial labor is part of our arrangement."

"That's not exactly it." Peter reached into the car and pulled something out, tossing it in Neal's direction. "Put this on."

Neal caught the bundle and unfolded it. A shirt, pinstriped, with 'FBI' stenciled on the back, and a matching cap. "A baseball jersey?"

"Good eye. Now put it on and get in the car."

"Peter, what's this about?"

"I think you better tell him, honey," Elizabeth said. She had walked around to the driver's side and stood there now, waiting.

"Today's the annual charity softball game," Peter explained. "FBI versus NYFD. I was supposed to be playing second base – and you were coming along to cheer us on. Now you're playing, and I'll cheer."

Neal was shaking his head. "I don't think this is a very good idea…"

"We've already had a couple of scratches on the team," Peter said. "They're down to the minimum. You wouldn't want to let all those kids at the children's hospital down, would you?"

Neal just scowled at his partner. "That's really not fair."

"All's fair in love and baseball. Or softball," Peter said. "Here, you even get to use my glove," he added, tossing something else Neal's way. "All broken in and freshly oiled."

"Peter, this is really not a good idea."

"Sure it is," Peter said, opening the car door. "Get in. This is going to be fun!"

"Burke, what the hell happened to you?"

Neal groaned and turned away, wondering if it was too late to disappear into the crowd… Except the crowd right now seemed to consist entirely of Peter and Elizabeth.

And George Ruiz, who was fast approaching – not exactly his favorite agent, and he figured the feeling was mutual.

"Had a little mishap," Peter replied.

Neal shook his head and rolled his eyes. That was an understatement.

"Brought you a replacement though," Peter added – and Neal felt a hand grab his arm, pulling him forward.

The look of distaste on Ruiz's face was almost comical. "Caffrey? You've got to be kidding."

"That's exactly what I've been saying," Neal said. "Bad joke all around." He winced as the grip on his arm tightened.

"He's a live body, and you need him to field a full team," Peter pointed out.

For a moment, it seemed to Neal like Ruiz might be leaning toward forfeiting, but then he finally sighed and relented. "Fine. But you owe me for this, Burke."

And Neal couldn't help but wonder who owed him for getting him into this…

Right field, the Siberia of fielding positions…

Yeah, he definitely didn't wind up replacing Peter at second base, Neal reflected. No, Kellum, who was supposed to be on third base, moved to second. Whitaker, the center fielder, went to third base. Jerry, the sixty-two year old with the artificial knee got moved from right field to center.

And Neal stood out in right field, all by himself.

Well, at least it was probably the quietest place to be, he knew.

The game started well enough for the FBI. Leslie Fisher had been one of the last cuts before the Olympic softball team had been selected. She hadn't tried out as a pitcher, but she had more experience than anyone else. And she managed to strike out the first FDNY player at bat.

Things hadn't gone as well after that. The next player reached first base on a ball that went through the shortstop's legs, and then Fisher walked the third batter, leaving two runners on and only one out.

And the clean-up batter coming up.

The guy looked huge even from Neal's position out in Siberia. Like frickin' Godzilla…

The first pitch was right down the middle, and Godzilla took a mighty swing. There was a crack, and the ball lifted toward left field. At first the FDNY crowd was cheering, but then the celebration shifted to the FBI crowd when the ball hooked foul.

The second pitch resulted in another mighty swing, and a miss.

On the third pitch, Godzilla connected, lifting a towering fly ball out to deep center.

The runners took off, confident that their player had a safe hit. And even the FBI cheering section groaned, certain that their team was about to wind up behind.

Jerry finally seemed to see the ball, starting back with a tilted gait that was little more than the speed most people used to walk around the office.

And Neal took off, starting toward the ball as well.

There was a collective gasp from both sides of spectators as he started to run. His stride long and sure, he took a bead on the ball's trajectory.

The FDNY's coach started trying to get his runners to head back to the bases they'd been on, but he was drowned out by the FBI crowd cheering their fielder on.

Neal was in full stride when the ball hit his glove with an audible popping sound. And then, as the spectators alternately cheered or held their breath, he left the ground, spinning on the spot, and firing the ball back toward the infield.

Kellum was caught totally off guard at second and bobbled the throw, but the FDNY runners were so far around the bases, and it didn't matter. Fisher grabbed up the ball, tossing it easily to Reyes at first base.

Double play completed.

By the time Neal retrieved his cap, which had blown off at some point during his all-out sprint, and jogged in toward the bench, he wasn't surprised to see Peter and Ruiz waiting for him. Peter looked almost ready to topple over on his crutches, and Ruiz hadn't even started to remove his catcher's gear, even though he had inserted himself in as the second hitter.

Both agents were just staring at him.

Neal responded with his best (fake) innocent look. "What?"

"That catch," Peter started.

"That throw," Ruiz said at the same time.

Neal just rolled his eyes. "Just because I don't like to sit and watch baseball on television, doesn't mean I can't play the game," he said. Then he paused, shrugged. "Varsity team in high school… before I dropped out."

Leaving the two dumbfounded agents behind him, Neal turned and headed for the bench, and he was smiling.

Just that stunned look on Ruiz's face might make getting sweaty and dirty worthwhile after all…

By the time the FBI team took the field again for the start of the second inning, Jerry was in right field and Neal was patrolling in center. Two innings later he was at shortstop, shoring up the infield.

Ruiz had him batting ninth – naturally – but the FBI team managed to get a few runners on, so Neal's first at-bat was in the bottom of the second. The bases were loaded as he stepped to the plate.

He'd played in a few pick-up games in prison, but nothing on a regular basis. And the equipment they had was years, if not decades, old. So this was the first time in almost seventeen years that he'd held a quality bat in his hands. He hefted it experimentally, took a few practice swings. And then he studied the other team's defense.

Apparently, the FDNY coach wasn't sure what to make of this unknown player either. He had both his outfield and infield playing back.

Perfect.

He pushed the bunt down the first base line, racing past the ball as it rolled slowly toward the base. It so caught the FDNY players off guard that Neal was on first base before the catcher even touched the ball. And Neal had the first RBI of the game.

He doubled in his second at-bat. It might have been a triple, or better, except Jerry was running in front of him, and Neal had to slow down.

By his third time at the plate, in the bottom of the sixth, the bat felt comfortable in his hands. He swung away, and the ball sailed over the left fielder's head for a home run.

The seventh inning rolled around, and the FDNY went down without a run. Final score: FBI 6, FDNY 4.

Neal's personal tally: 3-for-3 at the plate, 4 RBIs, a perfect fielding record, and one MVP trophy.

He also scored an invitation for drinks from Carmen Reyes, and an offer of a firehouse tour from none other than Godzilla himself.

The sweetest reward though was the grudging "good game" from Ruiz – accompanied with an invitation to play again against the police team in September.

"Varsity team, huh?"

Neal shrugged. "I still have a few secrets, Peter."

"Oh, more than a few!" Peter returned. "Where was it you played baseball?"

"Nope." Neal shook his head, though a slight smile touched his lips. "Nice try though."

Peter sighed and opened the back door, sliding the crutches in and then easing himself onto the seat. With his aching foot elevated, he leaned back against the car door as Neal and Elizabeth got in up front. "All right, no location," he agreed. "What position did you play?"

"Mostly shortstop, sometimes second base."

"Ah, something else you boys have in common," Elizabeth said as she buckled in and started the car.

"I can't believe you never said anything about playing ball," Peter complained.

Neal shrugged. "You've only ever talked about wanting to watch games on television."

"Still…" Peter let the thought drop, moving on to something else. "Did you play any other sports?"

"Football," Neal admitted.

"What position?" Elizabeth asked.

"Wide receiver…" Then he stopped and turned to look over the seat. "Wait, the FBI doesn't have a football team, does it?"

"Not yet. But it might not be a bad idea…"

Neal groaned and slunk down in his seat, leaving Peter and Elizabeth laughing.

"Jones used to play," Peter said. "I think he was a safety."

"Diana could play linebacker," Neal offered. "She has the right attitude."

"Take no prisoners?"

Neal laughed and pushed himself back up in the seat. "Exactly!"

"I'll have to suggest a football team to Hughes," Peter said.

Neal just shook his head. "Why not water polo while you're at it?"

"Oh, I suppose you play that too?"

"Only once, in Madrid."

"Madrid. And when did you say that was?"

"I don't think I did say," Neal replied, laughing. "Another nice try, Agent Burke."

"Sooner or later, I'm going to fill in some of the blanks," Peter warned.

"I'd just as soon it be later." Neal looked over at Elizabeth and smiled. "At least after that dinner I was promised."

"Oh, and would you like Spanish food?" she asked.

"Come to think of it, I haven't had a decent paella in a long time."

"Hmmmm, not one of my specialties, I'm afraid. I was planning a nice rice pilaf with the broiled salmon though."

"I can definitely live with that," Neal said. "And paella does happen to be one of my specialties. I'll make it sometime. There's this fantastic Spanish wine that complements the dish."

Peter leaned forward, tapping Neal's shoulder. "Speaking of drinks, what's this about Agent Reyes?"

Neal shrugged and looked over his shoulder. "What about her?"

"I heard she invited you out on a date."

"Oh, please. She asked me out for a drink. Is that against some rule?"

Peter considered that for a moment and then shook his head. "No, I don't think so. She's in a different division, with no direct supervisory role. Actually, I think the only agent you wouldn't be allowed to date is me."

"Well, I hate to break this to you, Peter, but you're really not my type. I'm afraid Elizabeth is stuck with you."

"Come to think of it, since Hughes is my boss, I don't think you can date him either."

Neal slapped a hand theatrically to his forehead. "Oh, whatever will I do? I guess I'll have to make sure that he understands that our opera plans will have to be kept strictly platonic."

"You have opera plans with Hughes?"

Neal laughed and shook his head. "No. But if I ever do…"

"It'll be platonic," Elizabeth supplied, barely suppressing a giggle.

"Exactly." Neal leaned toward Elizabeth and continued in a rather loud stage whisper. "Now, you may be stuck with Peter. However, I'm more than willing to assist you if you'd like to work on some of his character flaws. Maybe his total lack of style, or his woefully unrefined palate. Or perhaps his unseemly preference for domestic beer over a fine wine…"

Peter cleared his throat and tried to sound stern. "I am right here, you know. It's my foot that's injured, not my ears."

The sternness was somewhat wasted as Neal and Elizabeth just laughed.

"Well, maybe we can start on the wine part tonight," Elizabeth suggested. "We'll stop at the store and you can pick out an appropriate bottle for dinner."

Neal executed a move that was as close to a bow as could be expected while constrained in a car by a seatbelt. "With pleasure."

Peter adjusted the pillow under his foot, trying to tweak its position to get as comfortable as possible. It wasn't an easy task, what with the cast on his foot, the bruise on his hip, and the general jarring his body had taken from the fall. Add in the fact that he was supposed to have stayed home, on bed rest, with lots of liquids and pain killers – and not been at a softball game, sitting on a hard bleacher, jostling his body with frequent, enthusiastic, cheering – and he was hurting.

Neal had helped him up the stairs when they got home so that he could clean up and change. And then he'd needed help back down the stairs.

Mental note – make sure Neal helped him upstairs again before the younger man went home. It really was too bad there wasn't a bathroom downstairs…

He settled back against cushions on the couch, smiling as he looked toward the kitchen. The remodeling they'd done was definitely a success – it was good to have the open area now. It made the lower floor seem larger.

And it gave him a clear view of where Elizabeth and Neal were working, preparing dinner. El was seasoning a slab of salmon. Did salmon come in slabs? Sides? Whatever, it looked good. Meanwhile, Neal was showing off some knife skills worthy of a chef, dicing up onion and garlic.

Peter watched as Neal laughed at something Elizabeth said, then washed his hands off and grabbed a bottle of the wine they'd stopped for. He located the corkscrew, opened the bottle, and poured a little into a glass, presenting it with a flourish to Elizabeth. She sipped, expressed her rather enthusiastic approval, and held out her glass. Neal smiled, filled her glass, and then poured two more.

Shifting a little more upright, Peter accepted the goblet that Neal brought over. "Thanks."

"You sure you should be drinking with the pain pills?" Neal asked.

"I didn't take any," Peter admitted.

"Peter…"

"I'll take them tonight," Peter promised, and then he grinned. "But thanks for caring, mom."

Neal laughed and rolled his eyes. "No way. I'm not telling what my mom did when I wasn't feeling well."

"Someday I'm going to find these things out," Peter warned. "You'll tell me."

"Maybe," Neal allowed. He took a sip of his own wine. "Thanks for today, Peter," he said softly. "I thought it was going to be a really bad idea, but it turned out to be fun."

"I'm glad – and I'm glad I learned one more Neal Caffrey secret."

Neal's smile was a bit melancholy as he turned back toward the kitchen. "Well, enjoy the victory, Agent Burke, however long it lasts."

Peter watched the younger man walk away, considering that last statement. However long it lasts?

Of course, with Neal, it always seemed that as soon as he unlocked one secret of the past, ten more popped up to take its place.

But as he watched Neal resume his activities helping Elizabeth, Peter tried his best to push that thought away. Today had been a victory, and he would enjoy it.

However long it lasted…