Author's Note: I do not own White Collar. If I did, I would have the money to bribe the American Motion Picture Association to give Magic Mike a PG-13 rating so that I could see it (along with Channing Tatum, Matt Bomer, and the ever more age appropriate Alex Pettyfer). Anyways, I've had the idea of sending Neal and Peter to Houston for years, but it I couldn't think of any reason for them to suddenly be needed in Houston, but last week a Picasso at a satellite of the Houston Museum of Fine Arts, the Menil Collection, "Woman in a Red Armchair," was tagged with a matador slaying a bull and "Conquista," the Spanish word for conquer. So, using that incident I am blowing things out of proportion and making a crime for Neal and Peter to solve. I've also taken Matt Bomer's real life Spring, Texas roots, which is about 2 hours outside of downtown Houston, and made them Neal Caffery's. Neal's going home and his sister is waiting.

MAJOR NOTE: PAY ATTENTION TO DATES! THEY ARE SUPER IMPORTANT THROUGHOUT THE STORY!

Chapter 1-La Bestia se Conquista

June 13, 2012

A young man wondered through the permanent exhibit at the Menil Collection. Hidden in his jacket were a stencil and a can of gold spray paint. It was time to send a message to Houston; to send a statement around the world. They would conquer the beast; the rich oil executives, engineers, businessmen, and doctors who made Houston so stupid and worthless. Science, business, greed, and the rich dominated the Houstonian economy, entertainment, and problems. What a waste on them! They made tickets in the Theater District expensive. They saved rich, privileged old men before children. They allowed people to continue poisoning the Earth with their cars. It was time for change. Reaching his target, Picasso's "Woman in a Red Armchair," the young man stuck the stencil to the center of the painting, between the two eyes, and tagged the painting with the image of a matador slaying a bull and the word, "Conquista" underneath. Once finished, he tore the stencil off of the painting and ran out of the hall. Phase one was complete.

June 22, 2012-NYC FBI Office, White Collar Division

Neal hated Mondays. They were boring, tiring, and irritatingly slow. Since returning to New York after he had found that Peter had been threatened with losing his job and prison time, he had had his position at the FBI reinstated, but was required to serve three more years with the anklet. Fortunately, it was a Friday, which would mean that he had the entire weekend to himself.

Too bad it didn't. As he walked in Peter's office, he knew his weekend was ruined. Peter's eyebrows were furrowed and he was on his office phone, begrudgingly accepting what was being said on the other end of the phone.

"Of course, Agent Morris. We will be there this evening. Should we get a car before meeting you or will you pick us up?"

After a few more moments Peter said goodbye and hung up.

"What was that about, Peter? Do we have a case? Please tell me that it's not another check fraud case, I'm going crazy with the easy stuff."

"No. Sorry to tell you Neal, but we are leaving tonight for at least a week; we were requested in Houston. Did you hear about the vandalism of a Picasso at the museum last week?"

"Peter, I can't go to Houston." Neal said, interrupting the distracted agent.

"Look, I understand that you probably had plans for the weekend, but Houston's White Collar division is already swamped and we have made a pretty good name for ourselves with that over 90% conviction rate…"

"No, Peter, I don't want to go! I left Houston behind almost twenty years ago and I promised myself that I wouldn't go back! I can't go back!" Neal panicked, slightly raising his voice at his boss.

Peter gave Neal a look as he closed the office door and made his CI sit down.

"What's going on Neal? I thought that you grew up here in St. Louis?"

Avoiding Peter's stare and pressing his fingers against his temples, Neal took a deep breath to calm down. "I didn't move back to New York until I was almost nineteen. My mother moved my sister and me to Houston when I was ten because witness protection was worried that Natalie's existence may motivate my father to come after us. Natalie was four and it was nice. We grew up in the suburbs; we went to museums and watched the city grow. Everything I told you earlier was true, but I left a few things out too keep Natalie safe. I trust you Peter, but the walls have ears. When I was eighteen Ellen flew in to tell us the truth and I started down the well worn path of my father. I missed St. Louis, but I had a normal life. I lived two blocks from school, hung out with my friends, and messed with my kid sister. I wanted to be an actor, so I joined drama club, but then my mom got sick when I was sixteen. We had to move downtown so that we could be closer to my mother's doctor. My sister was only ten, so I started pulling little cons to bring in some extra money.

"I started to pick-pocket and ran street cons in Herman Park. I wanted to be an actor still, and I got a scholarship to go to the Humphry School of Musical Theatre, but I was too cocky with a con I pulled. I was convicted of theft and sent to juvenile hall for a year. My mother got worse because she couldn't afford to keep paying all the bills and my sister was sent in to the foster care system when Mom couldn't leave the hospital. A few months later my mother died and I couldn't even go to the funeral.

"When I got out of juvenile hall I was only about five months from my eighteenth birthday, but they wouldn't let me see my sister because they thought I was a 'negative influence.' The only contact that we had had since my mother had stopped bringing Natalie to see me at juvenile hall once she was bed ridden was the occasional letter my social worker would deliver. My sister was angry with me. She couldn't get over the fact that I wasn't at the funeral and she didn't understand why I couldn't go to see her immediately after I got out. She was very sad for a long time and for about every five letters I sent I would receive one back. There wasn't anything cruel, but she was always asking when we could meet, why didn't we hang out, what was happening, and why we couldn't stay with Ellen. I was in this disgusting foster home. It sucked Peter, but I was trying to behave so that they would let me have custody of my sister once I turned eighteen. I stopped pulling cons, did well in school, and applied for Bartending School as I was finishing my senior year.

"My social worker said that I was doing better, and she set up a visit for my sister and me. I was so excited. I saved up money from a job I had as a dishwasher to buy her a gift card for the book store, but when I saw her she wasn't the nerdy little girl who loved to watch cartoons and read old comic books. She was twelve years old, full of sadness because she felt betrayed by her entire family. She smiled at me, but she told me not to try to get custody of her when I turned eighteen. She said that I was her brother, that she loved me, but that I couldn't be her father. That she didn't want me to be her father. She told me to visit, that she wanted to see me, but that she couldn't rely on me to take care of her when I had let her down two years before. She understood it had all been for mom, but she wanted to stay with her foster family. I found out a few years later that that family was terrible. They would lock her in the closet when she didn't follow their rules and forced her to follow their insane religion. Can you understand how much it hurts to know your little sister, the little girl who made you draw tigers and the skyline on her bedroom walls, would rather live with monsters?

"After a few more visits, I couldn't take that I had failed my own little sister, so I dropped out of high school six weeks before graduation and moved to Boston. I tried not to be a con, but it didn't work. I had tried to sell my paintings, but no one would buy them. Then I found that I could reproduce just about anything. I began pick-pocketing again, and then I met a few different cons and got started in museum heists. I've seen my sister ten times since she was twelve; most of those were after you had caught me. She came by a few times when I was in prison and we managed to come to somewhat of an understanding. She forgave me years ago, but she doesn't want anything to do with me. We exchange holiday and birthday cards, and a few letters too, but she stays in Houston because it's the only place that ever offered her a sense home. I avoid going back because that was the place I first screwed up. If I had just kept my nose clean, gotten a job instead conning, I could have become an actor, but God Peter, I always take the easy way out! I always give up too fucking early!"

"No you don't Neal. You came back to New York to save my job; you follow every case through until the end, even the mortgage and check fraud cases. You have changed, Neal. You don't have to see your sister if we go, and I won't make you go, but everyone has to go home at some point in their lives." Peter told his friend, squeezing his shoulder. "If you want to join me, avenge a Picasso, and do your job, here's your ticket. We'll be there for at least a week, but Morris said to pack for warm weather. I'll be leaving the office at 4:15 this afternoon to head to JFK. I need to go home and pack right now, but if you want to join me in Houston, you can meet me back here at 4:00 this afternoon." With that, Peter left his office, and Neal, to go home, kiss his wife, pack, and give his older brother a call.

-White Collar-White Collar-White Collar-

It was 4:30 and Neal hadn't shown up yet. Peter sighed. He had thought his friend would come, but you could only lead a horse to water, not make them drink. An old friend of his, Harvey Specter, a lawyer, had told him he had similar problems with his new associate, but that eventually the horse is broken. Peter knew Neal, and he knew that Neal would eventually go back to clean up his mess, but that it may take a few more years. Locking his desk drawers, grabbing a file, turning out the lights, and shutting his office door, Peter headed for his car. Jones and Diana had promised to take it back to his house that evening if he parked it in the airport garage.

As Peter approached his car, he saw Neal Caffery, with his fedora, a suitcase, and a backpack leaning on the trunk.

"What took you so long, Peter? I thought that we were going to leave at 4:15, it's almost a quarter to five!" Neal said laughter present in his eyes.

"Get in Caffery. You're going to make us miss our flight."

"No, that's you!"

They continued their friendly banter as they loaded their luggage in Peter's trunk and headed to the airport.

Neal Caffery was returning home.

*****White Collar**************************************************************

June 22, 2012-JFK Airport

Taking their seats, row 15, seats A and B, Neal and Peter were already agitated. Neal's window seat was letting in too much of the setting sun's light, while Peter could smell an earlier cigarette wafting off of the frat boy next to him..

Things had gone downhill since they had stepped into the security line. The line had been long and the woman checking each person going through the line had plane tickets was smacking her gum. The bubble popped and saliva squished as she examined their tickets. She tried to flirt with Neal, and held up line when she took a call on her cell phone.

Putting their bags in bins and taking off their shoes, the friends waited to walk through the x-ray machines. Peter easily passed, but a quarter Neal had forgotten to take out of his jacket pocket forced them to wait as a balding, sweaty TSA agent preformed a manual search of the con.

Racing to their gate, Peter and Neal worried that they would miss their flight. Unfortunately, they found that the plane had been delayed another hour and a half. While waiting by the gate, the friends went over the file that had been sent from Houston. It turned out that not only had a painting in the Menil collection been tagged by a street artist, but another item, a self-portrait by Andy Warhol, at the Museum of Fine Arts, had been stolen and replaced with a fake, a few day after the vandalism. No one could truly understand how the self-portrait had been stolen, it was ginormous, but it had been stolen and behind the fakes were the same tag as placed on the Picasso. The tag had also appeared on the gift shop window of the Hobby Center, and in several Metro light rail cars.

As Neal was explaining the importance of the bull fight in Spanish art to Peter, a flight attendant asked them what drinks they wanted and if they needed headphones for the entertainment screens on the back of the seats in front of them. Both ordered water, but the young woman "accidently" dropped Peter's drink in his lap as she handed it to him. Apologizing with harshness in her voice and handed the FBI agent several napkins before she pulled her cart up to the next row.

As Peter felt the cold drink and ice melt through his pants, he felt the uncomfortable shock of being wet. The sloppy feeling that everyone would notice and think he had wet himself. Peter hated the frezzing water that had shocked his thighs and crotch, but dabbed up what could with the small, thin airline napkins. This flight couldn't get worse.

Of course, it did. The cigarette smelling frat boy next to Peter had fallen asleep before the plane had even taken off, snoring obnoxiously loudly and the five year old behind Neal's seat continued to kick the back of his chair. Fifty minutes before landing, it began to rain and giant bumps of turbulence made Neal and Peter feel sick. Soon, the air masks came down, with the pilot announcing over the cracking speaker that the oxygen in the cabin was low. As the plane descended to land, it seemed to Peter and Neal that every possible, terrible thing that could happen on a plane, short of it falling out of the sky had happened, just to produce more problems. Finally, at 10:30 that night Houston time, the plane landed.

Getting off the plane and heading to the baggage claim at Bush Intercontinental Airport proved difficult. Their luggage carousal was taking forever, but an airline employee announced to everyone on the flight, who had crowded around the carousal, that all of their bags had accidently been sent to Dallas, but that they had been loaded on a plane and would arrive in half an hour. Peter groaned, upset he would be waiting at the airport for another half an hour.

Agent Morris had told Peter that they would need to rent a car during their stay, but that the FBI would reimburse Peter for the rental and gas. It was a good deal, but Peter missed his car. It was always clean, never smelled, and he never worried what someone else had spilt in it. Rental cars might as well have been possessed by ghosts. People dropped food, spilled drinks, and did unsavory things in the back seat. Peter hated using communal property, it was the exact reason he kept his own mug in his office.

After waiting half an hour, the FBI agent and consultant found their bags and began the trek to the car rental, just to find that it had closed ten minutes ago. Peter wasn't sure if it was his good fortune or God punishing him for not appreciating what he had been given. After a few curses from both men, Peter called agent Morris.

"Morris, the car rental shop is closed. Is there anyone who you can send to pick us up?"

"I can't be there soon, but give me twenty minutes, Burke; just hang tight for a bit. I'll give Salazar a call; he lives close by the airport."

Forty minutes after the phone call Diego Salazar drove up to the passenger pick up, which was still a whirlwind of madness despite it begin after 11:00 that night.

"Welcome to Houston Agent Burke, Mr. Caffery," greeted Salazar. "Do you know where you are supposed to be staying?"

"The Double Tree." Peter replied

"That's nice. I stayed there back in October. They serve a nice breakfast."

"Why were you staying there if you live in the city?" Peter asked the new agent.

"My girlfriend," The young man said a nod. "Every October Susan G. Komen sponsors 'Walk for a Cure' around Allen Parkway. The Double Tree and the Hyatt offer discounted rates for race volunteers and participants. I live out here in Humble because my aunt needs help with my grandmother occasionally. We stayed at the Double Tree so that I wouldn't have to wake up at 5 in the morning to get to the walk."

Peter and Neal nodded their heads. Salazar was nice enough, but they were falling asleep on their feet after the flight from hell. Finally, they arrived at the hotel and checked in. They were sharing a room with two single beds. The air was chilly from the air conditioner by the window, a cool change from the warm, humid air outside, and the view from their room was okay. It faced a few buildings, but nothing as spectacular as the Empire State or Chrysler buildings back in New York. Before falling asleep, Neal told Peter, "It go a lot bigger, Peter. This city grew up."

So there is Chapter 1. I hope you enjoyed this!

Neal: Why did you make our flight so terrible?

Peter: Why did you have that flight attendant spill water all over me?

Me: Because this is fanfiction and I can do whatever I please with you! MAWHAHAHA!

As I am sure you can see, I hate flying. I've never had a flight quite this terrible, but I have had some pretty nasty ones. I once had the center seat and on the aisle was a man doing homework and chewing tobacco. By the window was some old fart who had at least 3 scotch and cokes before the end of the flight. Also, they stopped serving peanuts and went for pretzels. Ewww! I also had a flight once when I was 13 at the window, but my plane had been late, I was hungry, and the college boys next to me were creepy. They didn't talk o me, but they gave off that "creepy" vibe. Please review, it will keep me going! Constructive criticism, suggestions, abundant praise, and flames I use to roast wenies are all welcome. I'm a review-addict, feed my addiction!