(Fic cross posted at Ao3 as usual. This idea crept into my head and demanded to be made into a story. Now has a sequel - A Sandwich a Day Keeps the Conman Away)

This was Neal's first weekend out of prison.

He'd thought about celebrating. Something sweet and simple - revisiting the one, small backstreet art gallery in his radius (for the third time this week) or taking June to a classy restaurant for more tales of Byron's legacy over a glass of wine and fine food.

In the end, his first weekend out of prison had consisted of painting the view of Manhattan from his balcony, eating takeout, and engaging in a very frustrating game of Parcheesi with Mozzie. That is until said paranoiac decided that a week was more than enough time for him to have been brainwashed into planting listening devices inside the pieces.

That's why he left the board games to June, she had a way of channelling his paranoia into something productive.

Sunday morning was spent lounging on the balcony with a pot of Italian Roast and a copy of the New York Times. Life couldn't get better.

Until he decided to make lunch, then suddenly everything wasn't quite so simple.

He didn't even hear them come up the stairs (which Neal realised was kind of the point) until his apartment was flooded with the full force of the White Collar SWAT team. They were all pointing guns at him, until a very angry looking Peter stalked into the apartment, fixing him with a look which Neal interpreted as 'I'm not happy you interrupted my morning.'

Well, Neal wasn't either, but at least he didn't bring a SWAT team along with him.

"Was this in the fine print? I didn't recall my get out of jail free card included routine check-ups. Did I ever tell you that you work too hard?"

Peter didn't move, but sent his backup on their way. After they had left, Neal realised Jones was here too, standing beside Peter with a careful expression that indicated he was trying very hard to keep a straight face.

The silence stretched out.

"What the hell did you do?"

Neal blinked. Once. Twice.

"I...made a sandwich." he replied, holding up the baguette like it would justify his answer.

Jones let out the smallest of sniggers from behind. He found this whole situation amusing. So did Neal.

Peter unfortunately, did not.

"Did you want one?" Neal said hesitantly when Peter still hadn't stopped glaring daggers at him. "It's Mozzarella."

"Your tracker's signal went offline a few minutes ago."

Neal raised an eyebrow and the beginnings of a grin tugged at the corner of his lips. He knew better than to smile - Peter wasn't a morning person and had already laid down the rule that if he had to work with Neal during the week, then his weekends were strictly undisturbed. Apparently Neal had screwed up already without even realising it.

"I'm still here aren't I? Seriously Peter, do you think I would choose now of all times to skip town? It's Sunday morning."

"That's exactly when you'd do it, just to spite me." Peter sighed, but he seemed to realise now that this was a Caffrey-free incident.

He took out his phone and began to make a call. To the Marshals most likely.

And that's how Neal ended up in the back of Peter's car on the way to a hotel. As it turned out, the whole batch of electronic monitoring anklets that Neal's came in were faulty, and all had to be sent back to the factory. The Marshals had told Peter they wouldn't be able to get him a working anklet until tomorrow, and had offered to escort the consultant back to prison for the night.

Peter had refused - he'd only just got the kid out of there, it was wrong to stick him back in for something that was - for once - nothing to do with him. He couldn't take him back to his house for the night - that was going to be an event in itself, and he'd prefer Neal wearing an anklet when it happened. He would have to eventually, because ever since his wife had met Neal that first morning she'd been planning dinner dates and pressuring Peter to invite him over.

He smiled as he thought back to that conversation...

"But Peter, he seems so harmless. And he, unlike you, likes fancy food. I can get his opinion on the starters for my next event."

"Hon, Caffrey is like a cat. If you feed him, he will keep coming back."

Peter didn't actually want to cuff him, but the Marshals had deemed him as a 'top level flight risk' and to be quite honest, Peter had to give them that one. He didn't want his consultant to run, not when he'd tried so hard to make this work, but 'James Bonds' had proved that when opportunity comes his way, he has a tendency to dive for it without thinking about the aftermath. This was for his own benefit.

"Are we there yet?"

Of course, that would be exactly what he would say. Just ignore it Peter...

"So, is this hotel going to be better than the one you dumped me in?"

"Tried to. You didn't stay there," Peter pointed out, only to witness Neal actually pouting. "The FBI's paying for this one, it's the same we use to house witnesses under temporary protection. It's pretty good."

"How about now?"

"What?" he turned to look at Neal.

"Are we there now?"

Peter sighed, this was going to be a long journey.

It was late evening by the time they finally reached their room. Roadwork's had caused hell on the streets, and when they got to the hotel the only room remaining had a double bed, to which Neal responded with an arsenal of immature remarks that made Peter question whether the felon he'd brought home was a grown man or a twelfth grader.

Thankfully that had been sorted out - several witty comments later - and they were given a room with two singles. It was nothing too fancy, just the room and a bathroom attachment, but the walls weren't peeling, there were no flies, and the guests weren't looking for a good time like the hotel he'd tried unsuccessfully installing Neal into.

"So what am I supposed to do?" Neal whined a while later. Whined really was the only way to put it. He was sprawled out on his bed on his front and propped up on his elbows, kicking his legs up behind him.

Twelfth grader, Peter decided.

"I don't know, watch TV, look out of the window. There's a notepad in the drawer beside the bed, do some drawing." Peter felt like he was talking to a child rather than Neal Caffrey – conman extraordinaire.

Neal huffed and turned away, trying to gain his sympathy. It didn't work. He flicked on the television. "Let's see, cooking, gardening, news, more cooking-" Neal announced every channel as he flicked through. Peter knew Neal was going to make this night as annoying for him as possible, but knowing was different from experiencing the full Caffrey package and all its exclusives.

"I know, let's see what's on the adult channels. Any Requests?" Neal looked over his shoulder, judging the reaction. "Nothing? You're really no fun..." he muttered, turning his attention back to channel surfing.

Peter smiled to himself. He'd learned from experience that if you just ignored him when he was in this mood, there was a very small chance he'd get bored.

"No! Don't buy the Imari vase! It's a forgery, the shade of orange in the border is too vibrant!"

Peter looked over the top of the book he'd began reading to see what Neal had become so engaged with.

"Antiques Roadshow?" Peter shook his head and chuckled to himself. "Unbelievable..."

"I know right? $600 for a fake."

"I was talking about you."

"What? Gotta keep my skills sharp," Neal pouted again, apparently oblivious to how childish it made him look.

The rest of the evening was no different, Peter would read his book, while Neal yelled at the TV screen as apparently forged items exchanged hands. Neal would then turn and explain to Peter in great detail why those items were forgeries, and Peter would find he was reading the same page over and over again.

However Antiques Roadshow only lasted an hour, and Netflix only offered the first season - to which Neal grew bored of rather easily.

"Aren't you going to sleep?" Neal asked an hour later, peering over at the agent from behind an army of origami swans. Needless to say the notepad now no longer had any pages in it.

"To give you the perfect opportunity to flee the country?"

Neal rolled his eyes theatrically. "There's a Marshal on guard outside the door, and we're six stories off the ground."

"That's never stopped you before."

Neal smirked, his eyes lighting up with mischief. "Paris was different, you were still chasing me back then."

"You could have broken your ankle."

"I did."

Peter shook his head, and ran his hands through his hair. Someday the happy go lucky conman wasn't going to be so lucky.

"So, tell me a bit more about yourself." Peter looked over, and could see Neal visibly tense at the unexpected question.

"You know my shoe size, what else could you possibly not know about me?" Neal narrowed his eyes, and if he was trying to hide his suspicion from Peter, well, he wasn't doing a good job.

"Uhm...I don't know. But we may as well get to know each other if we're going to be partners for the next four years."

Neal winced at the reminder. Three years, Three hundred and fifty eight days to go.

"Okay fine, ask me a question." Peter offered. He wanted desperately to get his consultant to trust him, but the way he was going, Neal probably thought it was an interrogation. Where was his wife when he needed her? He wasn't good at this emotional stuff.

"Okay...why did you change your mind?"

Peter knew what Neal was asking without him being specific. He still remembered the look of genuine surprise on his consultants face when he'd picked him up from prison a week after dismissing his request for work release. He thought for a while.

"Well...I guess I was curious," he said finally.

"Curious?" Neal probed, eyebrows raisedhoping for an explanation.

"Yeah. Well, I'd never actually gotten close enough to you to see the real you. Sure, I had your file and plenty of reports. We've bumped into each other a few times over the years. But I guess I wanted to see you when you're not smirking into a security camera, or sending Chinese food to our stakeout van."

Neal fell silent for a while, pondering over the sentiment behind his answer.

"You know, your obsession with me could be borderline stalkerish..."

The remark brought out a chuckle from Peter. Even though Neal used humour as a defence mechanism and distraction, Peter knew Neal had taken that his words in and was processing them in his own way. For their partnership to work he needed Neal to know he wasn't just being milked of his talents, and that despite the heavy trust issues between them, and Peter's constant threats of prison, he did in fact care about him. It was going to be a long process, but eventually things were going to work between them. It would just take time for Neal to trust him enough to open up, and Peter had to accept that and give him space.

Peter turned and retrieved his book from the nightstand. He realised it was too early to start digging into Neal's past - the last thing he needed was the conman to feel cornered, because that's when he would run. This had to be done in baby steps, and tonight Neal didn't seem ready for a Q&A into his life.

"Go on, get some sleep, we have an early start tomorrow."

Neal pulled a face, but took his duvet by the corners and shook it free of the paper swans, scattering them across the room.

Peter frowned. He was going to have fun watching Neal pick every last one up in the morning.

"You will be here tomorrow, right?" Peter looked over at the con, who already had his eyes closed.

"Of course Peter."