Notes: Although this story is part of a series it can be read on its own. In the pre-series Caffrey Conversation AU created by Penna Nomen, Peter recruited Neal in 2003 when he was 24. In exchange for a confession and help in recovering stolen items, he was given immunity for past crimes and started working for the FBI as a consultant. For followers of the Caffrey Conversation AU, Complications is set in the spring of 2004 after Caffrey Flashback.

Federal Building, New York. April 26, 2004. Monday morning.

With the recruitment of Neal Caffrey, Special Agent Peter Burke realized early on that not only had the White Collar team gained a consultant, but Peter also acquired an inner antenna, something that he liked to think of as his NEAL radar. Precisely tuned to Neal's frequency, it sent off warning blips whenever something was amiss. In general it had turned out to be remarkably accurate.

Lately his radar had gone blissfully dormant. To all appearances, over the last four months Neal had adjusted well to the nine-to-five routine, not an easy step for someone who up to now had never held a regular job.

So on what should have been a typical Monday morning, when Peter heard a slow blip . . . . blip . . . . blip . . . . in his head, it came as a shock.

The day had started innocently enough. The team had gathered in the conference room for the morning briefing. Workloads had been on the light side the previous week, and there was not much that needed to be reviewed.

After the others had given their assignment updates, Peter announced, "We're lucky we don't have anything urgent right now. On May 6, I move into budget planning mode for the upcoming year, and I've been told to get our remaining outstanding cases processed before then. Unfortunately there's quite a stack left to be done, and, yes, plenty of everyone's favorite—mortgage frauds. But there's no reason to be concerned. I've sorted through the files and have already assigned them so nobody will feel left out."

Responding to the chorus of ensuing groans, he added, "I don't want to hear it. You're not the ones who will have to sit in budget meetings. We should be able to get through all of these in the next couple of weeks."

Shaking their heads, the agents had all dutifully walked out with a batch of files. Neal was the last one to leave. He had been unusually quiet during the briefing and picked up his share without comment.

"What, no complaints? No snarky remarks about the thrill of mortgage cases?"

Neal made a half-hearted attempt at a smile. "I decided to you a give you a break for a change." He eyed the folders and exhaled. "I better get started."

This was not typical Neal behavior. Normally he would have groaned in misery over one tedious mortgage fraud case, let alone a stack of them. Something was off.

"You feeling okay?" Peter asked. His eyes did look a little bloodshot, and Peter had caught him yawning a couple of times during the briefing.

"Hmm? Yeah, I'm fine. Can I . . . ?" Neal nodded toward the door. He appeared distracted and anxious to leave the conference room.

Peter was busy the rest of the day with his own files to work on, but he couldn't help noticing that the bullpen was remarkably quiet. On a normal day, more likely than not, Neal would have been sitting on a desk, joking with some of the younger team members. This afternoon when Peter looked over at Neal's desk, he was lost in thought, chin propped up on his hands, open files in front of him. After a few seconds, he shook his head and buried himself in the files again. It was all very odd. But how could you fault a guy for doing his job?

blip . . . blip . . . blip . . .

Early the next morning, Neal was already at work when Peter arrived.

"Morning, Neal."

"Peter." Neal continued poring over a spreadsheet displayed on his monitor.

"How's it going?"

Neal paused and grimaced at the stack. "Miles to go."

The kid looked wasted. Surely he hadn't spent the whole night working on files? "You do know how to pace yourself, right? I gotta tell you, there's no reward for finishing first. You are allowed to take the occasional break."

"Yeah, right," he said, nodding glumly, and returned to his spreadsheet.

No sarcastic retorts? Now he was sure something was going on. Peter pulled up a chair. "Care to clue me in on what the real problem is?"

Neal hesitated, fiddling with some of the papers in front of him. "It's just . . . never mind."

"No, go ahead. What's going on?"

"Yesterday, I'd planned to ask if I could take some vacation next week. I realize it's not the best timing, but if I manage to get all my cases processed this week, do you think I could take Monday through Wednesday off?"

Neal was right. They were in sprint mode now. But to be fair, Peter hadn't given the team advance warning. "Is there a special reason for taking the days off?"

"Just some personal matters. I understand if you'd rather I didn't."

Peter studied him a moment. It had only been a couple of months since a case had landed Neal in the hospital. Peter had thought he was fully recovered, but maybe not. After all, Neal was an expert con artist. "All right. You can take the days off. Just make sure the cases are all processed first."

Neal breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks, Peter."

That didn't explain why Neal needed the time off, but it must be something important for Neal to be so concerned. Peter was tempted to pry the reason out of him, but clearly Neal wasn't anxious to share. Base case, Neal had secrets. Peter resigned himself to listing this as just one more example.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

At noon, the bullpen started to clear as the agents scattered for lunch. Agent Jones stopped at Neal's desk on his way out. "You're making it too easy, Caffrey."

Neal looked at him, puzzled. "I am?"

"Tuesday? Lunchtime? Ring any bells?"

"Of course, Tuesday Tails." Neal groaned as he remembered. "And it's your turn, right? Sorry, it totally slipped my mind. Look, do you mind if we skip it today? I've already made other plans."

"Yeah, likely story. You knew I would have caught you," joked Jones. "But I'll give you a pass."

Tuesday Tails had become a weekly ritual since Neal joined White Collar. Team members took turns tailing him over the lunch hour to refine their skills. Neal had an enviable winning record which he took great delight in maintaining.

After Jones left, Neal thought wistfully to himself that Tuesday Tails were a lot more appealing than what he had in mind. Ever since Monday the first doubts had begun to seep in, and now they were threatening to become a flood. This was not going to be as easy as he had first imagined. For the past couple of weeks his workload had been light, and he had counted on it staying that way. Now, with the rush to finish the cases, it was all so much more difficult. It was like he was cursed.

On top of it all, it was shocking how quickly Peter had honed in to something going on, and that had really thrown him off his game. He hadn't wanted to get him involved. It was tempting to go ahead and tell him. But if he did, would the repercussions be even worse? Leaning back in his chair, Neal contemplated his options gloomily. And it didn't help one bit that the drumbeat of impending doom reverberating in his brain kept growing louder and louder.

boom . . . boom . . . BOOM . . .

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Throughout the week Neal continued to be the model of the conscientious worker. He kept himself glued to the files and hardly left his desk except to retrieve more coffee. And Peter's sense of uneasiness grew with each passing day. Had Neal managed to get entangled in some scheme that was now biting him? Or was Peter overreacting? Maybe it was time to ratchet down that annoying radar.

Thursday morning, Jones stopped by Peter's office with a question on a case. Afterwards, Peter asked, "Wasn't this your week for Tuesday Tails? How'd it go?"

"Funny thing about that. Caffrey had totally forgotten about it and begged off. Strange—I never would have thought he'd miss a chance to show us up."

"He does seem unusually quiet this week. You two hang out a lot. Did he mention anything to you I should be aware of?"

"No, but everyone's been so busy, we haven't had much time for conversation. Want me to keep an eye out?"

"It's probably nothing, but if you spot anything that raises a flag let me know."

Later that morning, while Neal was getting a refill at the coffee bar, Peter strolled over. "El told me about a great new place for lunch. I thought I'd try it out today. Care to join me? My treat."

"Sorry, could I take a rain check on that? I already made plans."

"I hear it even has a French chef. You sure about that?"

Neal winced and added wistfully, "Not much choice I'm afraid."

Peter hesitated. He wished there were some way he could get Neal to open up, but he feared anything he'd say would only aggravate the situation. "Okay, another time. I hope those plans of yours include something relaxing. You look seriously done in."

"Sorry, I got distracted reading last night and stayed up late. I'll get more sleep tonight."

"Make sure you do."

blip . . . blip . . . blip . . . blip . . .

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

When Peter left, Neal sighed in frustration. His head was definitely feeling more than a little muddled, and now Peter had him fixed in his crosshairs. More than ever, he wished he had gone ahead and confided in him. But what if he couldn't carry it off? How could he face him? He was so tired; it was hard to think straight. The last thing he needed now was to be alone with Peter and be subjected to the inevitable questions. It was fortunate the stack of files had been sufficiently large to give him an excuse to stay at his desk. The famous Caffrey wit everyone expected was feeling distinctly out-of-order at the moment.

The hours crept by. Working on a particularly dull case, Neal had to pause several times to blink his eyes. So many black spots were floating in front of them, it was becoming impossible to focus, and no amount of blinking seemed to help. Wearily, he headed back to the coffee bar for yet another cup. He had drunk so much coffee this week that his hands were beginning to shake. Great. If Peter notices that, he'll be on my case for sure.

boom . . . boom . . . boom . . . BOOM . . .

Friday morning arrived, and Neal dragged himself into the office feeling more and more like someone's discarded trash. His stomach was revolting at the thought of another coffee, but he didn't know how he'd be able to survive the day otherwise. Shoulder to the grindstone, Caffrey. Just a few more days, and then you can sleep.

Ten o'clock and three coffees later, he stirred aimlessly the cup he had just poured. What was I thinking? I must have been insane to even consider I could do this. I should back out now while there's still time. I could call and put an end to this. But if I do, wouldn't she think I had let her down? If I fail her in this, then what? Feeling increasingly trapped, Neal tried to sort through his limited choices, with each one appearing bleaker than the other.

"Finding any aliens in that cup?"

Startled, he looked up to see Peter in front of him grinning at him with a look of bemusement. Groaning to himself, he realized he had nearly fallen asleep on his feet.

Muttering incoherently, he fled back to the relative security of his desk, but he could feel Peter's eyes boring into his back.

boom . . . boom . . . boom . . . BOOM . . . BOOM . . .

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

It hadn't escaped Peter that Neal was half-asleep as he swayed over his coffee. What was causing him to act like the walking dead? Peter went over several possible scenarios, and none of them was reassuring. What concerned him the most was that someone from his past had contacted him and was now coercing him into an illegal activity. Would Neal tell him about it? He'd like to think so. But more likely he'd try to resolve it on his own. If his loyalties were at war between old and new friends, what would he do? This could be a big problem.

Or did he have some health issue he didn't want others to know about? Peter sighed. If the situation didn't improve he was going to have to confront him. But of course, Neal would just say everything's fine. Peter didn't relish the thought of spying on him, but it didn't look like he was going to have any choice.

Meetings kept Peter busy the rest of the morning, and it was one o'clock by the time he could escape. He was relieved to see Neal wasn't at his desk. Hopefully that meant he was at lunch. The only thing he'd seen Neal consume all week was coffee.

On his way out, he stopped at a conference room to drop off some files for an afternoon planning session. As he walked down the corridor, he glanced through the glass door of one of the smaller conference rooms and noticed someone sitting with his back to the door. Peter continued, paused, and then backed up to peer again. Shaking his head, he observed his consultant, slumped fast asleep over a thick, open book; a sheet of notes and a cup of coffee were by his right hand.

Quietly opening the door, he approached Neal to see what book was serving as a pillow. He didn't know what he was expecting, but Advanced Organic Chemistry: Structure and Mechanisms was totally off the radar.

Retreating into the corridor, Peter weighed his options. Concluding that the time to be subtle was long past, he reopened the door with a satisfying, resounding bang and strode back in the room.

Neal jerked his head up foggily and gazed around in wide-eyed confusion.

"I've been looking everywhere for you! I haven't had lunch and I want company."

"Already ate—you go on," he said wearily, resting his chin on his hands, apparently too exhausted to try to disguise it.

"Nope, we're going together. Move it, that's an order."

Sighing in defeat, Neal gathered up his supplies. "Hold on, Mr. Enthusiasm, let me get my jacket," he grumbled as Peter prodded him along.

When they arrived at a nearby café, Peter commandeered a booth in the back. Most of the lunch crowd had already left. It was exactly what Peter wanted—quiet with few distractions. He ordered a meatball sub while Neal chose a spinach quiche.

Normally getting Neal to talk was not an issue. If anything, it was the opposite.

But not today.

When their orders arrived, Neal resisted all attempts at conversation. Fine. If that's what he wanted, Peter was prepared to talk for both of them. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way. I'd have to be blind not to see something's not right. You look like you haven't slept for a week, and I would wager you've hardly eaten anything either. You're so tense, if someone touched you, you'd fly off in a hundred different directions. Are you in some sort of trouble? Is someone from your past demanding something of you?"

Neal didn't look up and continued to mangle his quiche with his fork. "It's nothing like that, although I can understand why you might think so. It's just . . . rather embarrassing. Nothing may happen, and I didn't want others to get involved. If it falls apart, which it undoubtedly will, then I'd have to go through one round of explanations after another. The teasing I can handle, but the commiseration, the awkward attempts to express sympathy?" He cut into the quiche with his fork and proceeded to mash a second bite into oblivion. "I knew this was a bad idea," he muttered more to himself than Peter. "I was an idiot to attempt it."

"What's a bad idea? Put your fork down. You've tortured that quiche enough. Have you considered that it's faintly conceivable I could help?"

"This isn't your problem. I should be able to handle it on my own."

"Yet clearly you're not."

Neal shrugged acknowledgment.

"Is it your job? I know the daily routine can be—"

"No, the job's great," he rushed to clarify. "It's family." He paused for a moment then took a breath, appearing to come to a decision. "I can handle work pressures, but living up to the Caffrey standard?"

"Yeah, I can understand that your relatives could be a bit overwhelming. Having a former ambassador for a grandfather and a movie actress for a grandmother can be intimidating to anyone, but I met your family at your birthday party in March, and you couldn't ask for a more gracious group of people. They were clearly thrilled to have you back in their lives."

"When my cousin Henry arranged the reunion, I didn't realize it would become so complicated. My relatives hadn't seen me for 21 years. I was a stranger to them, a reminder of an unhappy period in their lives. I don't bear them any ill will, but I'm also not expecting anything from them. I figured we'd all moved on. But it hasn't turned out that way at all. That's not a complaint. It's just been complicated. Lately, it seems that the complication has been my formal education, or more properly lack thereof. I appear to be rather an anomaly on the family tree," he added ruefully.

Peter had a hard time believing they were making an issue of it, but he didn't attempt to dissuade him. At least Neal was opening up. The repair work could start later.

"For my aunt Noelle, it's been particularly frustrating. Perhaps she blames herself for not checking on me when I was in WITSEC and not being there to intervene when things got rough. I don't, but she seems determined to make amends for lost opportunities. When I told her about the past that the marshals had fabricated for me—where I'd grown up in Europe—she seized upon it."

Peter nodded in agreement. "Noelle the Unstoppable Force. From everything I've seen, she's not the type of person to sit back if she feels action is needed."

"Exactly. But what you probably don't know is that Noelle got her undergraduate degree at Columbia University and has kept up her connections there. Since she obtained her PhD in Psychology, she's occasionally returned as a guest lecturer. A couple of weeks ago she approached the Dean of Foreign Students, not bothering to ask me first. She cooked up some convoluted tale about my overseas education, referring vaguely to Interpol, counterintelligence, espionage, and need-to-know restrictions. Somehow she managed to sell the story that I was God's gift to Columbia but didn't have any diplomas to prove it. "

He looked up to see Peter grinning at him. "Insane, isn't it?" he said, chuckling sheepishly. "This was one con even I would have had a hard time pulling off. Over the past few months I've come to realize there are several other expert con artists among the Caffreys."

"Did the dean actually swallow this cock-and-bull story?"

"No, he wasn't quite that gullible. But she did make a strong enough case that he agreed to meet with me and discuss options. At that point, Noelle came to me, grinning like a Cheshire cat and apparently immensely pleased with herself. My reaction was like yours. Trying to leapfrog into Columbia was just not possible. Besides, I was happy with my life. I didn't want all the complications this would bring. But Noelle kept selling it to me, and it turns out there actually is a precedent for this. Columbia has a program in place to test foreign students and award them credit based on the results."

"Wait, I'm not following. What is it exactly that she's trying to arrange?"

"That's the lure that hooked me in. Columbia has an outstanding program in art. If I were to get accepted, I could earn a dual master's in art history and the visual arts. The bachelor's degree would be rolled into the master's program, and I could obtain credit for most if not all of the undergraduate work based on the test results."

Peter shook his head doubtfully. "It sounds too good to be true."

"Exactly the way I felt," agreed Neal eagerly. "I kept looking for the glaring issue that was going to kill the deal, but Noelle was unshakable and she finally wore me down."

"You didn't stand a chance against her."

"So, just to get some peace if nothing else, I agreed to talk things over with school officials. Last Saturday I met first with the Dean of Foreign Students and then with the Dean of the Arts School going over the program. Course times are flexible enough that I would be able to do the work on Saturdays and evenings. For the Master in Visual Arts I would set my own schedule in any case, preparing pieces for exhibition. The Master in Art History would involve seminars, workshops, and a thesis to write. I told them I already had a full-time job, but they said that's nothing unusual and I could set my own pace."

Neal paused to catch the waiter's eye for a refill of coffee. Peter thought about dissuading him from what was probably the last thing he needed at this point, but decided it was a lost cause. At least he was talking.

"And okay, I have to admit, I was blown away by the program, and dumbfounded to believe it might actually work out. I still can't get that I'd be able to get credit for what I love doing anyway, that I'd have opportunities that I never dreamed possible."

As Neal expounded on the program, he grew more animated. Eyes sparkling, he painted a picture of what this could mean for his future—the extra credibility it would give him at the FBI and the new doors that would be open to him. Peter just sat back and let him talk. What struck him was how much this obviously meant to him. He had assumed Neal didn't regret abandoning his education. Now it was clear he understood what a liability it was.

Neal paused and added despondently, "There's only one slight roadblock that stands in the way of this bright and glorious future."

"I'm ahead of you—the exams, right?"

Neal nodded. "That's why I need the days off. Come next Monday, I have three days of testing to endure. One full day will be spent on written and oral exams in art history and the visual arts."

"Surely you're not too worried about that?"

"Monday I'm actually looking forward to," he conceded with a smile. "It's the other days that are haunting my nights. You see, I had to pick six other subjects from several different categories to be tested on. For each of the subjects I'll have both written exams and interviews with the faculty. The orals don't bother me, but the written exams are another story. It's been a long time since I've taken exams, and—"

"You're freaking out over them," Peter finished for him. "What are the subjects?"

"English literature, French, Italian, and—all right, here I may have been a tad overconfident—chemistry, mineralogy, and metallurgy."

Peter choked on his coffee. "Seriously, metallurgy?"

Neal shrugged. "What can I say—I tried to pick subjects I knew something about. I had to pick three in the math and science disciplines and these were the closest I could find. Unfortunately gemology wasn't one of the options."

"Or Advanced Forgery Techniques either, I suppose. They're not giving you much time to prepare."

"Yeah, I'm late to apply. To have any chance of starting in the fall, I have to take them now."

"So this is what the whole not-sleeping, surviving-on-coffee nonsense has been about. You've been tooling the whole week?"

Neal looked if possible even more embarrassed. "That about sums up what's been passing for my life. Saturday afternoon I loaded myself up with textbooks, and since then . . ." Neal spread his hands out to sum up his misery. "You see, Noelle did such a good sales job, that she had me convinced I'd be able to pull it off, but when I started studying, I saw that I was going to be in for a world of pain. I picked chemistry and metallurgy, thinking I knew something about them. And I do," he added defensively. "But apparently not what they're going to test me on. They're more interested in the theoretical than real world experience. As the week went on, the more I worked at it, the more I just got stuck in a quagmire of obscure theorems and formulas."

Peter nodded. "That's a common problem. University studies and the real world can seem to be in different universes. But I have to tell you, you're going about it the wrong way. Unless your idea of impressing Columbia is to execute a face plant of exhaustion during the interview and then fall asleep during the written exam, you're gonna have to rethink your strategy. Luckily for you and despite your best efforts to prevaricate, you've come to the perfect source. Yes, you may be an expert at the con, but you have zero experience at college cramming, whereas I am a master in the art of the cram."

Groaning, Neal put his head in his hands. "Great, now I'm really doomed."

Peter stroked his chin and made a show of pondering for several long moments. "Yes, I think what is called for right now is the famous Burke Boot Camp. It's short notice but I think I can manage it. Five o'clock sharp we'll leave the office, stop by your loft for your books and a minimum of survival gear. You're gonna spend the weekend at my place."

"Gee, much as I appreciate the gesture, I really, really don't want to put you out. I've got a plan—it's all coming together."

"You call sleeping over your books a plan? What's your track record with this marvelous plan? I, on the other hand, have diplomas as proof—my method works. So come on, Caffrey, finish your quiche. That's the last fancy stuff you're going to be eating for a while. Time's a-wastin' and you're on a tight schedule."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

As they walked back to the office, Neal grew quiet. The exhilaration and relief of being able to open up to Peter had evaporated, leaving him more wiped out than in the morning. He hadn't thought that was possible. It would take several more trips to the coffee bar just to finish the day, plus now there was the whole Boot Camp issue to deal with. What had earlier sounded to be rather fun now loomed as a huge hurdle.

Peter seemed to sense how he was feeling. "How many cases do you have left to process?" he asked.

"Just one—I'll have it done by the end of the day. It's the Ferguson mortgage fraud. It's fairly straightforward."

Peter didn't reply, just nodded his head.

Once they were on the elevator, he asked Neal, "Have you heard about Storeroom 51?"

"No. Is the truth in there? Does this mean I can finally tell Mozzie all his suspicions about a FBI-engineered conspiracy are true?"

"Very funny. No, this is a special place that all veteran agents know about and visit from time to time. I'll show you on the way back. "

Storeroom 51 turned out to be a small windowless room on a back corridor, containing a desk, a file cabinet, a couch, and not much else.

"This is where an agent comes when he needs to take a break," Peter explained. "You'll find a pillow and blanket in the file cabinet. I'm going to put an "Occupied" sign on the door, and your assignment is to get some sleep. No reading and no coffee, understood? I'll take care of the Ferguson case and come back at five o'clock to pick you up. Sound good?"

Exhaling in relief, Neal mouthed an expressive Thank You.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

When Peter reappeared at Storeroom 51, he found Neal in the midst of folding up the blanket.

"Are you sure you still want to do this?" Neal asked. "I bet the last thing Elizabeth wants is to have me hanging around on your weekend."

"Are you kidding? I talked with her, and she's already laid in supplies. She's never had the thrill of partaking in Burke Boot Camp. It was always just the stuff of legends. She wouldn't dream of canceling."

On the way to Brooklyn, they stopped off at Neal's apartment, and Peter watched as Neal collected an ungodly number of books to haul with them. "What did you do—buy out the campus bookstore? I should have brought a truck."

"I didn't know what they were going to test me on so I figured I better play it safe," said Neal defensively. "Don't worry; they'll easily fit into four boxes. Are you going to let me bring anything else?"

"Yeah, you can bring some sweats and jeans and don't forget your running shoes." Responding to Neal's raised eyebrows, Peter simply said, "Boot Camp, remember?"

When they arrived at the Burkes' house, El greeted them at the door, clad in jeans and a UMass sweatshirt with her long hair done up in a ponytail. "Hi, Neal, welcome to your dorm."

Neal flashed a smile and hugged her. "I'm glad to see it's co-ed at least. This may not be so bad after all."

"Hey, fella, no ideas of making a move on my girl. She's already spoken for. This is your roommate." Peter pointed to his Lab Satchmo who was beating an ecstatic drumbeat with his tail. El had from somewhere scrounged an old Cornell bandana of Peter's to tie around the dog's neck.

Peter shoved Neal forward. "Stow your gear in the guest bedroom, and we'll move on to Step 1."

When Neal was once more lined up in front of him, Peter took great pleasure in reciting the ground rules. He'd debated how many to make. Memories of an exacting drillmaster at Quantico had supplied a long list. Neal would never know that his guardian angel El had reduced the number to something more manageable.

"Rule Number 1: and this is the most important. No talking back to the instructor—that's me, if you haven't already guessed. Rule Number 2: You will eat what is provided with no complaints.
Rule Number 3: No cell phones or other communications with the outside world."

Neal looked more than a little nervous. "I think we should make a few minor adjustments. I'm thinking particularly Rule Number 2 could—"

"Too late," Peter interrupted, holding firm and ignoring the whines of sympathy coming from Neal's roommate sitting beside him. "You already signed up. End of discussion. Now march back upstairs and get into your sweats."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

As Neal changed, he wondered not for the first time what he'd gotten himself into. Peter was having far too much fun with this. "What do you think?" he asked his roomie.

The Lab cocked his head, wagging his tail tentatively. At the moment Satchmo was far more interested in investigating the contents of his gym bag than explaining the peculiarities of his master.

Neal had barely finished unpacking when Peter bellowed from the foot of the stairs, "Food's on!"

When Neal came downstairs, he found the Burkes' dinner table covered with several open boxes of pizza and a couple of 6-packs of beer.

Peter, clearly in his element, was already dishing out the pizza. "You can have pepperoni or sausage or both. None of that sissy avocado or pineapple or whatever it is you normally eat. Tomato sauce is known to be a perfectly acceptable vegetable."

"You're enjoying yourself, aren't you?" Neal said as he helped himself.

"Oh, yeah."

"Any chance of a little wine around here?"

Peter pondered his request for a moment before replying. "Just this once I'll take pity on you. Besides, that means more beer for me."

Conversation was light and easy over dinner. Elizabeth kept Peter and Neal enthralled with her escapades as a college student. Peter commented that some of the tales he'd never heard before. There was one in particular . . .

"El, I had long suspected you were a free spirit," Neal said, gazing at her with admiration. "But campus streaking—that elevates you to the level of goddess."

"And before you ask for photos," Peter said, cutting in. "I'm declaring this topic closed." He leaned over to El and added in a loud stage whisper, "until we're alone, at which time I'll require a full description."

Quickly changing the conversation, El asked, "So, Neal, what interests you the most about Columbia's program?"

That was a question he'd been asking himself, particularly when his mind was spinning from trying to cram too much inside. "I suppose it's the chance to be able to discuss art with some of the greatest minds in the field." Talking about his own art had never come easily to Neal; it had always been much safer to talk about the works of others. Now, perhaps because of his exhaustion, the wine or simply the gratitude for what they were doing, he opened up to them more than he had to anyone else before. "For the past several years I've lost myself in the works of others. Some might call it a way to escape. Now I'd like to establish my own identity. But right now, I don't know what that is. And that scares me but it's also irresistible."

Peter refilled his glass while El plied him with questions and talked about her courses. After the pizza was demolished, they took their glasses and continued the conversation in the living room. El insisted he take the couch, tossing him a couple of extra cushions. After a few beers, Peter was more than eager to reminisce about his own college experiences, moving from classes to dorm life to the baseball field . . .

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

". . . and so in spite of what happened, we actually won the game. It was a moment—"

El nudged Peter. Nodding her head in Neal's direction, she whispered, "You've lost half your audience." For the past several minutes, Neal had been slowly sliding lower and lower on the couch and now he was out for the count. Satchmo had accumulated a collection of his favorite toys and dropped them by the couch, but it was clear playtime would have to wait.

Peter pointed to the kitchen. He and Elizabeth quietly picked up their glasses and moved into the kitchen to clean up.

Peter brought in the leftover pizza. There wouldn't be much to put away. Neal had been so distracted with talking about art, he didn't appear to notice all the slices El kept adding to his plate. After a week of living off coffee, he was making up for the lost meals.

"As I mentioned on the phone, Neal's psyched himself out over this. I don't think he's gotten more than a couple of hours sleep each night." Exasperated, Peter shook his head. "It's crazy. Why didn't he come forward on the first day and tell me? He's not normally intimidated of me."

El handed him a dish towel, "It's obvious how much he wants this. I think he was worried that if he's not accepted, you'd feel he'd let you down. It's hard enough that Noelle's involved. You remember that phone conversation I had with him, when you were with him in St. Louis? He mentioned then how he was trying to discover who he is. I suspect Neal feels a lot more vulnerable and insecure when he has to sell himself rather than a con."

When the dishes were put away, she asked, "Should we wake him to go upstairs?"

"If we wake him, he'll probably insist on studying, and he needs his sleep more than anything else right now. I'll get him a blanket and extra pillow. He'll be fine. Plus, I'd like to hear more about this streaking adventure of yours. I can see I still have much to discover about you. How about us continuing this upstairs?"

Elizabeth looked at him with a coy smile, "Why, Peter Burke, are you inviting me up to your dorm room?"

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

The next morning Peter awoke early. While Elizabeth slept on, he headed downstairs to start the coffee. The lights were already on below, and Neal was studying at the dining room table.

"Hi Peter, coffee's already made. Help yourself."

"When did you get up?"

"A while ago," he answered vaguely. Peter looked him over. Neal looked much more rested than before so he decided not to press it.

Breakfast presented yet another dimension to Burke Boot Camp. When Neal heard that cheese fries and eggs with deviled ham were on the menu, he nearly bolted. "Oh no, you don't," Peter ordered. "Remember Rule Number 2."

"But if my brain cells are clogged with lard, I won't have a chance. Help me, Elizabeth, you're my only hope!" Neal pleaded, eyes wide with horror.

"Don't worry, I've got you covered," she whispered back conspiratorially. "Peter, I'm making French toast, and if there happens to be more than I can eat, I don't see any problem with Neal having it instead."

"You're messing with the magic formula," Peter rumbled but let it pass.

The rest of the weekend passed in a blur of books, coffee, pizza, conversation, and yes, even a reasonable amount of sleep. In general Peter let Neal set his own pace, only insisting on mid-morning runs to clear the cobwebs. By Sunday afternoon, Peter was feeling quite satisfied with the results and was prepared to call Operation Boot Camp a success. The shadows were gone from under Neal's eyes, and he looked and acted more like his normal self.

As he drove him back to Riverside Drive Peter said, "You know, you could have told me about this on Monday and saved yourself a lot of grief. I could have been of more help. When I told you I had your back, those weren't just empty words. I meant them. And I know Noelle feels the same way. It's really not necessary to do these things all by yourself."

Neal looked out the side window. "I know—I should have. And I'm grateful for what Noelle arranged. It's just . . . I can't help thinking this is all going to blow up. I keep hearing these voices in my head telling me that you can't bypass graduating from high school and college and be accepted at grad school. That's not the way the world works. Sometimes I feel like I have the weight of the entire Caffrey clan on my back. I know Noelle has the best intentions, but the pressure of living up to their expectations was getting to me. Going to work—at least that was normal. If you didn't know about it, well, then at least that part of my life could continue as if nothing had happened and I wouldn't have to worry that I'd let you down, too."

Peter checked the rearview mirror and then quickly pulled off to the side of the road. "Let's get this straight. The fact you're attempting the exams makes me very proud. It doesn't matter what the results are, but that you're willing to go through this much work shows me how far you've come and how right I was to recruit you. If this doesn't work out, you still have other options that you may want to pursue. So, just relax. Take the tests. There's not going to be any adverse impact, and who knows, you might surprise yourself by doing better than you expect."

Some of the tension left Neal's face. "Thank you." Relaxing into a smile, he added, "You've got quite a knack for a drill instructor. You ever need any referrals, you know who to call on."

"I'll keep that in mind." Pulling back into the traffic, Peter couldn't resist one last bit of advice. "Just remember, get some sleep tonight."

"Got it. No zombie face plants tomorrow."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Next week, it was back to routine for Peter. He had a full slate of budgetary sessions to attend and on top of that, a few interesting leads on cases had filtered in. One case in particular looked tailor-made for Neal. Peter looked down at the bullpen and at Neal's empty desk. It would be good to have him back. And from what Neal had said, he would also be glad to return to the routine. Peter smiled as he shook his head. Who would have believed that Neal Caffrey, expert con artist and former criminal, would already enjoy the normalcy of work at the FBI so much?

It made him wonder if any of the agents had been ragging Neal for his lack of college education. Neal hadn't mentioned it, but he wouldn't have. The Harvard crew mock someone for not having a degree? Yeah, Neal would have made an easy target. That could have contributed to his reluctance to talk about it.

When Neal started at the FBI, it had taken a while for the agents to think of Neal as a team member and not a criminal. Peter hadn't thought about the education gap being an issue too.

On Thursday morning, Neal arrived promptly at eight o'clock. A few minutes later, he appeared at Peter's door, bearing two coffees from the new coffee house which had opened up down the street. "Miss me?"

"Get in here. Tell me how it went." Peter motioned him to a chair.

Neal grimaced as he handed Peter a coffee. "In a word, intense. What can I say—if it hadn't been for Burke Boot Camp, I don't know if I'd have made it back alive."

"Yeah, right. Now tell me what really happened."

"The first day on art was unbelievable. I arrived at the Dean's office and was taken to one of the art buildings, Watson Hall, and dropped off in a small conference room. The written exams started at eight and lasted for four hours, covering subjects from Ancient Egypt to Abstract Illusionism. The questions were mainly short but there were some essays. At the end of it I felt like my head had been taken to the drycleaners and all its contents sucked out. Then, after a break for lunch and retrieval of brain cells, I was taken to a large, airy studio that had been set up with six work stations. Each one had art supplies for one particular medium. The choices were oils, pastels, watercolors, pen-and-ink, charcoal, and clay. I was told to pick three of the media and that I'd have forty minutes to work with each one with a ten-minute break in between, all the while being observed by a panel of three professors."

"That sounds like something out of a reality show. Were you expecting that?"

"No, they hadn't given me any advance notice. But it makes sense. If I had been told to bring in some works I had done, how would they know I had been the artist? "

Peter nodded in agreement. He could picture how Neal would have relished the challenge. "So what did you decide on?"

"I wound up making a clay sculpture, an oil painting, and a pen-and-ink drawing. But the best part was at the end. I sat a large, round table with several profs from the Visual Arts and Art History departments, and we just discussed art. It was free-form. They brought up some topics, but I could also ask my own questions and discuss whatever I liked. That was supposed to wrap up at five, but it wound up going on longer than anyone had anticipated. At six o'clock they called out for sandwiches and more coffee, and it was two hours later before they finally called time. I was on such a high; I could have kept going into the night." Neal paused for breath, looking lost in the moment.

"I'm surprised they didn't accept you on the spot." Peter smiled as he savored his coffee.

"I should have quit while I was ahead. Tuesday morning was spent on English literature and French—okay, not so bad. But the afternoon on metallurgy—definitely not my finest moment. By the time Wednesday rolled around, there wasn't much left to give. Italian I had covered, but the exams for chemistry and mineralogy were agonizing. I could fake my way through the orals, but the written parts were another story. If I'm accepted, it certainly won't be because of how I did on those." He paused for a moment. "Monday I felt on top of the world. By Wednesday afternoon, I had fallen into the bowels of Hell. Now, I'm just glad it's over. Believe it or not, I'm actually looking forward to some mortgage fraud cases at this point."

"I knew you'd see the light someday," said Peter triumphantly. "Any idea of how long it will be before you know the results?"

"Hopefully in about a week. I'm just going to put it out of my mind."

"The flowers you sent El and the dog biscuits for Satchmo were a nice touch and much appreciated."

"Hey, it was the least I could do for trampling all over your weekend."

. . .

As the days passed. Neal quickly slipped back into the routine of White Collar. With no hidden agenda to worry about, he could relax. He tried to put all thoughts of Columbia out of his mind. Peter seemed to understand and didn't bring up the subject again. When he hadn't heard anything after two weeks, Neal simply shrugged to himself. It had been a long shot after all.

Federal Building, New York. May 26, 2004. Wednesday afternoon.

Peter arrived back in the office late. It had been a long day with one meeting after another to attend and he still needed to finalize the findings on the Atkinson probe. The bullpen was already deserted. As he trudged up the stairs, he hoped there wouldn't be too much work waiting for him on his desk.

Pausing at the door, he glumly regarded the discouragingly tall stack of files which had somehow materialized during his absence. With a sigh Peter decided he might as well take a quick look before calling it a day. When he sat down, he noticed a blue origami lion propped up in front of the folders. Peter liked the vibes he was picking up. Columbia's logo was a blue lion. He carefully unfolded the paper to find a message from Neal inside.

"Are you and Elizabeth free tomorrow evening? There's a new pizza place that's opened in my neighborhood and I'd like to bring my experts along to try it out. I'll need a lot more pizza in the future to survive all the tests I'll be taking at Columbia!"

Notes: Thanks for reading! I hope you got as much pleasure out of Complications as I did in writing it. Special thanks to the truly amazing Penna Nomen for acting as beta editor and cheerleader.

If you'd like to see visuals for the story, visit the Complications board of our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site.

Penna and I share a blog, called Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation, where we post about our stories and adventures in writing. FanFiction doesn't allow links in notes, but I've added links to both our blog and our Pinterest site in my profile.

The Caffrey Conversation AU begins with Caffrey Conversation (where Peter recruits Neal in 2003) by Penna Nomen. She and I both write stories. Our 'verse differs from canon in that Neal was never sent to prison and the characters are several years younger. The personalities of canon characters are the same. In canon, Neal's only relatives to be mentioned are his father and mother. In ours, his mother Meredith has a twin sister named Noelle who is a psychologist.

Disclaimers: White Collar and its characters are not mine. Any references to real institutions, people, and locations are not necessarily true or accurate.