I do not own White Collar.

Late Nights and Fallen Hats

It was late, the sun having long since set over the horizon, and the entire room was bathed in harsh, government-issue fluorescent lights. They're bright enough to almost burn and Neal's first few nights in their research room led him to complaining about his eyes watering. Peter has spent enough time, enough late nights, here to not even notice it anymore.

The room itself was right next to a small lounge where they often went for breaks. This was the first place Peter searched that night for Neal when he realizes the young conman has been away for too long. The lights in here are dimmer, softer and the light can be called almost gentle. His eyes flicker around the small room, searching for Neal quickly. He isn't worried the young man has run off, not anymore, but he doesn't put it past Neal's ability to cause a whole lot of trouble. More, if he actually meant to do so.

But there's no need to worry because Neal is there, curled up on one of the small couches. He's slumped onto his side, his head resting on one arm with the other arm pulled up against his chest. A laptop, the screen almost annoyingly bright in the subdued room, was resting precautiously on Neal's bent knees. His hat was lying on the ground next to him. Peter walked closer, taking in the young man. His breathing was deep and even, his normally orderly hair slightly untidy and falling into his face. The shadows of the room seemed to almost caress his skin. He looked youthful, innocent, and guileless; there's no clue to the dangerous, wicked intelligence of his mind.

Neal shifted suddenly, the computer tilting dangerously to one side. Peter lunged forward and grabbed it just as it slid off. Taking a deep breath. He shut it and placed it on the couch, just out of reach of Neal's fingers. Then he reached down and picked up Neal's hat, dusted it off, and laid it on top of the laptop. Neal shifted again, mumbled something to himself, then settled down, his face once again awash in peacefulness.

Peter doesn't realized he's moved until he's already half-way out of his jacket and laying across Neal's shoulders. He paused then, thoughts spinning inside his head as he waited, his head bent very, very close to Neal's. Once he was sure the conman was truly asleep, he leaned down and placed a gentle kiss to Neal's upturned cheek. It's a swift but affectionate brush of the lips, a display of the growing fondness for the younger man that he can't put in words. Once it's over, he pulled away and turned around, heading back the way he'd come. "Good night Neal." he whispered at the door, glancing back at the young man briefly before going back to work.

He never does notice the small, smug, smile that drifts casually across Neal's lips.