"Peter told me today was your birthday, Neal."

It was a normal day. Neal had made his way into the Burke home while Peter was getting ready for work and had, until that moment, been enjoying a lovely, silent breakfast with Elizabeth.

Neal stiffened slightly, pausing before continuing with his cereal. "He did? I'm not surprised." He put on his trademark charming grin, hoping Elizabeth didn't notice how it was a bit more fake than usual, or how his normal morning cheerfulness was suddenly feigned.

She did, of course, but didn't say a word about it, instead smiling playfully. "You really shouldn't be." She said with a smirk. "Happy birthday, Neal." She said gently, laying a hand on his shoulder. Neal looked down, a light pink spreading across his cheeks as he tried to remember the last time someone had said that to him. He'd been eighteen, right? He honestly couldn't remember.

Peter chose that precise moment to walk down the stairs, grumbling not-so-quietly that they were going to be late. Neal couldn't be more happy with the timing and he practically jumps out of his seat, rushing to the door to open it for the agent. He ignores El's suspicious look and Peter's raised eyebrow because, really, he's used to them. Not by Peter and El specifically, but the looks in general.

Peter silently got into the Taurus, glancing over to his friend. He was… rigid, silent. It wasn't normal.

The car ride to the FBI building was silent, as was most of the day. Peter couldn't help but notice that the consultant was shaking, or how between cases he brought out that sketchbook, fingers drumming the pages restlessly for five minutes -always five minutes; no more, no less- before setting it aside, the page always remaining blank except for what had been on it before.

For some reason, when Neal gets up to grab a cup of coffee (at least his third), Peter wants to walk over and see what that sketch is of.

Even from his distance he can see the page doesn't belong in that sketchbook; it's small and square, like a page you might use to make origami. Not even close to the size of the sketchbook.

By five, they leave to go home. Neal takes out that sketchbook the second their in the car, pencil tapping incessantly on the paper. Peter ignores it, keeping his strictly on the road for the most part. On the glances he does sneak, he sees that, whatever the drawing is of, there's a shattered window on the left side of the page.

They walk in, and the kid is still staring at that page even as he makes his way up the stairs.

Peter takes a gamble.

"Happy birthday, by the way." He said, his tone not at all indicating that he suspects something's wrong.

Neal actually loosens his grip slightly in shock, and the page flutters out. Falling gently to the ground.

Neither of them move for a minute before Peter retrieves the paper, not being able to help examining it.

It's just done in regular old pencil, not gel pen or in color like Neal prefers. The scene appears to be a living room. The window is shattered, there's a hole in the wall, and it seems the angle is particularly up, as though the picture were seen from the floor. There's a pool of something, curving in the shape a human body would at one side.

Peter hands it back without a word. He knows what happened, and if Neal wanted to talk about it, he would.

"Thanks," Neal muttered, walking into his apartment with none of his usual grace.

The older man shrugged, already leaving. He doesn't want to think of that picture.

He can just barely hear the quiet, "it was my birthday" as he walks down the stairs.

"I know." Peter whispered qietly, and shut the front door behind him.

{][][}

A/N: Wow. 666 words exactly. Creepy.

Ahhh, I finally published something for White Collar! Sparky, this goes out to you, mostly since it's still your birthday and I don't feel right just giving you a chapter. I know it's not your kind of story but... *shrugs* It's the thought that counts, right?

Feel free to steal this idea, I don't even know where it came from in the first place.

~Piki :B