!crack! fic wherein Neal becomes a sixteen year old... I came up with this after three cans of Red Bull and an espresso... make of it what you will.

"Where the hell is Caffrey?" Peter demanded, addressing the conference room in general. He was already onto his second coffee, and although Neal liked to occasionally be exactly on time every few days just to annoy his handler, he was rarely so late. The agents gathered to go over the case files all gave him blank looks, and Agent Burke made an impatient noise, wondering to himself what the hell was going on that had caused Neal to run, so far, at least forty minutes late.

"Jones!" Peter snapped, making Clinton sit up and almost drop the case file he had been reading. "Go get his tracking data, I want to know where he is that's so much more important than work."

Jones got to his feet and stepped past Peter into his office, waking the computer up and opening the program that provided the White Collar Unit with a live feed of their pet convict's GPS tracker. What came up on the screen confused him, so he stuck his head back into the conference room and got Peter's attention.

"What?"
"You better take a look at this."
"Has he broken his radius again? Why haven't the marshals called, yet?" Peter demanded, pushing past Jones into the office and leaning over to look at the screen.

After reading the address in the bottom corner of the screen, twice, and using his finger to trace the street lines surrounding the blinking green dot, Peter's eyebrows began to knit together in frustration. According to the anklet, Neal was inside the FBI building at Federal Plaza, just off Lafayette St in Manhattan's financial district... and he'd been there almost an hour.

"He's here?"
"Apparently." Jones supplied, not sure what to say.
"But not here. Where the heck is he?" Peter glared at the screen for a few seconds, before an idea sparked in his mind.

"Stay here, call me if the dot moves. I'll be right back." Peter grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and exited the office at speed, sliding his arms through the sleeves as Jones called out after him.
"What? Do you know where he is?"

"No idea. But the receptionist in the lobby makes goo-goo-eyes at him every single morning, if he's in the building she'll know when he came in, at least." Peter called over his shoulder as he descended the stairs into the bull-pen, making for the elevators .

Why couldn't those trackers work in three dimensions and tell him at least what floor of the building Neal was on? It was a big building, and even though most of White Collar knew who Caffrey was, not many other departments could tell the CI's from the agents, unless they asked for a badge. Peter fumed silently for most of the descent, wondering why the heck Neal was inside the FBI building if he wasn't in the conference room making wisecracks about their current case.

"Good morning, Agent Burke!" the perky blonde receptionist greeted him as he approached, and Peter made the effort to give her what he hoped was a passably sincere smile.
"Good morning, Heidi. Have you seen Neal this morning?"
"Uh, not this morning, but it's a good thing you came down, I was just about to call you." she picked up a piece of paper and read a few lines off of it. "Jay from building security said that there's a young man in Interview Room Two who's asking for you. They caught him trying to sneak past security and he's refusing to answer any questions- he's just saying your name over and over again."
"But you haven't seen Neal?"
"Not today, Agent Burke."
"And there's a kid in Interview Two who's asking for me?" Peter racked his brains, but try as he might he couldn't think of anyone he knew who had a teenager, let alone someone who knew that he worked for the Bureau. He glanced across the lobby towards the small, windowless rooms that were labelled as 'Interview Rooms' but were more like semi-secure holding cells for people who tried to gain access to the Federal building without authorisation.
"Yes, it says here that he looks about fourteen, and is refusing to answer any questions." Heidi told him, glancing at her piece of paper.

"I don't know any teenagers" Peter muttered, half to himself, but stepped away from the reception desk and crossed the lobby towards the interview rooms, knocking on the door of number two.

"Agent Burke, I was just about to get Heidi to call you, we've got a bit of a situation here." The burly building security guard greeted Peter as he exited the interview room, closing the door rather hurriedly behind him.
"A situation?"
"A teenager."
"How is a teenager a situation?" Peter's patience was beginning to run thin.
"Uh, maybe you should see for yourself." Jay stepped aside and opened the door, motioning Peter inside.

A scrawny dark-haired kid was sitting on the opposite side of the interview table, feet on the edge of the chair he was sitting on, hugging his knees and staring at the door. As soon as he saw Peter he leapt to his feet and rounded the table at a rate of knots.

"Peter, they finally called you!" The kid flung himself onto Agent Burke, hugging him tight enough to make Peter squeak in protest and confusion. Already confused enough by the presence of a teenager, apparently one who knew him, Peter began to panic a little when the kid gripped him like a life-buoy.

"Hey, kid, who are you?" Peter pulled back a little, pushing the kid away from him with both hands on his shoulders, trying to get a better look at him.

"Peter, it's me!"
"Look, I don't know how you think you know me, but I have no idea who you are!"

The kid sighed, stepping away from the agent, and pulled himself up to sit on the table. Peter felt a twinge of recognition as he looked into the kid's bright blue eyes- maybe he was a relative of Elizabeth's? A cousin, or a nephew of some description?

"Peter, it's me, Neal. Your pet convict?" The kid lifted his left foot and planted it on the chair closest to Peter, pulling up the pants leg to display a sleek, shiny black tracking anklet, the green LED shining bright.

"Where the hell did you get that?" Peter asked, pointing at the tracker.

The kid sighed again, as if he were explaining something simple to someone who was a little slow.

"I've been wearing it for the last year and a half while I've been your consultant here, in the White Collar division. And even at this size I still can't get the damn thing off." The kid grabbed the anklet and twisted it around, pulling it towards his heel, but it got stuck on his ankle bone and refused to leave his leg.

"Look, kid, I don't know how much Neal is paying you to do this, but you're wasting my time and I've got a case to solve, so you call him and tell him to get his ass down here in the next fifteen minutes or I'm sending him back to prison."

"I know you've got a case, Peter, the stolen Rembrandt from 101st st, it's not going well because there was virtually no physical evidence and they somehow got past the motion detectors... not to mention the three dozen forgeries that have shown up on the black market in the last 48 hours."

Peter paused, one hand on the doorknob.

"Well, I'll give you this much, the pair of you must have done some serious preparation for this one. Did Mozzie help with the memorizing?"

"Mozzie's not involved, Peter. I'm telling you, I woke up this morning, at June's place, in my favourite blue pyjamas, like this!"

Peter let go of the door handle and turned to face the kid properly.

"Look, kid, it's great that you're sticking with this, it shows real dedication to the con, but Neal's got to know that there's no way I'd buy anything this far-fetched."

The kid looked at him, deadpan.

"Exactly."

Peter stared at the kid for a few seconds, before narrowing his eyes and letting out a derisive snort.

"Nice try. Get out of my building and give Caffrey back his anklet, and tell him he's got one hour to get into my office before I call his bluff and order the marshals to return him to prison."

"Peter! Dammit, Peter, it's me! Run my prints if you have to, I'm Neal Caffrey!"

Peter sighed and turned to leave, but was stopped by a hand on his arm.

"Your wife's name is Elizabeth, and she runs an events company called Burke Premier Events, Mozzie thought it was a front for you but she's incredibly good at what she does. You've got a yellow labrador at home, his name's Satchmo and he's got a brown collar with a blue leash. Diana was your probie when I first started working with you, but then she moved to DC and Loren Cruz replaced her. You asked her to come back to New York when I stole the music box from the Italian Consulate. You were with me at the hangar down near the river when the jet blew up."

Peter turned around slowly, looking the kid straight in the eye. He was still skeptical, but impressed with the variety of information that he'd apparently memorized.

"Run my prints, Peter, that's all I ask."

Peter shook his head slightly, as if to clear it, unable to believe that he was actually considering indulging this teenager. He decided, after almost a solid minute of silence, to humor the kid at the very least.

"Stay here. I'll go get a computer."

Peter closed the door of the interview room behind him, waving away the security guard and wondering to himself why he was actually doing this. There was no way that kid was actually Caffrey, and Peter was trying to figure out what kind of con would require the use of a teenaged double to pretend to be Neal.

Diana met him just outside the elevators, walking with him across the White Collar unit as he tried to explain what was apparently happening, without sounding completely crazy.

"So this kid is claiming that he's Caffrey?"
"Yep."
"And he's wearing the anklet to prove it?"
"That's the long and short of it, yeah."
"So, now you're going to take a print panel down there and get his prints?"
"Well, if nothing else it will prove that Caffrey's slipped his anklet, and I'll be able to send him back to prison as punishment for messing with me like this."
"Good point, boss. I'll grab the scanner. Where's he being held?"
"Interview Two, just off the lobby."

"Meet you down there."

Peter paused outside Interview Two, listening, one eyebrow raised.

Was that laughter?

Diana had beaten him back downstairs by an entire elevator ride, so she'd been in with the kid alone for a good few minutes. But what the heck were they laughing about?

Peter elbowed the door open and the laughter stopped rather abruptly.

"Hey, boss."
"Hey, Peter."
Peter just nodded at the pair of them, setting the laptop down on the table and holding a hand out towards Diana for the glass print panel. He connected it to the computer and waited for the program to start up, before pushing the panel across the desk towards the kid.

"Start with your left thumb, just roll it across the panel, nice and slow."
"Peter, beleive it or not, I have had my fingerprints taken before." the kid commented, sarcastic.

"Just roll your thumb over the glass and stop being a smart-mouth." Peter snapped, watching the screen as the fingerprint rendered and the program began to query the database.

It took less than a minute for a mug-shot to pop up.

"Neal Caffrey, age 32, convicted of bond forgery, currently on work-release in the custody of the FBI." Peter muttered to himself, and his head began to hurt as the reality of the situation, not to mention the implications of what was happening, slowly dawned on him.

The result was an explosion of something akin to fury.

"What the hell is going on? How did you do that?" Peter demanded, rounding on the kid. Diana stood up and moved so that she was between them.

"Peter, I checked both his hands when I came in- he's not faking anything."
"You're telling me that this scrawny fourteen year old is Neal Caffrey?"
"What other explanation is there? The computer's wrong?"

Peter growled, low in his throat, and began to pace in the small room.

"Neal - if that is you - how the hell did this happen? Why do you look fourteen?" His ears had turned red and he was running a hand through his hair in frustration.

"Believe me, Peter, if I knew, I would be bottling whatever caused this and have a patent pending so I could sell it at Sak's, but I have no idea. I woke up this morning looking like this."
"Well, what did you do last night? Anything unusual?"
"Well, Mozzie came over, we had half a bottle of wine and he went home around midnight. I finished off a painting then I went to bed, nothing unusual."

"Yet somehow you woke up fourteen."
"Actually, I think I'm closer to sixteen, I didn't start growing facial hair until I was in tenth grade." Neal ran a hand over his jaw as he spoke, and Peter noticed the peach-fuzz on the kid's chin.

"So, what's the plan, boss?" Diana asked, pulling Peter back to reality with an uncomfortable jolt.

"Oh, right." He paused, staring at the wall, deep in thought.

"Well, I can't come upstairs, not in these clothes. These pants are practically falling off of me." Neal illustrated his point by pulling at the waistband, even though they weren't much too long he was able to fold a good two inches of the material back on itself between the belt keepers.

"Neal, you can't come upstairs full stop, you're a teenager. What the hell do you think Hughes would say if I bought an unaccompanied minor into White Collar?"
"Well, I can't go back to June's, it was tricky enough talking my way out of breakfast this morning."

Peter looked at Diana and realised that whatever plan they made might have a gaping hole in it- there was an unexplained teenager being held in an interview room of the FBI's Manhattan office. After a few more moments' thought, Peter grasped the door handle and left the room.

"Stay put, both of you. I'm calling Elle."

Diana looked at Neal, his thumb still pressed to the glass print-panel.

"You're in trouble, he's calling mommy!" she teased him, making him glower.

"That's all well and good, but their house is in Brooklyn. How the hell is he going to explain to the Marshals that I'm traipsing after Elizabeth rather than him?"
"That- that's a damn good question." Diana conceded.

They sat there in silence, both pondering what Peter might be planning, and after a minute or so Peter returned, sliding his phone back into his pocket.

"Okay, Elle's on her way, and I've even got a cover story worked out for you."
"What, did you tell her?" Neal was, understandably, a little concerned.

"I've only told her that you're sick, and that I need her to take you to our place and look after you, which is exactly what I'm telling Reese. For all intents and purposes, you've got the flu and Elle's taking care of you at our house for the next couple of days."

"So she doesn't know that I'm-"

"A teenager? No, I thought it'd be better to tell her that particular little tidbit in person. She'll be here in about twenty minutes. You head back up, Diana, I'll stay here and keep an eye on him."
"Okay, boss. Call me if you need anything." Diana smiled at Neal once more before leaving the room, making for the elevators with a grin.

"Hey, Peter?"

"Yes, Neal?"
"You wouldn't happen to have any clothes that might fit me at your place, would you?"
"Why would I have clothes that would fit a teenager?"
"Oh, no reason."

After a moment, Peter sighed and asked the question.

"Do you want Elizabeth to take you and get some clothes that fit?"
"Oh, that'd be great! I forgot how scrawny I was when I was a kid- this shirt is like a potato sack."

"Why don't we tell her that you've finally reverted to a physical form that matches your mentality before we worry too much about your wardrobe, hey?"

"Oh, come on, Peter, I'm not asking for Armani, just some jeans that won't fall down!"
"Look, I'll think about it, but it probably won't matter, it's not like you'll be out in public, anyway."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I'm telling Hughes that you're sick, so you'll be restricted to the house until we sort all of this out."
"But, we've got no idea how long I'll be stuck like this! You can't keep me cooped up in your house indefinitely!"
"Sure I can, it's the best option for everyone."
"Not for me!"
"Oh, stop being so dramatic. Stay put, that'll be Elle, I want to break this to her gently."

Peter got up from his chair to answer the door, careful to slip out without allowing Elizabeth to see the interior of the interview room.