He stood at the front of the class, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his blue blazer. Sunlight rained down from the dusty windows above, staining his hair with gold; his hands danced in and out of the rays whilst he spoke.

Nick Halden was explaining to his maths teacher why he had been on his phone in the middle of the lesson.

"Give me the phone, Nick."

"Sorry, sir. What phone?" He treated the teacher to one of his brilliant, innocent smiles. Act confident. Lessons from long ago whirled through his thoughts. Don't look down, it makes people suspicious.

"The one in your right hand. The one you were texting on a minute ago." Mr Harris, maths teacher extraordinaire and wannabe detective, wasn't going to be charmed that easily. Nick deftly slipped the phone into the pocket of his blazer, distracting the keen eyes of the teacher by swirling the fingers of his other hand idly. The ploy worked. Harris didn't notice the move.

"Sir, I wasn't using my phone." Nick looked up through thick eyelashes, the very picture of sincerity. Harris raised a single eyebrow. The disbelief was clear on his face.

"Empty your pockets." Nick swore mentally. He needed that phone. And he needed time after school to plot and scheme with his mate Mozzie. Detention and a confiscated mobile would mess up his plans for sure. He wasn't going to let that happen. Nick ran his hands through his shock of coffee coloured hair, and whilst the teacher was distracted by the movement he turned slightly and eased the phone up from his pocket and into the cradle of his fingers. Then he smiled reassuringly and walked towards the maths teacher with a purposeful stride. He planted himself in front of Mr Harris, (leaning close and dropping the phone into the teacher's pocket whilst he did so) and turned his own pockets inside out. His deft fingers performed the motion with a fluid grace.

"See sir. Nothing here." Harris stared at him, still not totally convinced. He bent down to see if Nick had managed to drop the phone under a table. Nick took the opportunity to pickpocket his phone back from the maths teacher, using the two fingered grab Mozzie had taught him. Mr Harris didn't feel a thing. Nick slipped the slim Blackberry into the inside lining of his blazer and grinned up cheekily at the teacher.

"Sir, are we done here?" He asked. His tone was the smooth and sparkling, the voice he used when he was running cons or talking his way through a security barrier. This was a voice that dripped power and radiated a sense of trust - though if one listened carefully enough, they could pick out a certain element of mischief. Mr Harris stared at Nick one last time. Then the suspicion melted off his face and he gestured for the teenager to return to his seat.

"Get back to work, Nick. What exercise are you up to?"

"221B, sir." Mr Harris blinked. Exercise 221B was deemed A* level and he had never pegged Nick as much of a mathematical kinda kid. The boy was an extremely talented artist, and although he didn't struggle with numbers, maths was hardly coded into his DNA.

"Nobody likes a liar, Nick." Mr Harris warned softly. Nick laughed and picked up his pen. Numbers, sweet, simple numbers, organised into algebraic equations, stared up at him. He started to work his way through exercise 221B, the perfect, intelligent, blue eyed student. But internally, he was cringing. Nobody likes a liar, Nick. He hated lying too. Hated having to hide who he was and feed his friends and classmates false information. But when you're a wanted criminal hunted by the FBI, personal opinions don't carry much weight. He lied all the time to protect himself, and it was beginning to become a part of who he was. His real name wasn't even Nick.

"Neal Caffrey." Peter Burke paced his office whilst Diana brought him coffee and Jones brought him files. The words were bitter on his tongue. They tasted of defeat. The kid was fifteen years old, but he had robbed the Natural History Museum in broad daylight and had run off with a dinosaur of all things. He had stolen priceless works of art by Picasso, Da Vinci, Degas and Raphael. Peter also had reason to believe that the kid had forged perfect copies of the paintings and distributed them worldwide. He was a bloody good artist – he had proved that time and time and time again. He forged passports and forged bonds, hacked safes and used ingenious software to barrel through all kinds of firewall. The kid had massive potential. Too bad it was the potential to succeed in the world of white collar crime. Peter sighed and ran his hands through his hair. He had to get the kid. But the "kid" had other plans. He had disappeared off the face of the earth and had been totally underground for two months. Not even a whisper from him or any of his associates. The kid was a major embarrassment for the White Collar Division, and at this rate, Neal Caffrey was going to cost Peter his job. Or, at the very least, his peace of mind.

Peter Burke, the "archaeologist" sat down at his desk and set to work sifting through data. He would find Neal Caffrey. And he would lock him up. Regardless of his age or his silver tongue or his irresistible charm. He wouldn't rest until the kid was put away for good.