Author's Note: This story is a crossover involving White Collar, Chuck, Leverage, and Royal Pains. I own none of these shows. And you don't need to have seen any of them to understand what is going on. At the beginning of each chapter where a new character is introduced, I'll give the basic character info you need to understand the story. Feel free to skip this part and get to the story (it's what I'd do).

Neal Caffrey: Art thief that has recently been working for the FBI as a confidential informant.

Mozzie: Neal's best friend and partner in crime. Loves conspiracy theories and wine.

Peter Burke: Neal's FBI handler and close friend.

Diana and Jones: Fellow FBI agents.

Chuck Bartowski: Computer nerd turned spy. Recently married to Sarah.

John Casey: Big, buff, scary dude. Likes guns. A lot. He's been working with Sarah and Chuck for a long time.

Sarah Bartowski: Spy that helped train Chuck along with Casey. Now married to him. Lost all her memories.

Read on, fellow readers.

-break-

New York was the best. Simply, the best. Neal Caffrey had no words other than those. He and Peter Burke had just finished up a case involving $2 million missing unmarked bills. Truly, it had been pure and simple luck that Neal had even stumbled upon the forged Van Gogh, which had led them to the man guilty of forging said unmarked bills. It was quite the coincidence that the unmarked bills had that strange similarity to Van Gogh's Sunflower background. Neal could only thank his lucky stars that he'd caught the lackadaisical design. Luck and Mozzie's affinity for aged wine. Neal shook his head, smiling a bit. That had been one of their more awkward situations, with Mozzie donning a wig and faking a Nigerian accent, all while Neal had to cart out the Van Gogh disguised as an old, overused coffee table. He'd have to tell Peter and El that story at the next dinner. Of course, Peter hadn't shown up until the Van Gogh was safely in Mozzie's warehouse and the money conspicuously in sight. That story, minus the stolen painting, would surely entertain the Burkes.

Neal had invited Mozzie over that night for a celebratory wine tasting, so he wasn't too surprised to find his door unlocked. Mozzie didn't have to stick around after the job while Jones and Diana teased him about that coincidental moment when some wayward breeze flipped his hat off his head, carrying the Fedora into a nearby fountain. Which of course distracted Neal enough to allow the bad guy to slip past him. Good thing Peter was there, gun drawn, brows furrowed. Just as an FBI agent should look, while fighting crime. And really, it's not as if Neal could control the wind. What would Jones have done in that situation? Or Diana? The exact same thing, thank you very much. Besides, Neal knew that Peter'd have his back. Which was exactly why he had stopped the chase to fish his beloved, now sopping wet, hat out of the blasted fountain.

"Moz, I got a bottle back from the 1800s. You get to guess where I stole it from. Your only clue is Monroe." Silence. But Neal wasn't miffed, figuring that Neal had either caught Mozzie mid-sip, or the conspiratist was puzzling of Neal's clue. He had had to make it difficult; Mozzie was able to remember everything thanks to that photographic memory of his. But silence remained Neal's sole companion. "Moz?"

Still no answer. Maybe he hasn't arrived yet, Neal thought, setting the bottle on the counter and reaching for two wine glasses. The door had been unlocked, though. Neal began to worry a bit. Mozzie should be here. Right? Neal shrugged his worry off. It was perfectly possible that Mozzie was talking to June downstairs. Or… Or doing some other Mozzie sort of thing. It made sense, Neal tried to convince himself.

Turning to place the twin glasses on the table, a scrap of paper caught Neal's eye. Clues like this rarely ever slipped past his sharp gaze, but Neal must have missed it while he was putting the wine down. Neal reached across, grabbing the thin paper in his nimble fingers. Moz had probably just gone out to get some wine or cheese or maybe one of those awful poker movies he liked; that's all the note would explain. That's all Neal hoped the note would explain.

Neal shouldn't have gotten his hopes up, for when was his life ever that simple or straightforward? The note wasn't in Moz's familiar scrawl, but in some foreign, blocky handwriting. "Our dear Moz's assistance is required," the note read, "so don't even consider searching for him. Fair warning, though, your illustrious Mozart can be replaced, so we will not hesitate to kill him, should you contact your Federal friends. Our men are everywhere, watching you, watching Mr. Burke. Should our commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination shall occur to your dear friend. TTFN."

Neal clenched and unclenched his fists, crinkling the infamous note in his anger. These men, were they even men? Neal had no idea who he was dealing with, who Mozzie was dealing with. And he couldn't just not do anything. He had to help Moz.

His fingers had flown across his phone, dialing Peter's number out of nervous habit, but Neal forced himself to end the call. He couldn't put Moz in anymore danger than he already was in. No contacting Peter, no matter how much Neal ached to talk to his older friend. Mozzie mattered too much to even consider sharing any of this with Peter. Peter would stay safely out of the loop and Moz would stay safely (was he even safe? Alive? No, Neal quickly pushed those thoughts away; they said they needed him, right? Which implies they need him alive. Hopefully…) in the hands of his captors.

But Neal knew that he couldn't do this on his own. And there was really only one person he could go to. With a sigh, Neal sank into a chair. Why did life have to be so difficult? Why couldn't the dead just stay dead?

-break-

Chuck Bartowski, computer extraordinaire. Super-secret-awesome spy in his spare time. Life had dealt Chuck a good hand. What had appeared to be a row of cruddy fours had turned out to be a stack of aces, when he had bothered to actually look at the cards. Aces, Charles. His father had known it all along. Now his life was going perfectly. Sarah hadn't remembered anything, actually, but she had fallen in love with Chuck as he told her their story: the story of a nobody employee of the Buy More, a reject from Stanford. An accidental spy. The relationship hadn't been all peaches and cream, but now they would be renew their vows in a few months, at which time they would close Carmichael's spy business for good. Casey was already itching to go do something heroic, especially if it involved Gertrude, Chuck could tell, only sticking around for his daughter, Alex. But she and Morgan were taking care of each other, working through ever relationship issue in the book: toothpaste to wine, takeout to covers. It surprised Chuck, but it seemed as if his little buddy was finally going to settle down.

So, yeah, he was still at the Buy More, but after their re-honeymoon, Chuck and Sarah were planning on finding a new place, plenty far from the Buy More and all of Chuck's bittersweet memories there. They would finally have their own life. They would finally be their own people. No more secrets, no more spies.

Not that Chuck's life was ever that simple.

It was one of those sunny days where the sky is perfectly, wondrously clear and while it should be hot, it isn't. A miracle in and of itself. Chuck was beginning to believe that the only true miracles were days like these, when everything was beautiful and nothing was there to shatter the crystal-clear beauty.

He got a call, which wasn't out of the ordinary. And it was requesting a computer be fixed, which also wasn't out of the ordinary. And Jeff and Lester claimed to be too busy to go onsite, which definitely wasn't out of the ordinary. But seeing a ghost? Yeah, that is out of the ordinary.

Chuck stopped short, the query about the computer dying on his lips. Bryce Larkin was dead. He had seen him die. Bryce was dead. Then how in the world was he standing right here in front of Chuck? Please explain how that could be possible beyond the realm of fiction.

"I know, I know, you deserve an explanation, but I really don't have time. Chuck, I need your help."

This so was not happening. Bryce's ghost was not talking to him. He was not seeing anything. In fact, he was leaving right now. He was going to leave this freakin' haunted parking garage. He should have known better anyway; who needs their computer fixed in a deserted parking garage, not that he'd known it would be deserted, but you know what, this is beside the point. The point being that he needed to fix his idiotic mistake and get away from the ghost before it worked it's ghost-y powers and sucked the soul from him, or whatever the crap ghosts did.

Chuck slowly began to edge away, causing Bryce's ghost to reach out pleadingly. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't truly need you, Chuck. But, you're the only person I have to turn to. The only one. You're my last option."

"Don't go all Leia on me," Chuck muttered, half in shock that he was talking to a man that, by all means, was supposed to be dead. He was going crazy. The only possible explanation: dementia. And at such a young age, too.

Now Bryce just looked confused. (Not a ghost. Couldn't be a ghost. Too real to be a ghost. Bryce? Alive?) "What?"

"You know, Leia from Star Wars?" Great. He was making small talk with a not-ghost, definitely alive ex-best friend. "She came to Obi Wan Kenobi for help. He was her last hope," Chuck explained, emphasizing the last two words.

Bryce smiled and Chuck knew it was his friend, that Bryce really wasn't dead. Couldn't be. But then how—"You're so not Obi Wan. I'd peg you for Luke Skywalker. You are the flailing hero that needs his butt saved over and over again."

"Does that make Casey Han Solo?"

"Not if it means I have to end up with him." Bryce's smile quickly faded. "Chuck, I don't have time for this banter. I need your help. Now."

"I can't do this. I thought you were dead, Bryce."

Bryce winced. "Neal," he muttered.

"Chuck," Chuck corrected. How had Bryce forgotten his name? Sure it had been a couple years, but he had never forgotten Bryce.

With a small grin, Bryce explained, "My name is Neal. Neal Caffrey."

Now Chuck was truly confused. "Uh, no, I'm pretty sure it's Bryce Larkin."

"Bryce Larkin is dead."

"Strangely, I've been trying to convince myself of the exact same fact. But, your presence is sort of screwing with everything I once knew. Or thought I knew."

Bryce or Neal or whoever the heck he was grinned slightly. "I got too far into the Ring, as I'm sure you can recall. It wasn't safe for me anymore. So, General Beckman arranged for my death and gave me a new name, a new identity. And I took it. At the beginning, I missed you all. Not really Casey, but you and Sarah. But, I started my new life. I made friends. I was fitting in and it was feeling so much more right than being a spy had ever felt."

"What kind of life?" Chuck asked.

"Art thief."

Chuck's eyebrows arched suddenly. "Oh?" He cleared his throat awkwardly. "That sounds… illegal."

Neal or Bryce choked back a small bark of laughter. "It is. Moz and I, we—" He cut off suddenly, before repeating more urgently, "I need your help, Chuck."

"Don't do it." The stern words echoed across the empty silence if the parking garage.

"Really?" Chuck exclaimed. "You followed me? You'd think by now you'd trust in my abilities."

Ignoring Chuck's comment, a stern John Casey stepped out from behind a pillar, his gun trained on Bryce's heart. No, wait, Neal's heart. "I thought you were dead."

"And I thought we had gotten past the point in our relationship where you shoot me every time you see me. Turns out we were both wrong." Neal lifted his hands above his head obligingly. Moz couldn't be helped if he were bleeding out on the parking garage floor.

"Casey, stand down until we completely assess the situation." Sarah stepped out, her gun pointed at the floor, but still ready to whip up and end a life if necessary.

"Good to see you again, Sarah," Neal murmured, flashing her his most winning smile.

Sarah turned to Chuck in confusion. "Do I know him?"

Neal's smile had never faded faster. "Don't you remember me?"

"She doesn't remember much of anything," Casey explained, not bothering to hide his amusement at Neal's obvious discomfort and confusion.

"What happened?"

Chuck shrugged. "Let's just say that the Intersect turned on us. All of us…"

"Sarah had the Intersect?"

"And Morgan," Chuck added.

Neal shook his head, bewildered. "The small bearded fellow? Why?"

"Wasn't his choice. Anyway, that's all over with," Chuck muttered, brushing that conversation to the side. He didn't feel like rehashing that entire experience to bate Neal's natural curiosity. "Can you elaborate on why you need our help? I thought you said you had friends. Can't they help you?"

Neal laughed bitterly. "That's half the issue. Or, I suppose, the main issue. My best friend, Moz, was abducted. And I can't turn to the police, which is why I can't talk to my other best friend, Peter."

"He's police?" Casey asked.

"FBI, but I'm pretty sure that Moz's abductors aren't going to see that as any more favorable than regular old black and whites."

Chuck sighed slightly before asking, "Neal, how could you come to us? We haven't talked in years. I thought you were dead."

"Because I knew you could and would help." Neal looked at Chuck, that fervent look nearly making his eyes glow.

"I can't," Chuck admitted.

"Or you won't," Neal countered angrily. Chuck opened his mouth to argue, but Neal lifted his hand, cutting Chuck off before he'd begun. "You know what, never mind. I don't know why I thought you would help. Apparently, we've both changed over the years. Some for the worst. Good bye, Chuck."

After Neal had walked off, Chuck turned to Casey. "Did I make the right decision?"

"If you had helped him, we would have been pulled into something far greater than we could imagine. Come on, before Jeff and Lester burn down the Buy More.