Okay, so this is my first "White Collar" story. I'm a bit uncertain about it, especially Neal's characterization, but I think that once a couple more episodes air, I'll have a good grasp.

I don't own anything to do with "White Collar" except for Riley. For better or worse.

The first thing Neal Caffrey noticed about the door to June's house was that it was unlocked. It took just a quick second glance to see the marks around the lock and know that it had been forced open, using a hammer and a blank. The scrapes around the lock were chilling in their familiarity – marks to the right of the keyhole, like the intruder had missed the opening and scraped at the handle a bit before getting it right.

The second thing he noticed was the black Louboutin high heeled shoe, bright red sole on display where it lay, thrown on the ground at the bottom of the staircase. He grabbed an umbrella and walked up the stairs as quietly as he could. Down the hallway, the second shoe was tossed in the middle of the hallway.

Caffrey tightened his grip on the umbrella as the sound of singing reached his ears, badly masked by the sound of running water. Lyrics from Santana's "Smooth" echoed through the house as he walked towards the bathroom, dreading and curious all at the same time. His bedroom door was unlocked when he tried it, and he ducked through cautiously.

He'd been threatened with death many times before, and his easy going, devil may care attitude only lasted until the devil actually did care and came to collect. And she might have just gotten in.

A gold dress was in a pile just outside the bathroom door. The door was cracked open, and a steady stream of steam was flooding out. He nudged it open a few more inches.

Behind the tempered glass, the singing had stopped, though he was sure that unless he was being listened for, she didn't know that he was here yet. Caffrey had time to take in a small, black, leather purse that was sitting on the countertop before the water stopped, and he turned almost guiltily away from where he'd been inspecting the lock that kept the purse shut.

Immediately, he was faced with gleaming black eyes and a practiced smirk. Too prominent collarbones and long, long legs.

"Neal Caffrey," she crooned, stepping towards him.

With every step that she took towards him, he resisted the urge to take another one away. Instead, he reached for one of the plush bathrobes sitting between the twin sinks, and shook it out. It was a smaller one that had been sitting there for as long as Neal had been staying at June's house, waiting for a female presence to use it again.

The entire time, he carefully kept his eyes locked on her. There were three cardinal rules when it came to dealing with Riley Becque: No sudden movements. Don't make her angry. Get out as soon as you can.

Rule three went out the window when she invaded your space, because there was no subtle way of doing suddenly leaving. Being obvious made rule number two follow three right out the window.

"Riley," he said, as she shouldered into the robe, and he smoothed the material over her shoulders as she slid her arms through the sleeves. "It's been too long."

Riley turned back around to face him, working the knot loosely around her hips, calculating smirk still playing at her lips. He was waiting for some scathing, bone cutting comment, but it never came. She just gave the lock on the zipper of her bag a quick tug, the steel coming apart in her hands, and then dug out a pair of lacy black shorts.

"Did you miss me?" she asked, bending down to work the article up her legs.

"Not even a little," Caffrey assured her, leaning back against the marble countertop and crossing his arms over his chest, like he had one of the best assassins on the planet in his bathroom every day.

She smirked up at him, eyes looking even darker through her blonde hair. "Go get me clothes."

"Right."

Neal actually took his time picking out one of his shirts for her. She'd always liked black, thought that it made her black eyes look even blacker, but he thought that she looked the best in dark red, or maybe navy blue…

She was sitting on the countertop, having added a matching black bra to the ensemble. He tossed the pale green shirt into her lap, causing her to glance up from the iPhone she was cradling in her hands.

The minute the smooth material touched her fingers, she started scratching at it, like she was looking for something, or testing the durability of the shirt, but then all at once she was uncrossing her legs and standing up straighter to pull it on, fingers moving over the buttons effortlessly.

"Can I get you a drink?" he asked, as he eyed the rapidly disappearing skin.

She didn't respond, and her eyes were unfocused on something over his shoulder as she brushed past him. He followed her out of the bathroom and out of the bedroom beyond that.

Neil loved June's kitchen. Unlike the rest of the house, which was classic vintage and wood paneling and old world charm, the kitchen had been created to be the export center for only the best foods that high society couples had ever eaten at any dinner party… ever. It was all sparkling clean, white flooring and marble countertops that took up what space wasn't replaced with some sort of stainless steel appliance.

It was normally loud, filled with a staff of at least four who normally had two different radios going, but Neal hadn't seen them for a day or two. They'd offered to stay, said that they didn't want to leave him without food, but he'd assured them that he could handle it.

When Peter and Elizabeth had gotten back from their trip, tan and buzzing about the loveliness, June had gotten inspired. She and Cindy had been on the next trip out, and June had left the staff with orders to follow Neal's directions. His only one had been that they all go home and enjoy a vacation. As much as he thrived on social interaction, he liked moments of solace.

But something was off in the kitchen. Something more than the girl standing next to him, hands set on her hips. It was the black bag sitting on one of the large islands. A bag that Neal was very familiar with. Drinks were forgotten as he stepped towards it, ripping it open and shifting through the various supplies in it. "Riley."

She hummed her attention.

"What the hell is this?"

"I thought it looked like heroin."

"Yeah. It does. What is it doing here?"

"What do you suggest I do with it? Leave it in an airport locker? That's the sort of idiocy that got you locked up in the first place."

"Vanity got me locked up," he muttered, shifting through a pile of clearly – because they're his,and he can see his signature in each one - counterfeit hundreds, until he reached a plastic box. He flicked it open and there were several small, glass vials. He tilted them in the light and watched the liquid shimmer. One vial was half empty. Fuck.

"No, I'm pretty sure it was idiocy."

Her voice draws him back, and he shuts the box with a snap. "You can't stay here," he said, gathering the bag up and pressing it into Riley's chest. She wrapped her arms around it awkwardly.

"Please remember who you're talking to."

He did. God, he remembered. The blood and the corpses and the slow smirks and quick laughs. "This isn't my house. I have a good thing here. You have to go."

"You're no fun. Would it help if I told you that I have something very important to tell you?"

"Last time you told me that, the 'very important thing' was that I would never find you."

"And did you? Did the FBI, even after you gave them such a gracious tip?"

That memory sent chills down Neal's spine. How did she know about that? And more so, what was she going to do about it? Riley didn't take well to being spoken to for too long without hurting someone – he suddenly regretted giving her a bag full of needles back – much less being tagged by the FBI.

"Come with me." Neal said abruptly, when they were halfway to the front door. He took the bag from her hand and set it on the floor behind the couch.

His hand found the middle of her back, and he felt her shudder against the touch. Then she went deathly still, and he pretended not to notice. "I'm showing you the view," Neal explained, motioning her up the stairs ahead of him. "June's got the best in the city."

She passed him with narrowed eyes and a flash of bright white teeth. "Oh, you mean it's not yours? I always thought New York City was yours."

And just like that, they settled back into their old game. Twenty questions, back and forth, back and forth. And once they were all gone, that was it. Riley had been the reason that they'd settled into a system composed entirely of questions – Riley was good with answers, but not with opinions – and she couldn't hold a conversation longer than the time it took to work through the total forty questions. Not that it mattered, as most of her answers were lies anyway.

"So how is Boston these days?"

"Fine," she grinned. "I'd ask you about prison, but for one, I'm not that interested. And for two, it would appear that you are, in fact, not in prison anymore."

"It appears that way."

"Except for that," she mused, and pointed towards his ankle, where the bracelet was just a slight outline.

"Except for that," He echoed, drawing an annoyed look from her. He barely noticed it as he reached around her to hold the door open for her.

She sent him another sharp glare, but walked out onto the rooftop anyway. Riley paused in the middle of the roof and spun around, a small smile on her lips as she stopped. Neal groaned inwardly. Smiles were always the worst.

"How does that work? Flash those pretty blue eyes of yours and you get taken out of prison to help the FBI? I bet that's what you did, too, isn't it?" She was walking backwards now, her heels – when had she put them back on? – clicking cleanly across the stone, adding a slow, unhurried tempo to her speech.

"Something a lot like that," he agreed, following her towards one of the stone railings at a slower pace.

"They are awfully pretty, you know," she continued, thoughtfully. "They're going to get you into trouble. You're going to go around flashing those doe-eyes at the wrong person, and they are going to get cut right out of your head, I swear it, Caffrey. What are you going to do then?"

"I'm sure my charm will make up for it," he answered tensely.

She stared at him for a long minute before shaking her head, laughing to herself. The sound, which started as a soft, perfectly normal – though not when you paired it with Riley – and spiraled into something high-pitched and hysterical.

"What is wrong with you?"

Riley let her laughter trail off, tilting her head at him, and settling back into her smirk. "It's just… you are far more pathetic than I remember. It's just funny that you are the supposed second coming of white collar crime. How could someone who was supposedly so smart, end up wound up tight around an FBI agent's finger? They don't need you. They're better than you are – though I'm sure that you remember that – and I'm not claiming to know what the FBI is planning, but you are falling right into their little plan. It's – you're – just so fucking pathetic."

Neal hoped and prayed to all the gods that his breathing just sounded that harsh in his own head, and that it was calm on his exterior. He went to talk and tried to manage to keep his tones calm and dulcet without having to clench his teeth:

"That's not really what I meant. I meant, there is something seriously wrong with you. What is it?"

She smirked. "You know I don't do psychological questions, Neal," And there was the slow purr of his name, the one that made him want to lock himself in a closet. "So… It's my turn, because you broke the rules."

Neal didn't think it was fair – it wasn't, he wanted to argue, but something wouldn't let him – but nodded. "Yeah. Fine. Go."

Riley sighed, and seemed to think about it for a minute. She stared out over the panoramic views of New York City, and then turned back towards him, stepping forward to pace in a close circle around him.

She stopped where she'd started, right in front of him, and lifted one hand to twin it through his hair, tilting his head down towards her. She blinked at him, black eyes playful.

There was a shift of dread, and Caffrey wanted to yell at her to stop, to shut up, that they were done playing this game, that he was going to activate his tracking device, anything to stop it when she said -

"Do you want to know how long it took your girlfriend to die after I slit her open?"