so. uh. my bad. I have no intention on taking another three years to update?

It's been even longer since I've watched/read either series, so be gentle pointing out continuity errors...

Even after all these years, the hint of something from his old life could still shatter everything he had built; at the flash of light on metal (like sunlight on a gun barrel) or the movement of a fight (one that was coming for him). Then he wasn't at the FBI any more. He wasn't Neal Caffrey, American, (sometimes) reformed criminal and consultant to the Bureau. He was fourteen, he was Alex, and he was struggling for his very life. The voice, the gait, the very persona - every idiosyncrasy that let him escape as Neal would disappear as adrenaline spiked and he disappeared into the past.

As you might imagine, working at the FBI was not the best way to avoid these reminders of his unwilling days in espionage.

Even so, after running and hiding for so long, there were some parts he almost missed. There was a certain pleasure to the game of cat-and-mouse when it didn't involve saving large portions of the planet, or when he wasn't at the immediate risk of being maimed or otherwise horribly killed, and compared to the schemes of Herod Sayle or other of his past foes, foiling the simple case of bank fraud was almost laughable in its simplicity. If he was Alex Thompson, maybe he would have been apprehensive as the hired muscle closed in on him as the game drew to an end. But Alex Rider recognised the familiar rush as his heart sped up, maybe even relished it as his body recognised it, moving of its own accord and evading clumsy blows with the grace of years of training. Until, of course, the sound of the heavy footsteps of his reinforcements rounded the corner and, with a mental sigh, Neal Caffrey allowed the punch to catch the side of his head and send him reeling to the ground as Peter burst in with badge primed and gun pointed.

When all was said and done, it was always easy to let being Alex go.

A familiar voice was crooning as he slipped in through the front door, remembering only somewhat belatedly to knock, and Neal paused in recognition before moving into the Burke's kitchen, handing his offering - a bottle of wine far above the calibre Peter usually chose - to Elizabeth with a flourish. "Honestly, I know Peter's a lost cause, but I thought you had better taste than this, Elizabeth." He remarked, indicating the music playing with a shake of his head.

"Slam! was a classic, Neal! Don't tell me you're not a fan." The brunette laughed, pressing a kiss to his cheek in greeting. Neal could only share a knowing glance with Peter; albeit probably for different reasons. Peter had the good (or, alternatively, no) taste in music to find the 70's band a little past their expiration date - claims of being a 'classic' notwithstanding - while Neal objected on a profoundly more personal level. There was just something about hearing the voice of Damian Cray singing about hope, love and charity that didn't quite sit right with him.

It was probably the attempted murder and slaughter of millions. Years of immersing himself in the white collar underbelly hadn't done anything to get rid of his rather quaint moral objections to such things.

"Classic or not, it's hard to be a fan when the lead singer was supposed to be kind of insane." Neal quipped, bending down to roughhouse with Satchmo as the dog padded up, butting against him happily.

It had been six months since Elizabeth's kidnapping and in some ways it seemed like everything had fallen right back to normality. Dinner at the Burke's on Wednesday evenings, solving cases with Peter, helping Mozzie with his extra-curricular activities (just to keep in practice) and even accompanying June to her granddaughter's soccer games - so long as they were held in the appropriate two mile radius, of course; never believing that he had been content to idly sit in New York with the accumulated wealth of generations at his fingertips, Peter was less enthusiastic than ever at letting him out of the anklets range. Yet he had still given him a second chance (or really, some number far greater than that) and so Neal would grit his teeth and remember that every time he came up against an exhibition that was just ten or so feet outside of his limit. Or try to at any rate.

Dinner conversation was easy and flowed naturally, from queries about cases they were working on (all boring: three cases of identity fraud and a spate of bank fraud that Peter had Neal trailing; Neal was of the opinion that this was another part of his endless penance) to events Elizabeth was catering and even light-hearted ribbing when Neal inadvertently admitted that he had been known to catch the occasional episode of American Idol in his time. ("Are you an artist, Peter? No? Then don't mock the creative process!")

It was nights like these where Neal could almost see the path his life could have taken if it wasn't for so, so many things. It was nights like these where he saw Peter and Elizabeth demonstrating what he could never have, but enjoyed pretending for just a little bit. And it was nights like these that even this pretense could be taken away - usually as soon as the clock chimed ten and he left for his far more upmarket yet indefinably colder part of Manhattan.

Other nights it ended more abruptly, such as when the particular ringtone of Peter's sounded during dessert and Elizabeth groaned, recognising immediately what it meant. "Hon, it's nine in the evening!" She protested to Peter's apologetic face and retreating back. Neal offered a commiserating expression while surreptitiously finishing the last of his tiramisu as quickly as he was able; calls from the FBI at this time of night generally did not fall in the 'can wait' basket and he was almost positive that his bedtime tonight was suddenly going to be a whole lot later than he had been expecting.

He wasn't wrong. Peter returned with the expression of a husband who knew that what he was about to say would quickly land him in the dogbox and Neal excused himself quickly from the domestic dispute, collecting his coat as a combination of harrassed and guilty Peter appeared, a rueful twist to the small smile on his lips. "You weren't really wanting to sleep tonight were you?" Neal snorted in reply. "Hughes calls, we come running. I get the drill. What's so important that couldn't wait until morning, anyway?" He asked as they sped down the road at a speed that he was 90% sure was at least slightly over the legal limit.

"Have you ever heard of Paul Drevin?"

Alex considered it to his everlasting credit that he didn't burst out in horrified laughter then and there.

Fate had a strange way about her. He was half a world away from the epicentre of his misfortunes and escapades, yet they still proved impossible to escape. For thirteen years he had escaped with only minor reminders of his past and yet with one simple case the worlds of Alex and Neal that he had held determinedly separate for so long would collide.

"Is he an art collector? Should I have heard of him?" He asked innocently, chuckling a little at Peter's sharp glance. "Don't worry, I'll behave." If the harrumph of disbelief from the other side of the car was anything to go by, Peter's belief was limited. But for once Peter's distrust of him was the least of his immediate problems. Fifteen years could change a lot of things in a life, people could forget a lot. But Neal had never forgotten the boy whose life he had inadvertently torn to pieces, and he somehow doubted that Paul had easily forgotten the boy responsible for ripping his world asunder.

Peter's voice brought him back from recrimination and reverie. "The Drevin name used to be famous worldwide - billionaires, but not the charitable kind. More the 'ties to the worst criminal and terrorist organisations' kind. Nikolei Drevin was the kind of overindulgent idiot who would ship a house he liked brick by brick from country to country, if that gives you a taste for his character. He died in mysterious circumstances when involvement in a space station project he was working on went south -"

It was the martyr in him. Neal couldn't help but interrupt. "Suspicious circumstances? C'mon, don't leave out the juicy bits."

Peter shot him an irritated look, corner of his mouth twitching in an attempt to stifle unwelcome mirth. "Potential CIA raid and urban legend involvement kind of special circumstances. Now," he sailed on determinedly, cutting off any further questions Neal might have asked. "Practically the entire Drevin estate was forfeit after his fathers death, and Paul went from being the richest little boy in the world to a penniless orphan overnight."

Peter had a talent for the accidental guilt trip.

"But Drevin Junior wasn't happy with playing the poor man - I imagine you two would get along." Peter added dryly, and Neal provided the expected smirk in response. "Over the last ten years he's been involved in a variety of start-up companies that have all inevitably crashed and burned. Horribly. The man was broke - yet six months ago he gets money from an unnamed, untraceable source, and pours it all into opening this art gallery downtown. Nobody knows why - it's not as though art's the most reliable business venture." Neal's indignant objection was ignored. "Three months ago he insures one of his works for ten million. Tonight we get a report that it's missing. Normally we wouldn't jump on this at this precise time of night." The hand Peter slammed against the steering wheel made his point as to how he felt about that. "But when the Drevin family is involved, we've learned not to take many chances."

The building they pulled up outside was surprisingly drab - not what Neal would have thought characteristic of the child who had grown up surrounded by enough opulence to make even him sick. And he had developed quite the taste for luxury. The dilapidated building looked perhaps a stage or two away from being condemned, white paint flaking away to reveal the dull concrete beneath.

"I see he spared no expense setting up." Neal commented dryly. Peter chuckled despite himself, hushing Neal as the two entered to see teams already in place, interviewing workers and security guards and taking fingerprints - basically doing all the drudge work so that they didn't have to. No, they had their eyes on the man at the centre of it all.

Paul Drevin had changed since he was 14 - although Neal was hardly one to talk; by now (and through industrious work) he hardly remembered who he had once been. He was taller than he would have expected, and now he stood without the diffidence that had once characterised the meek child he had been. He wore his blonde hair long and his ice-blue eyes were colder than they had once been. There was little left of the boy he had risked himself for, the one who he had felt guilt over for all of these lingering years. Now he assumed an air of arrogance and entitlement that was reminiscent of his father - which, all things considered, was a resemblance Neal would have far rather missed.

"Mr Drevin," Peter greeted, hand outstretched. Neal followed a half-step behind, an ingratiating smile painted on his face and a storm churning in his stomach. "I'm Peter Burke and this is my consultant, Neal Caffrey. We're with the White Collar division."