Disclaimer: All characters you recognize belong to the USA Network and White Collar's writers. The stylistic format of the story comes from pprfaith's "Pocket Full of Stones." I highly recommend reading that if you are a White Collar and/or Avenger's fan.

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Detoxification

Peter is questioning someone when you come in to work that morning.

As soon as the suspect has left, you join Peter in the conference room.

"Who—?"

"Terrance Black. He's a suspect in a fraud case we are working."

"You know that's not his real name, right?" You slip into the seat next to him.

He looks at you, exasperated. "How do you always do that? You didn't even talk to him!"

You raise an eyebrow, and, in remembrance of his first visit to you in jail, say "Come on, Peter. It's what I do."

The agent laughs.

"One day," he says as he goes to the door to call the rest of the team into the conference room, "you are going to tell me your secret."

"You said friend, not alias," Peter reprimands you, once, during a case.

"I consider them my friends," you respond innocently, and you can sense him roll his eyes.

It bothers Peter that you refer to your aliases in third person.

A small part of him, you know, suspects you do it solely to annoy him.

You wish it were that.

Kate does not understand it either. Not at first.

You've been very careful to gradually introduce her to Neal since Adler ran.

Fortunately, Nick and Neal are, for the most part, so similar that it is not difficult.

"It's like peeling back a mask," She says, her fingers lightly tracing the contours of your face. You shiver, a little, at her touch. "There are bits and pieces of Nick on the surface, and underneath it all is Neal."

You catch her hand and bring it to your lips to avoid responding.

Because it's not like a mask at all.

"It's definitely the art," Diana laughs, taking a sip of wine.

Jones shakes his head. "But that Ruby, Diana… that ruby was stunning."

It is the night after Chris was returned to his father. Elizabeth invited the team to the Burke home to celebrate.

"It's certainly not the bonds. If those were your best, Peter would never have caught you."

Peter tries to look disapproving at his wife for encouraging the game; good FBI agents should not be making light of your many crimes. He fails within seconds and throws his weight behind ancient artifacts.

He has never forgiven you for that pre-Columbian art scheme.

Finally, they apply to you. "Come on, Neal, we need a verdict!"

"Oh, yeah, like I'm going to admit to anything in front of you," you say, glancing at Peter mischievously.

"Hypothetically, then," Jones insists. "Allegedly, which medium do you forge best in?"

"Allegedly?" you pretend to ponder. "I might have to go with signatures."

You gesture to the table. On the napkin you were doodling on is a list of perfectly duplicated signatures for all of them. They roll their eyes and press you for a real answer.

You just smile. They are kidding themselves if they think any of their answers are right.

"Counterfeit," you point out, matter-of-factly.

Peter mutters about the uselessness of the FBI authenticators for the rest of the afternoon.

"Did I miss a tornado?"

There are shirts strewn about the loft, and, for someone who cares for his clothing the way you do, it is undoubtedly an unusual scene.

You poke your head out from behind the pile of dress-shirts you are sifting through to greet, "Peter."

"I take it you lost something?" He comments dryly.

"I can't find the right shirt," you say, dismayed. "I mean, look at these."

Peter stands there, staring in disbelief at what he thinks is your vanity. Finally, he picks up the nearest shirt to him and throws it to you. "Put it on. We're running late."

You are scandalized. "Thomas Murphy doesn't wear scarlet—"

"Neal!" Peter barks. You know there is no arguing with that tone, so you sullenly put on the shirt, glaring at him all the while.

Your cover is blown during the operation.

You are not surprised.

See, the thing about creating a forgery, a good forgery, is that you have to have faith.

No one, not even you, Neal Caffrey, conman extraordinaire, could sell something as real without first having belief in your own creation.

Sometimes, you think Peter might suspect.

You are David Tanner, today, cold, brilliant, and utterly ruthless.

"How the tables have turned," you smirk, dispassionately at your attacker. You crouch so you are closer to his level. "Why don't we have a little chat about who sent you here?"

You make no threat. You don't need to. Your reputation for methodical 'persuasion' precedes you, and the man tells you everything.

You hear Peter's steps as he runs into the penthouse, gun drawn. There is a quiet moment as he takes in the scene, then:

"Neal?" The name sounds like a question.

You straighten up. "You're late."

"You seem to have managed ok," Peter says, but the tone is not joking. It is wary.

You finally step back and turn your gaze to him. Something in it makes Peter flinch. "You were right. It is Strauss. Our friend," the man on the floor quakes at your attention, "confessed on wire."

"Excellent. Good work," he is looking at you strangely. You make to leave. "Uh, Neal, I'll need the weapon."

"Of course," you comply smoothly, removing the attacker's gun from the waistband of your suit as if that was your intention all along.

Peter turns it over in his hand, questioning carefully, "I thought you didn't like guns?"

"Kind of necessary in David's line of work," you smile toothily.

You catch Peter watching you the next couple days. He doesn't say anything, though, and soon it is all forgotten.

You do notice that he never puts you undercover as a violent criminal again.

You take a cursory look at the painting on the table.

"Fake," you announce uninterestedly.

The liaisons from the museum look up at you, askance.

You smile blindingly as one of the authenticators puffs up his chest, ready to defend his assessment. Peter just looks resigned as he calmly intercedes.

Later, he will ask you how you knew.

You never answer.

This is another thing Peter will never learn: you have funerals for every alias you burn.

"Who?"

Mozzie knows the moment he sees you staring out over the balcony. He makes a beeline to the wine.

"George," you say softly, accepting the glass from him.

"Donnelly?"

You nod in confirmation.

Neither of you say anything for several minutes.

Eventually, he offers, "George was a good man."

You smile, a little bitterly. "He had a family, Moz. I gave him a wife and a son – what happens to them?"

"You can try to imagine them living through it. Nancy has her practice."

"Dylan will devote himself to soccer," you grin in spite of yourself. "Right."

You look out at the Chrystler Building for several long moments.

"To George," you finally toast, clinking your class to his. Then you drain it in one gulp and head back inside.

"Come on," you call over your shoulder, "I need a new gem dealer."

Danny Brooks.

Neal Caffrey.

Nick Halden.

Steve Tabernacle.

Nathan. Benjamin. Charles. Several Georges. A James, too.

You have over thirty names to call yourself. Thirty names to describe who you are.

None of them are any more real than the bond Peter caught you on.

It takes time before you slip in front of Kate.

You're in the middle of a long con that has you undercover as Lukas Murphy, an art collector with an unhealthy obsession for all things Hellenistic.

"Oh, you are perfect," you breathe involuntarily, your eyes roaming up and down her body as if for the first time. "The Greek's would have sculpted you. The ideal female form. My god, I want you."

She freezes beneath your touch.

A moment later, you are sprawled on the floor. Kate is looking down at you from the bed, one of the blankets pulled up as a shield.

"Get out." Her voice is quivering.

You scramble to your feet, hand reaching out toward her.

"Don't touch me!" She shouts, clutching the blanket closer to her. "Neal would never…" she breaks off. When she starts again, her voice is cold. "I am not just another thing for you to put in you collection, Lukas."

You blink at that.

You blink again and your vision shifts.

Then, you are stepping back, horrified. "Kate," the name escapes your lips in a dismayed moan.

She softens. "Go take a short walk, Neal," she suggests, her breathing hitched. "I'll—I'll be here when you get back."

You do as she says, letting the cold night air cleanse you. When you return, she pulls you into her arms, and you spend the night with her beautiful voice at your ear saying your name over and over and over.

Really, at its core, an alias is nothing more than a complicated forgery.

When the name sits in your mouth, hanging off the end of your tongue, you have to live it. You have to believe wholly and completely that this person you are spinning, this person you are selling, is you.

"Which one's the fake?" you challenge, dropping the file onto Peter's desk.

He sighs. "I don't know why you have me do this when you could tell me in a second."

But it has become a bit of a game between the two of you, so he studies the documents carefully.

You sit there smugly, knowing, before he makes his choice, that it will be wrong.

This is the real forgery. This is your masterpiece.

You take a boy, a young idealistic boy, and reinvent him until he is a career conman.

You take someone real and turn him into a lie.

The first (and last) time you get smashing drunk is when you return from Copenhagen to find Kate gone.

"Who am I without her?" you whisper into your bottle.

Mozzie looks at you sharply.

He doesn't say that there was a Neal Caffrey before Kate. Both of you know that Neal, the blue collar, small-time thief is gone.

Instead, he states, "You're Neal Caffrey. Talented conman and the world's greatest forger."

You look at him.

He gives you a small nod.

"Conman and forger," you repeat. They are not the identities you would prefer—husband to Kate, flashes in your mind, and the ring from Scotland burns heavily in your pocket—but you can work with them. You put down the bottle. "Moz, what do you think about DC? They have a nice Raphael, down there."

Peter thinks you started to pull big cons to catch Kate's attention.

He's not wrong.

He's just not completely right, either.

You peel back the layers.

Turn Nick into a past life.

File Steve into the recesses of your mind.

Remove Luke. Let Goerge slip away.

Sometimes, you think, you can keep peeling and peeling and peeling until Neal is nothing more than a memory, too.

Their newest case involves a series of forged Pisarros at the Met.

It was a lucky break, actually. A fortunate catch by one of the restorers, who, once noticing, checked the others.

Peter is, of course, over the moon.

"They're saying that they are some of the best forgeries ever seen."

You remind him to watch the road. Even after all this time, you are anxious about his driving.

He looks at you sideways. "Are you jealous? That they might have found a forger better than you?"

"Of course not," you say primly.

The restorer who brings the two of you to the basement might be even more excited than Peter. "Obviously," she is saying, "I'm not happy that we've lost the Pisarros. He was one of my favorites. But these forgeries are simply exquisite. I've never seen anything like it. Whoever made these captured Pissaro's style perfectly!"

You duck your head slightly in pride. When you look back up, Peter's eyes are on you.

And they are narrowed.

He confronts you as soon as you leave, "Are they yours?"

"If they were, do you think I would tell you?" You don't even hide the grin.

"Neal!" Peter shouts.

You cross your arms and say softly, "I'm a conman, Peter. I never pretended to be anything else."

"I know," he says, looking troubled.

Later, when the case is closed due to a lack of leads, he turns to you with a wry grin. "I bet you didn't expect them to ever come to light."

You shrug. "No counterfeit can last forever, Peter."

Agent Kramer once tells you, "I'd say this moment was inevitable, Mr. Caffrey, given I am who I am, and you are who you are."

This is what is inevitable.

Given who you are.

One day, you don't know when and don't really care to, Neal Caffrey will step into a bar or a park or a house. He will never leave.

Later, Patrick/Harry/Fred/whomever you decide to become will raise a glass. To Neal Caffrey. Who was a good man.

Every forgery has its expiration date.

Even you cannot escape that.

"Find the fake."

You hand a pile of bank statements to Peter.

He rifles through them and picks.

"Again! I'll get it this time."

Laughingly, you reshuffle the stack.

Which one's the forgery?

Fin

Author's Note:

I have no idea where this came from. None. This kind of just wrote itself.

But, here is a little bit of my rational. At least, this is how I justify the seemingly out of character Neal now that I've written it. The only time we've really seen Neal go into deep cover on the show is when he pulls the long con on Adler. And even he describes that the con became his life, suggesting that he immerses himself into his aliases. I also feel like, often, he is just acting the part of Neal Caffrey. The couple times we see him raw and emotional (think after Kate's death or when James disappeared), he seems a lot less confident than the conman Neal. Which is why I believe that Neal Caffrey is also an alias. His deepest one, but a fake none-the-less, a name he used to remove himself from the pains of being Danny Brooks or Neal Bennett. Or, something like that.

I hope that you found this story somewhat enjoyable, or, at least thought provoking. Please review. Your feedback, however good or bad, is always important to me.

Thank you for reading!

The Third Marauder