Day Three is upon us! Today's summary: Neal being brutally honest about how hard going undercover is for him.


Neal was tired. No, not tired. Tired, in Neal's mind, meant that it was temporary and he'd be fine after a good night's sleep. This was exhausted, completely drained, and miserable. This wouldn't take a night. This was the sort of exhausted that takes at least a weekend off and half a dozen bottles of wine to recover.

The undercover mission was going well. The Unit's target had agreed to meet Neal again tomorrow, hopefully earlier than 11 o'clock at night. Neal, disguised as Alexander Dumas, was an unreliable and flighty fence, never staying in one place longer than a week. Their target was itchy and needed to get rid of a hot painting fast. Dumas was the obvious choice. However, that meant Neal was on call for the next 72 hours.

Neal staggered out of the front door of the office complex the target was currently using as their hideout and base of operations. The van was just down the road, with half the team in it, and Peter in his car. Neal sighed, a deep, long-suffering sigh. He knew he had to look like death warmed over. His hair felt like it was melting, or at the very least sticking to his head. His white shirt looked transparent and felt too hot and too constrictive. His tie was strangling him. Neal fumbled with the knot and eventually managed to untie the tie and leave it dangling around his neck. He took two steps closer to the van and slumped against the wall. To anyone passing by, he would look like a drunk office worker staying late, either to finish a project or have a quick tryst with his secretary without his wife knowing.

He groaned. "Tellement fatigué." Alexander was French and only spoke French. Which meant Neal had to speak and think in French while undercover and English while in the office. This was making his exhaustion worse.

He had to stand up eventually, couldn't stay leaning against the wall all night. Neal straightened and his stomach growled. I need to eat. Wait. Neal had to think back on his entire day. Have I eaten today? I think so. I'm gonna go get something to eat. He checked his watch. 11 o'clock. Too late for most restaurants. He sighed again and looked up. Wonderful. Somewhere still open and within walking distance. He started walking in that direction, exactly the opposite direction of the team.

Peter got out of the Taurus and started following after Neal. Something had to be wrong for Neal to be acting so out of it. He looked half-dead. Neal was sweating, his eyes were rimmed with red like he'd been crying, and he was paler than usual. Is Neal getting sick? Peter wondered. Can he get sick? It was safer to follow Neal and make sure he wasn't getting into trouble.

Neal kept walking, apparently oblivious to his new tail. Peter eventually caught up to him, almost side-by-side. Neal still didn't notice.

"Neal!" Peter called.

Neal froze mid-step and turned around. "Ouais?" Apparently, his tongue hadn't gotten the message he was supposed to be speaking English.

Peter finally got a good look at Neal. He looked even worse close up. Actually, if Peter had to put a single word to how Neal looked, it was somewhere between very, very drunk and very, very sick. Either way, Peter was concerned Neal was about to fall flat on his face where he was standing. The lecture Peter had prepared evaporated on his tongue. He couldn't bring himself to lecture Neal in this state.

"Are you feeling okay?" is what he managed to say.

"Oui, ou-" Neal realized he was speaking the wrong language. Wow, I am tired. "Yeah," he said abruptly. "Yeah, I'm just fine. Just tired."

Peter could tell by looking at Neal that that wasn't true. This wasn't a 'just tired' reason. There was something bigger there. But, if Neal wanted to tell Peter he was just tired, Peter would let him say he was just tired.

"I'll drive you home."

Neal let out another sigh. "Um...Yeah, that's great, Peter." Real smart, Caffrey. Ever the consummate conman. "I'll catch up with you in a minute. I'm getting something to eat."

Peter gave Neal a weird look. Something is seriously wrong with him. "Think you'll be done in ten minutes?" That was all he was willing to give an unsupervised Neal in this state.

Neal nodded languidly. "Yeah. I'll be there."

"I'll be waiting."

Peter went back. Not to his car this time. He would give the preliminary report before Neal. Neal deserved a chance to get himself together.

"How'd it go?" Jones asked, climbing out of the van. He took two seconds to realize who was standing in front of him. "Peter. Where's Neal?"

"Just finishing up a few things," Peter answered. Neal deserved to keep his dignity. "He needs some sleep before getting everything to you tomorrow."

Jones gave Peter a look. "Is Neal okay?"

"Physically, yes. I didn't ask beyond that."

"Alright. We'll be waiting for his report."

With that, Jones disappeared back into the van. Peter went over to the Taurus and leaned against the driver's side door, checking his watch. Five minutes. Is Neal actually okay? Should I take him to a hospital? These thoughts swirled around Peter's head for the next five minutes. Neal really looked like he should be in some medical professional's office, whether that was a hospital or a psychiatrist's office. I'll give him tomorrow.

Just as Peter was about to go after Neal, he reappeared, looking slightly less dead. His hair was reinvigorated, back to its normal impeccable quiff. He'd also taken time to fix his tie and jacket, getting the appearance of a conman back. Neal was also holding a small box of French fries and a tinfoil rectangle Peter guessed had some kind of sandwich.

"What are you eating?" Peter asked as Neal made his way to the passenger side.

"Cheese toast," he said simply. "And fries. Want some?" He held out the container in a good-faith offer.

Peter shook his head. "No. You better not spill those in my car."

Neal rolled his eyes. "I won't."

The two got into the car. Peter put in his key and started the engine while Neal was still fumbling with the seatbelt. Maybe something is wrong with him. I'll ask. Neal managed before Peter could ask if he needed help. Then, something very unusual happened.

Peter, in his usual style, turned on whatever game was on at the time. This time, it was a college football game, Missouri Tigers against Kansas State Wildcats. Peter was fully prepared to slap Neal's hand away if he tried to mess with the radio. There was a limit to how much he could put up with, even if Neal was seriously ill.

But Neal never touched the radio. He let five minutes of the game go by without even paying attention, just staring out of the window and eating fries absentmindedly.

"Woo," Neal mumbled emotionlessly under his breath. "Go Tigers."

Peter stared at Neal. Then back at the road. Then back at Neal. Neal not only not complaining about being forced to listen to a football game, but actually engaging with it? Well, depending on your definition of 'engage.' Is this Neal or someone who looks a lot like him? Peter wondered.

"Why were you so out of it when I caught up with you?" he asked, breaking the silence in the car.

"I told you," Neal answered. "I was tired."

"You don't get tired."

This was, overall, true. Neal never showed any external signs of tiredness. In fact, he only seemed to get more energetic the more exhausted he got. Neal had adapted to running on very few total hours of sleep. But he still had limits.

Neal rolled his eyes and ate a fry. "I'm still a human, Peter." He pushed his hair out of his face. "I still need food and sleep."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "You've never been 'tired' after going undercover before." This was also true. Neal thrived on going undercover, relished in becoming someone else and conning someone in a legally accepted way. Peter continued. "You're usually amped up, nearly bouncing off the walls, and hoping I forget about your anklet."

Neal shrugged and gestured to his leg. "Already on. And I'm tired today. Why does it matter?" He ate another fry before holding the container out again. "Sure you don't want one?"

"I'm sure."

Neal shrugged. "Okay. Your loss."

Peter turned to look Neal in the eyes. Neal never lied to Peter, but wouldn't even bend the truth if Peter was looking in his eyes. "What's wrong today? You're never tired after going undercover."

Neal stayed silent for a few seconds. "Eyes on the road, Peter," was his only answer.

Peter turned his eyes back to the road, but periodically glanced back at Neal. He was always basically frozen in his seat, staring blankly at the passing buildings and occasional plant life.

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Yes, God, Peter! I'm fine." Neal was starting to get annoyed. Why does it matter to him? This is the fifth time he's asked and I'm fine!

"I don't think I've ever seen you eat fast food."

Neal took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. I will not yell at Peter, no matter how frustrated I am. I will not yell at him. He'd been managing to keep his already short temper down thus far. Yes, he was tired. Yes, he wasn't acting like himself. Yes, he was eating unhealthily. None of these were reasons to worry. He was absolutely fine!

Neal lost the tenuous hold he had on his temper. "God, Peter," he snapped. "I'm a human. I get hungry. I eat junk food. I get tired. I have off days. I'm not always perfect!"

He threw himself back in his seat, slumping as best he could while seatbelted into a car. Peter stared at him once they were at a red light. He'd never seen Neal snap like that. Never seen him lose his temper or really even get particularly angry. Peter had dealt with Neal being frustrated or pushed a little past his limit, but never angry like he seemed now.

"I wasn't saying you had to be," Peter responded, softly.

Neal huffed and shoved a small handful of fries into his mouth. He chewed. Swallowed. "Sorry," Neal said, sounding entirely unapologetic.

Peter shook his head. "It's okay."

Neal took a few deep breaths. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. Over and over again until he had control of his emotions again. Conmen don't lose control over their emotions. They don't let emotions get the better of them. People get scared off and stop trusting you if you yell at them. Neal pulled his typical mask on.

"I really am sorry about that." He sounded much more apologetic this time.

"It's okay," Peter repeated. "Really."

Neal sighed deeply. "You think that this is easy for me?" he whispered.

Peter was caught off-guard. He expected Neal to say a lot of things after that outburst, but that wasn't one of them.

"What?"

"Do you think that this is easy for me?" Neal repeated, still in a whisper. "Becoming a new character every time. Becoming that character so completely that you start to lose where the mask ends and you begin. Almost forgetting who you're supposed to be in a situation. Code-switching. Shifting characters. Putting all the work in, even knowing that it might be useless in the end." He took another deep breath. "This is the hardest thing I've done in my life."

Peter froze. He wasn't expecting to hear that from Neal. He'd always had this idea that the young con loved undercover assignments. He was always so energetic, leaping at the chance to go undercover. There was no reason for Peter to think he found it difficult. Not to mention all the alleged aliases he had. Neal prided himself on his ability to become a different person so entirely some people didn't even know the name Neal Caffrey. And he found it difficult?

"Is it really that hard for you?" Peter mimicked Neal's tone, compassionate and quiet.

"Yeah," Neal managed with a short nod. "Really hard."

"I thought it'd be easy for you. You have so many aliases and people you can pretend to be."

Neal made a sound that was halfway between a sob and a laugh. "I know," he said, wryly. "But it's still hard every time I have to do it. A new name, personality, everything. This time I didn't even get to speak English."

"I know," Peter answered. "Sorry." It was all he could think to say. What do you say to that?

Neal shook his head, rejecting Peter's apology. "No. You couldn't do anything about it. He was expecting a French guy, so I had to be a French guy. And I speak French fluently, at least." He took a deep breath. "But...it's not easy for me to switch characters. It's exhausting."

"I didn't know," Peter replied honestly.

Neal gave a small, honest smile. The kind you give when someone does something really nice for you. The smile a girl gives a boy who gave her an unexpected flower. The smile a conman gives when an FBI agent manages to crack through his facade to the young man hidden underneath.

"I didn't want you to." Neal met Peter's eyes for a brief moment, before blinking and looking at the floorboards. "I didn't want to admit I couldn't do something."

"You'll never need to 'admit' that to me," Peter said. "You'll just tell me."

"Thanks."

The two sat in silence for a while. The game continued playing in the background, not that either of them were paying attention to it. The commentators droned on, their excited tones turned way down as the silence filled the vehicle. Neither of them really wanted to break the silence and say anything after such an emotional moment.

Neal cleared his throat. "Can we go home now? I am really tired."

That was enough to break the moment. Peter laughed, then Neal laughed. Both were tired (although Neal definitely won the exhaustion front) and didn't really care that they were laughing at nothing.

"Yeah, I'll get you home," Peter said.

The rest of the drive to June's was uneventful, filled with complaints about Peter's choice of radio station, bickering, Neal's hand getting smacked away at least three times, and gentle banter about nothing in particular. Neal felt somehow more comfortable around Peter, which Mozzie would say was a bad thing, getting attached to a suit. Peter felt like he'd made progress with the young con, maybe even daring to say he was reforming him. Peter pulled up, someone right outside the front door. A small miracle.

"Here you are."

Neal flashed a conman smile at Peter. "Thanks for the ride."

He's done this before. "Anytime."

Neal undid his seatbelt and managed to win against the child lock on the door. First time! Peter caught a glimpse of Neal's triumphant grin and had to bite down on a chuckle. Neal stood on the curb, holding the Taurus's door open, standing like he wanted to say something.

"And Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for understanding." That wasn't exactly what Neal wanted to say, but it was close enough to get the point across.

Fortunately, Peter seemed to understand all the meaning that was stuffed into those words.

"Anytime, kid. Anytime."


I hope you enjoyed! If you really liked it, feel free to leave a review! To those participating in NaNoWriMo: You've made it to Day Three; you can do this!