My first fanfic attempt. Writing it was quite an enjoyable distraction, and I hope reading it will also be. Includes spoilers through season four. Of course, I own nothing but the mistakes, for which I accept all responsibility

We Wear the Mask (Excerpt)

We wear the mask that grins and lies,

It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—

This debt we pay to human guile;

With torn and bleeding hearts we smile

And mouth with myriad subtleties.

~Paul Laurence Dunbar

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"Agent Burke," Neal's voice greeted Peter when he arrived on the rooftop of the warehouse. Having made his own entrance moments before via a more dangerous route, Neal stood near the building's edge. Peter was sure there was fresh blood on Neal's shirt. The reckless trip along the catwalks of the warehouse below had not been kind to his friend. He still didn't know the extent of the injuries Neal had sustained while undercover, but the low light reflected the sheen of sweat on his face. He was trembling, and there was a visible bruise on his cheek; his eye black. Arms wrapped protectively around his ribs; he was breathing heavily. "Stay away from me."

Peter had been approaching his friend but stopped at Neal's tone. Those words from a man standing near a ledge were distressing, the unspoken threat implied. The earlier playful tone had changed to a more desperate one. The drugs in his system were starting to break down. They had played havoc with Neal's memory, the man thinking he was still running from the FBI and especially Agent Peter Burke. That was when Peter had realized how out of it Neal really was. He had been beaten up, was bloody and disheveled, but when he called him Agent Burke instead of Peter in the warehouse, he knew.

Diana had explained through his ear bud the exact makeup of the drugs that had been injected into Neal, and what he could expect. Neal's memory had been compromised, possibly regressed. He would move from a euphoric state to paranoid, and into depression before finally succumbing to unconsciousness. The euphoric state was what Peter had experienced when he found Neal in the warehouse. He had made his way to the catwalks of the warehouse, jumping precariously from place to place, while bantering with Peter about his quest to send him to prison. He seemed particularly concerned about an alleged art forgery. His cover on the op had been that of an art forger, and Peter was sure that stuck in his head, possibly prompting his flight when the FBI stormed the warehouse. Peter tried to get through to him, reminding him that they were now partners, that he had been drugged, and that he wasn't there to arrest him. But none of it had registered with Neal as he worked his way up to the opening that lead to the roof. With a smile and wave, Neal disappeared through the small opening and was gone. "Dammit, Neal." Peter breathed as he started up the metal stairs to the door that lead to the east side of the roof. He motioned for Jones to enter from the other side. Between the two of them, maybe they could corner their delusional friend.

Neal stood at the edge of the warehouse; the playful attitude transformed into a fearful one. Peter knew that time was on his side if he could just keep Neal contained, keep him still and talking. Peter had seen a shadow of fear in Neal's eyes before, usually only as part of a cover, a con to sell some play he was trying in order to close a deal. But this was the real deal, a sincerity of expression in the blue eyes that Peter had only seen on the very briefest of occasions. Only a flicker before Neal shut down his expression, hiding behind a blank look or bright smile, depending upon which he felt would work the best at the moment. That skill made him the best con man the world had ever seen, and it also made him the best undercover CI the FBI had ever worked with. With Neal on his team, Peter cleared a 93% conviction rate. Some liked that; others didn't. But one could not argue with the results. The man was a master of deception, his eyes and demeanor rarely showing what was going on in the man's mind.

This skill had been weakened by the drugs Monroe had given him, likely for that very reason. Monroe had needed information from Neal and after the beating, drugs were the next line of attack. It left Neal unmasked and unguarded. It was an unusual experience to see this version of Neal, the real Neal. But Peter did not find it a pleasant one. The real Neal was scared. It was clear in his dark eyes. Peter felt it an unfair advantage to see Neal like this, to see the fear in his eyes. Neal didn't show fear or desperation. He felt them; Peter had no doubt because Neal sometimes had acted on them, usually with dire results. When Neal acted emotionally, it was reckless, with no thought to the consequences. Peter at times felt a twinge of guilt knowing that the only way he had ever caught Neal in the first place was by exploiting this flaw in Neal's almost perfect façade. Peter had used his emotions-something that Neal fought hard to keep hidden-against him. Peter had found his weakness for Kate, and he had used that weakness to send Neal to prison. Twice actually. Maybe that is why he felt guilt now, seeing his friend's fear when he knew Neal would never want to show that. He never wanted to appear weak or afraid. He didn't want to be vulnerable to Peter or anyone else.

Neal was trembling, looking at Peter in fear, the very definition of vulnerable. Peter held up his hands, palms out, trying to present a calm, non-threatening figure. He didn't want Neal to be afraid, and he didn't need for Neal to panic. A scared Neal was a reckless Neal. A scared Neal ran, and there wasn't anywhere to run on the roof. He tried again to reason with him.

"It's okay, Neal. Monroe and his men, they hurt you; they drugged you. You are not thinking clearly. I am here to help you."

"Help me to prison, maybe," Neal said almost under his breath. He looked at the drop behind him. It looked about three floors-thirty-six feet he would estimate-and there was nothing beneath to soften the blow, nothing to break his fall on this particular exit strategy. It seems strange to him that he didn't have an exit strategy. He always had a plan, a backup plan, and more than one exit strategy. But he looked around and saw nothing. Not thinking clearly? He frowned recalling the Agent's words, but a movement brought his eyes back up to the Agent's face.

Burke. He just wouldn't stop. It had been a game he had actually enjoyed for a long time, but Neal no longer felt like playing. Burke had taken a step closer. He looked genuinely concerned, and it seemed odd that he didn't have his gun drawn. Burke's goal in life was to send him to prison and had told him as much on many occasions. But he was just standing there, hands held out towards Neal. Something tugged at Neal's mind. Burke could help him; he had said he was there to help. Hurt, tired and confused, something about the look in Agent Burke's eyes made Neal want to believe him, to trust him. No exit strategy and a wish to run to Agent Burke instead of away from him? Not thinking clearly was an understatement. But the feeling persisted. He had a desperate need to trust this man. The thought hit Neal hard, his eyes flying open wide in fear. He didn't trust anyone, and he certainly could not trust a man who wanted to destroy his life. What was wrong with him? It wasn't safe. But for some strange reason, that knowledge caused a deep ache in his very being, a sense of loss and pain that was beyond the aches that plagued his body. He felt tears well up in his eyes, surprised, he blinked them away quickly. He swallowed.

Peter could see some sort of an internal battle going on in the drug impaired mind of the young man standing fifteen feet away from him, swaying near the edge of the roof. Neal had been looking at him absently, but suddenly a series of expressions crossed the young man's face so rapidly that they were hard to quantify. He looked like he might cry, but he swallowed hard instead.

"Everything changed." Neal blurted out.

Peter's tone was mildly surprised. "What do you mean?"

Peter had moved slightly to the side, and Neal adjusted to his new position. If he could get Neal to keep his eyes on him, and create an avenue for Jones to approach from the back, maybe Neal could be subdued without major incident.

"Everything was okay," Neal mumbled. "I thought everything was okay but it wasn't." He was clearly distressed.

Peter knew that Neal's mind wasn't working correctly. His memory was compromised. He had been in the past, before his arrest. Before his deal with the FBI. But maybe he had moved forward. Maybe he was talking about the op. Everything had been fine until his cover was blown. Then things had taken a turn for the worse. He'd been beaten and drugged.

"When did it change?" Peter pressed.

"Not sure." Neal's brow furrowed, the memory unclear, his voice confused. But things seemed okay, he thought. He felt happy and safe but then it was all gone. "It just did…Just a while ago. It's all gone." He paused, voice shaking when he spoke. "I can't do this again."

"Again?" Peter asked, not understanding where his partner's mind was. "Has this happen before?" Again Peter had moved, and Neal had adjusted. Peter could see Jones moving carefully and quietly along the edge of the building behind Neal.

The young man nodded. "It was okay. I thought everything was okay, but it wasn't" He repeated. "Ellen told me happy birthday and everything changed. My life….everything was…..was gone." His voice nearly broke on the last words. Ellen? Peter winced. That was years ago. Neal was back on his eighteenth birthday, when Ellen had told him the truth. His whole life had been a lie. He thought he was Danny Brooks, and his father was a hero who died in the line of duty. And suddenly he wasn't Danny. There was no Danny Brooks. And his father wasn't a hero; he was a criminal, a murderer. That day Danny Brooks ceased to exist, and the life of Neal Caffrey began. Scared and desperate, the innocent trust of his childhood shattered, he ran. Right into a life of a con man, into a life of crime. Into a life where he trusted-depended-on no one but himself. Everything changed. Peter had known that day had been hard for Neal. But it suddenly hit him exactly how hard it would be to have your life, and all your trust, ripped away with no warning. My life….Everything was gone. Heartbreaking Loss. That is what Neal had felt that day.

I can't do this again; he had said. And it was what he was feeling now. Loss.

"That was a long time ago, Neal," Peter said. "You are okay now."