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So what if Dick had a concussion. It's really not that big of a deal! Sure, he has a bit of a headache and some light sensitivity, but honestly why are all of these lights so bright in the first place they should really fix those. And it's not like he hasn't done more with worse. So he totally doesn't have to call in sick to work for this. Totally. It's fine.
Later, when it's not fine, he blames the concussion.
~~~o0o~~~
He's about halfway through a stack of mortgage fraud (most of which has turned into little origami animals) when Diana comes over to his desk and hands him a mostly blank piece of paper with a few signatures on it, her own plus a few others he doesn't recognize
"Sign this," she demands
"Why?" he shoots back, utterly bemused.
"I'm trying to see what everyone's signature looks like and you're next. So sign," she says.
He stares at her. She stares back. He stares harder. She narrows her eyes at him, and he gives up. His head hurts too much to fight right now.
He grabs his pen and signs the paper without looking, sliding it back as soon as he's done and not acknowledging her smug look. Just as she's grabbed the paper and is about to walk away she says, "Hey, uhh... that's not your signature?"
He huffs and rolls his eyes, grabbing the paper out of her hands, "What do you mean it's not my signature, that's my name isn't-" He stops mid-sentence.
The signature is his, one of the many he's practiced, but the name is Danny Brookes, an alias he hasn't used since he started this mission. (what is this mission again?) He slowly puts the paper down and signs it again, trying to remember which name should be there and gets... Richie Wayne. That's not right either. Again, and this time he gets Robbie Malone. Again and again and again he writes, getting the practiced signatures for Nightwing, Renegade (he scribbles that one out particularly fiercely), Nick Halden, Dick Grayson, Benjamin Cooper, George... something, he even gets Robin but none of them are right. It has to be one of these, which one? Which one is it?
He can't remember what name he's using, can't recall the persona he has on. He's been on too many undercover missions, all of the names are blurring together and now he' staring at a page of scribbled-out signatures and he can't remember which one is his. Is he supposed to be confident? Timid? A hero? A villain? An acrobat, an artist, a fool, a killer, a brother, a mobster's son, the light to the darkness or the shadows of the city, what is he?
Is he anyone? Has he it every been anyone but a layer of masks pulled over a formless void?
The door to an office opening catches it' ear and- Peter. Peter will be able to tell it. It doesn't remember who Peter is or why it's so certain he'll be able to help it, why Peter is so important to the character it's playing (which character?), but it does know that Peter will be able to give it a name to work with. Will be able to give it a name to build from and cover up this nothingness with.
It lurches out of the chair it was sitting in (lurches? why is it being so clumsy, almost none of its characters are clumsy) and stumbles towards Peter, grabbing onto his shoulder.
"Peter!" It cries out. "Peter I... could you tell me my name?"
~~~o0o~~~
"Peter!" Neal called out. There was a clattering of a chair that meant Neal had jumped out of his seat, but Peter refused to turn around, even when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Peter I... could you tell me my name?"
Peter had a lot to do today and just wanted some coffee, dammit, not at all interested in whatever game Neal was playing today. What kept him from just brushing that man off, though, was an edge of desperation that he had never heard in the conman's voice before. He begrudgingly turned around with what El called his "extremely done" look at full force but stopped when he laid eyes on his CI.
He looked... disheveled, and not in the rakish-yet-somehow-still-elegant way he did sometimes after an op gone sideways. Instead, he looked lost. Like he was looking for the answer to a problem that he needed but just couldn't understand.
"Neal?" Peter started hesitantly. "Are you-" he was cut off when Neal's face lit up like a kid on Christmas, clapping loudly (instantly gaining the attention of the few people not already watching today's drama) and crowed triumphantly, "Yes! Neal Caffrey! That's it!"
Peeter stood there, mouth still open to speak as he and the rest of the office watched Neal start muttering and rubbing at his forehead, using the other hand to list off information as he said it aloud.
"Neal Caffrey, Neal Caffrey, 34 years old, birthday March... 22nd? No, 21st. Conman, bond forger, alleged art forger and thief... currently a criminal informant at the white collar division of the FBI Main personality traits? Charming, cheerful, a flirt, refined and... Nonviolent. That's important. Lives in New York but has traveled extensively... Ok. Ok. I can do this."
He stood still for a moment longer, eyes still closed as they all watched him seem to reconstruct himself, fixing his posture, smoothing his hair and clothes. By the time he opened his eyes, the CI's mask was perfectly back in place, greeting them all with a bright Caffrey grin. As though everything was fine. As though he hadn't had some kind of identity crisis in the middle of the office.
"Peter!" Neal greeted brightly, so different from the desperation of mere minutes before. "Sorry if I bothered you. Just... having a bit of an off day today."
He turned to walk away but Peter finally found his voice and said, “Neal? What the hell was that?”
Neal stopped, shoulders very slightly hunched as he turned back to look at Peter.
“What was what Peter? What could you be referring to?” He asked with a faux-innocent voice. “I’m sure I couldn’t-“
Peter cut him off with a sharp, “Neal.”
Neal sighed, long and slow, ending with a quick shake of his head as he schooled his expression.
“Look Peter,” he started, “I’ve been playing different roles since I was eight years old. I’ve gone by more names than I can count and memorized so many fake lives that sometimes it just… gets hard to remember which one I’m playing.” His head dropped and he whispered something quietly that sounded a bit like, “sometimes it gets hard to remember if there was ever anyone real under them,” but raised his head up so quickly it could have just been Peter’s imagination.
“It doesn’t happen often, but that’s what happened today and I just needed the reminder of which name I’m using.”
He looked around the office at everyone who was staring at him unabashedly (a few people blushed and ducked their heads, trying to pretend they were never watching, but most people just kept looking.)
“I’m going to go… take a walk,” He announced suddenly. “Be back in a little bit.”
With that he walked to the elevator, which somehow opened like a half second after he pushed the button, and then he was gone.
There was a moment of dead quiet before everyone burst back into motion, as though the bustle of typing and shuffling papers could cover up what just happened.
Neal came back a few minutes later as promised, looking significantly more settled and significantly more like himself (or more like the part he was playing?), sat down at his desk, and no one ever mentioned what came to be known as the Identity Incident (around him, at least).
But if on the days he stared at his hands like he didn’t know where they came from or what they were, or the times he glared at the forms he was filling out like they held the secrets of the universe hidden in them…
Well, if someone just so happened to pass by his desk and put down a note addressed to “Neal Caffrey” with as many details as they could remember about him…
If something like that happened, he never mentioned it either.
(He kept every single one though. They made him feel more real)