Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

your body still your body

your arms still wing

your mouth still a gun

          you tragic, misfiring bird

you have all you need to be a hero

don’t save the world, save yourself

you worship too much & you worship too much

when prayer doesn’t work:      dance, fly, fire

this is your hardest scene

when you think the whole sad thing might end

but you live      oh, you live

everyday you wake you raise the dead

          everything you do is a miracle

— a note on the body, Danez Smith

He knew the deal was a bad idea from the moment he proposed it. It was tempting in all the worst ways, the kind of ways that risked him falling back on… call them old habits. 

It was better, actually, that the other agents treated him with varying levels of thinly-veiled distrust. He was the criminal; not quite one of them, for all that he was a useful asset. A tool in my belt, Rice would call him. And sure, it was hurtful, it was humiliating, but hurt and humiliated was safer than Peter standing there like Justice incarnate, the word partners falling so easily from his lips.

We’re partners?

You tell me.

(Mozzie thinks he understands, and maybe Neal should feel guilty about that, but— he’d never actually lied to Moz so much as he’d made certain… vague statements and, yes, he might’ve known that Mozzie would draw certain conclusions from there, but he hadn’t lied. Not really. It’s a fine line, but that’s what people like them are made of, really. And it isn’t like Mozzie doesn’t have secrets of his own.)

He’s getting in too deep, he knows it, and every day, every case, it gets a little bit worse: Peter claps him on the shoulder, tells him, Good job today; Cruz asks his opinion on a cold case she’s been working and doesn’t scowl too much when he offers up what he knows of the counterfeit electronics industry; the probie comes back from a coffee run and leaves a plain black coffee, French roast, right on the corner of his desk. It’s nothing special compared to what June has on offer every morning, but it’s a damn sight better than the sludge that the FBI’s coffee machine spits out. The first time it happens, some part of Neal can’t help but tense up, wondering if it’s some sort of trick, or a prank, or some kind of test. But no one’s even paying attention to him, no one’s watching to see if he drinks it or leaves it or tips it down the sink. So he drinks it and says nothing and makes sure to slip some cash in Blake’s pocket as a thank you.

(He should be keeping his eyes on what’s really important, on finding Kate, but this feels important too. Tara’s smile after they gotten the bomb off her, shaky but alive. Julianna’s look of wonder and distant loss as she met her namesake’s sweet painted gaze once more. The satisfaction of seeing Hagan led away in cuffs, fuming and furious.)

He might not be one of them, but he’s not… not either. Peter doesn’t trust him with his pocket change, but he trusts him with his life and it’s impossible not to return that trust. To let his guard down, just a little.

By now, you’d think he’d have learned better.

He gets sloppy; when they call him in and there’s a dead body on the ground, it isn’t hard to let himself look rattled (no one ever likes that part of the job, not even Him). He tries to excuse himself, to talk himself out of the situation before Peter’s too-sharp eyes pick up on something they shouldn’t, and then—

Sometimes, the way He’d talk about it, you’d think that it was an addiction. Maybe it is. Because once he lets the crime scene, the puzzle of it, get its hooks in him, he forgets that Neal Caffrey only has experience on one side of a crime scene. He forgets that his only suit is a Devore three-piece and his only mask is a smile.

He thinks, This is a Test.

He thinks, What do you see, chum?

He’s lucky that Peter’s tunnel vision can be just as bad as his own when he’s hooked on a new case; for once, his too-keen Caffrey-sense seems content to remain dormant.

Of course, later, he would realize that Aldis Grey wasn’t the only mystery that Peter had been preoccupied with. It’s not the first time that Alex has been this angry with him and it undoubtedly will not be the last, so it’s a little bit surprising just how much Peter’s actions hurt.

He’d gone behind his back— invaded Neal’s privacy, his friend’s privacy, kept him out of the loop, treated him like a child. It was paranoid, controlling, paternalistic.

It was really fucking familiar.

In that moment, it’s not even really Peter that he’s angry with; it’s himself. Old habits, old patterns— he might as well be just another junkie, seeking out exactly the same situations that got him into trouble in the first place.

Because, with the benefit of time and distance, he knows that it is an addiction. The Mission. His Mission. You think you’re in control, you think you could get out if you really needed to, but it drags you down deeper and deeper. Changes you.

He’d made himself a promise, all those years ago, that he would never become that again.

So he’d set guidelines. Built a framework of what he could and could not do, who he could and could not be, so that he wouldn’t find himself in situations where he would be tempted. And now here he is throwing each and every one of those carefully written rules away. Throwing himself right back down that hole that he’d worked so hard to escape.

The gun in his face is a wake-up call. 

Pierce is clearly no amateur; even if he hadn’t known about Aldis Grey, he’d have been able to see it in the way she holds the gun, in the way that she lets him think he has a chance of walking away from this alive. She’s killed before.

But she’s expecting Neal Caffrey, non-violent conman. She’s not expecting him.

He sees eight different ways he could disarm her. Four that wouldn’t even give her time to fire a shot. Five ways to get her into a hold, where she could struggle until her arm snapped under the force of her own body weight. Two ways to take the gun himself, to pull the trigger and watch red blossom across her slinky dress.

His hands are shaking, and he knows she thinks it’s because he’s afraid of the gun. He is. But not when it’s in her hands.

This is why there are rules.

Peter will never know how close he came to spilling blood in his home.

That’s not to say that Neal never considers telling him— well, not everything. Some. The stuff that Mozzie knows, or thinks he knows.

The first time Peter sees him without a shirt, he stops dead in the doorway of his apartment. It takes Neal a second to understand the sudden, righteous fury in his face.

He shrugs on a shirt quickly after that, feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious.

“It’s nothing,” he snaps when Peter starts to pry and dig. “Old scars. Leave it, okay?”

Peter won’t, of course, but he’ll pretend to.

And it will send him looking in all the wrong directions, and that has to be a good thing, right?

Except that for the next few days he catches Peter watching him carefully when he thinks Neal’s not looking, and it makes him angry.

These? he wants to say, These are nothing. You should see the other guy.

Except then Kate dies and Neal will be the first to admit he kind of loses it and Fowler nearly is the other guy.

It’s probably his only streak of luck all day that nobody questions how he managed to parkour his way across a fifteen-foot gap between balcony and window.

Listen to me, Peter says. If you pull that trigger, you will regret it for the rest of your life, Neal. You're not a killer.

But he is. He crossed that line a long time ago, and now… now it’d be so easy to cross it again. Why not? Fowler deserves it. He killed Kate. And there’s already blood on his hands that hasn’t washed off after ten years, so what does it really matter if there’s a little more? His hand spasms on the grip. His finger tightens on the trigger.

And then—and it’s the stupidest thing—he thinks of Jones singing that dumb little song under his breath.

Na na na na na na na na…

He’d been, what, ten? It had seemed like the funniest thing in the world. He’d sung it every night they’d gone out for almost three months, until someone caught him doing it and the clip ended up on the 7 o’clock news. After that, there’d been no stopping it. It had been just too infectious. And then somewhere along the line, it had become official.

(He’d gotten a hell of a lecture about professionalism and discretion, but he’d always gotten away with so much more than anyone else had with Him. Nobody ever seemed to understand that.)

…na na na na na na na na…

Peter couldn’t have known, when he lectured him on justice, not vengeance, that it’s a lecture he’s been getting his whole life. He’d chosen justice once, and it hadn’t brought them back. He’d chosen vengeance once, and he’d betrayed everyone and everything that mattered. He’s spent a decade regretting that choice, trying to rebuild what he’d lost.

Peter’s still talking to him, pleading with him.

This isn’t who you are.

No. It’s not. Because he chooses not to let it be.

(It isn’t who I am underneath, it’s what I do that matters…)

He lowers the gun.

…Batman!

Chapter Text

He knows the worst has happened as soon as he sees the set of Peter’s jaw.

“No,” he says, standing, hands out in front of his body as if he can ward off the words he knows are coming. “No, Peter, no.”

“Neal,” Peter begins lowly, and dreads sinks into his stomach.

“I can’t,” he says. “Peter, please no. Not again.”

Peter’s eyes narrow. “Neal,” he says again, and Neal knows that tone; there’s no escaping this.

“Alright,” he says— empty, defeated. “I understand.” His whole body sags, dragged down by despair.

Peter claps him on the shoulder. “Suck it up. You’re on van duty.”

“This is cruel and unusual punishment,” Neal moans, as Diana appears at Peter’s elbow with yet another stack of mysterious forms for Peter to sign. He catches her eye, hoping for a bit of commiseration, but she just rolls her eyes.

“You’ll be fine,” Peter dismisses. “Instead of sitting still for a couple of hours, you could be stuck in an even smaller box for four years. In prison,” he clarifies, in case there was someone within a fifty mile radius who couldn’t pick that up.

“Yeah, I got it,” Neal says sullenly. “At least in prison it didn’t smell like deviled ham and bureaucracy.”

“Bureaucracy has a smell? You’re starting to sound like Mozzie.” Peter hands the stack back to Diana and she disappears just as efficiently as she had appeared. Sometimes, Neal thinks, the fact the she doesn’t have superpowers is scarier than her having them could ever be. “Also, are you seriously trying to argue that prison smells good?”

“I didn’t say it smells good, I said that it doesn’t have someone shoving that crime against cuisine that you call a sandwich under my nose.” Neal crinkles said orifice; “Plus, even a prison block gets cleaned more often than that van. I should know, I spent a month on janitorial once. When was the last time someone cleaned inside that van— 1972?”

Peter scowls but notably chooses not to argue the point. “You’re in the van tonight. No excuses, no weaseling out of it. Got it?”

“Got it,” Neal sighs morosely.

In all honesty, he’s not sure why he dreads the van so badly. Surveillance is nothing new to him; why, even at the height of his criminal career, he’d never let himself forget the importance of proper reconnaissance. He’d been on jobs that had required days of watching from much more uncomfortable positions that the FBI van.

He knows how to watch and wait. How to sink into that place where he observes and records every detail, no matter how seemingly insignificant.

But it feels different, somehow, when he’s in the van. Vigilance becomes hyper-vigilance; he wasn’t kidding when he complained about Peter’s deviled ham. Scents, movement, the sound of a pen tapping, someone shifting slightly in their chair— it’s all so much. It’s like his senses think he’s back in Goth— back there, where every shift in the air could be an attack, every new scent could be covering gas, every muffled sound could be a stifled cry for help.

It makes his head hurt.

That being said, it’s… interesting. To watch the rest of the team work. Officially-sanctioned, non-corrupt law enforcement is not something he has a lot of first-hand experience with. He’d never really considered, before, the complexity and frustration of negotiating jurisdictions, or the powerlessness of being able to see events unfolding and lacking the authorization to act. He’d known about warrant law before the Dutchman case but it had… never really seemed to apply.

He’d only been a little surprised when, after Hagan was safely deposited in a cell, Peter had caught him by the shoulder and said, “You can’t pull that again.”

Neal had given him his best showman’s grin. “Come on, Peter, you know me, I never pull the same trick twice. Got to keep it interesting!”

“Neal, I’m serious,” Peter had said. “I can swing it this time, say that you didn’t understand what you were doing. But if you do something like this again, it’ll get the whole case thrown out— violating constitutional rights. It could mean a very bad person gets to walk. And— I’ll be forced to treat you like a real fleeing prisoner. When I catch you—and we both know I will—they’ll revoke your deal. Send you back to finish out your four years, if you’re lucky. If you’re not, they’ll add even more time for another escape attempt. You’ll be in maximum security, no chance of parole. There won’t be anything I’ll be able to do. Do you understand?”

His eyes were so genuinely concerned that Neal felt sobered. And— touched.

“I understand,” he’d said. “I can’t promise that I’ll always be able to color within the lines, but— Peter, you have my word that I will do my best to never put you in that position.”

In honor of that promise, he does his best to stay in the van and out of trouble (he does try, but— if he sees a golden opportunity, Peter can hardly expect him to let it just pass him by, can he?).

He’d been raised to respect those who dedicated their lives to law enforcement, but there had always been that sense of arrogance, hadn’t there?

By His standards, the real police had always been under-trained, under-equipped, and under suspicion; after all, how could a civil police force, or even a federal agency, compete with the kinds of resources and equipment He had lying around almost literally in his backyard? How could a bunch of schmucks who worked a 9-5 for a wage and a pension (and, it being Gotham, a little bit on the side) ever match the kind of drive that came from an unspeakable tragedy? Even the best of them, the most righteous, saw a duty.

For B, it was a crusade.

Who could live up to that?

…except, sitting in the van with the monitors running and Jones and Peter arguing basketball and Diana complaining about the coffee, he thought that maybe, just maybe… they could.

They don’t have a Mission. They haven’t devote their lives to mastering the martial arts. They don’t stalk the streets at all hours of the night. In fact, with the occasional (frequent) exception of Peter, most of them leave by 5 p.m. most days. They don’t have the statistical impact on crime of a Superman or a Flash or a Wonder Woman or even a Green Lantern.

But they go home with clean knuckles. They don’t beat suspects until they piss themselves with pain and fear. They care about warrants and probable cause and civil rights. They don’t (again, with the occasional exception of Peter) spy on their friends or create contingency plans or use people like pawns.

They don’t create Jokers. Or Hugo Stranges. Or Two Faces. They don’t create Robins.

They don’t leave behind tombstones for fifteen-year-old boys.

“Ok, no,” Jones says. “I can’t even tell you how wrong you are right now.”

“Excuse me?” Diana says, but she’s laughing. “I’m wrong? I’m not the one who’s arguing that the Flash could take Wonder Woman in a fight!”

“He’s the fastest man in the world,” Jones protests. “She wouldn’t even see him coming! He’d win in two seconds flat, and that’s if he felt like taking it slow.”

“In your dreams,” Diana scoffs. “Wonder Woman is a total bad-ass, and she’s literally indestructible. The Flash has gotta slow down sometime, and then— bam.”

“Just because you have a crush—” Jones retorts, smirking, and Diana gets him right in the face with the last Boston creme pie.

The van is just about as bad as he’d expected it to be (complete with eau de ham et mayonnaise), and he can’t even remember how they got onto the topic of superheroes. 

“Peter, man, back me up,” Jones appeals. “I’m not saying Wonder Woman doesn’t kick ass and make it look good—I’m not crazy—but who would win in a fight, her or the Flash?”

Peter purses his lips in mock contemplation. “Sorry, Jones, but I’m with Diana on this one. Wonder Woman, hands down.”

Jones makes a noise of exaggerated aggravation. “Fine, gang up on me. But can we all at least agree that Aquaman is the lamest hero in the JL?”

Peter frowns. “What’s wrong with Aquaman? I like Aquaman.”

“Really, man?” Jones deadpans. “He talks to fish. That’s his superpower. Fish, Peter.”

“He can also summon tidal waves and stuff,” Diana says reasonably, toying with half a cruller. “I mean, if I could choose a superpower, I don’t know if I’d go for that one, but it’s better than some of them.” 

“Well, what would you go for?”

Diana smirks and flexes. “Super-strength, all the way. What about you?”

“I’d go high-tech,” Jones says immediately, “like my boy Cyborg. Nowadays? That’s the whole world at my fingertips.”

Diana frowns. “He’s half-robot, that’s not a superpower.”

“Oh, it totally is.”

“Whatever, fine.” Diana waves it off. “You’re being pretty quiet over there, Neal. What about you?”

“Huh? Oh.” Neal shakes himself out of his thoughts, which is probably for the best. “What was the question?”

“If you could have any superpower, what would it be?”

Well, that’s easy enough. “I’d love to be able to fly,” he says wistfully, remembering another time (another life), when he’d stretched out over a red-caped shoulder to drag his fingers through the clouds. 

“Why am I not surprised,” Peter says dryly, but there’s something fond in it.

Neal winks at him. “Don’t get too comfortable. I don’t need superpowers to fly. But to be able to get up there— that would be something else.”

“You don’t need superpowers to fly?” Diana repeats dubiously. “That sounds like bullshit to me. Unless you got a pilot’s license or something that you forgot to mention.”

He lets his smirk grow, keeps his voice mysterious. “Something like that.”

“Just flying? That’s it?” Jones says, sounding unimpressed. “No super-strength or laser-eyes or nothing? Man, you’d get your ass kicked, Bird-Man.”

“Bird-Man?” Neal echoes, not sure whether to laugh or be offended (he doesn’t know he doesn’t know he doesn’t know). “And since when do you need super-strength or laser-eyes—seriously? Laser-eyes?—to win a fight? Batman—”

Peter huffs loudly, pointedly, and Neal distinctly hears Diana mutter, “Oh, here we go.”

“What?” Neal demands, defensive for a reason he can’t quite name.

All of Peter’s relaxed amusement has faded, and he’s turned back to the monitors with a heavy scowl.

“Peter has a thing about Batman,” Diana explains, not quite sotto voice.

“It is not a thing,” Peter denies. He jabs viciously at the keyboard, gaze still fixed stubbornly on the monitor.

“What’s wrong with Batman?” Neal asks before he can think about it, and then he kind of does want to laugh. If there ever was an expert on everything that’s wrong with Batman…

Peter’s teeth grind audibly together. “Batman,” he says, with forcibly subdued heat, “is not a superhero. He’s a vigilante.”

Neal looks at Peter in his G-Man Brooks Brothers suit, at the gun and badge that sit on him like a second skin and, yeah, that makes sense. But—

“I’ve known you to go a little vigilante yourself, Cowboy,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

Peter catches the reference; he flushes but holds his ground. “That was different. It was the only way to prove Larssen framed me. And even if we bent the rules a little bit, no one got hurt. We didn’t beat a confession out of anyone or tamper with evidence or dangle someone off a rooftop. And if you remember, the only reason we had to run a sting in the first place is because they thought I abused my authority to plant the evidence in the first place— Batman? With the way he runs circles around the cops over there, he’s not accountable to anyone. As long as he’s going after the ‘criminals’, no one cares. No one stands up for the people he hurts, or the people who get caught in the crossfire when some new wack-job wants his attention.”

The worst part is, it’s nothing Neal hasn’t thought before. Batman… he isn’t accountable to anyone most of the time. It’s not like people haven’t tried to rein him in, but short of putting a bullet in his head, there’s not much anyone can do when he makes up his mind.

But at the same time, it isn’t fair the way Peter says it— and that’s not Peter’s fault, he’s just working without vital information. He doesn’t know how B has devoted himself to every possible discipline of forensic science and probably invented a few more besides; he doesn’t know how meticulously he catalogues evidence and writes reports and indexes even the most esoteric facts of every case; he hasn’t seen how Batman struggles to find trustworthy contacts in the GCPD, detectives who are honest enough not to take bribes and good enough to put the victims first; he hasn’t watched him torture himself over each person he couldn’t save. He doesn’t understand that Gotham isn’t just another rough city. It’s a jungle, and the beasts are always hungry.

“But I don’t need to tell you any of this, do I?”

Neal’s head whips around. “What? What’s that supposed to mean?” (he doesn’t know he doesn’t know he doesn’t know)

Peter has that particular expression he gets when thinks he knows something that Neal doesn’t know he knows. “Come on, Neal,” he says. “It’s pretty obvious, when you think about it.”

(HE DOESN’T KNOW HE DOESN’T KNOW HE DOESN’T KNOW)

“I don’t know what you mean,” Neal says, lips numb.

“You’ve hit every other major art city in the country, and about a dozen others in Europe. D.C., Boston, Metropolis, Chicago,” Peter lists. “But never Gotham. In fact, when you were after that El Greco, we had you following for three stops in the tour and then as soon as you found out it was going to Gotham, you just dropped it entirely.”

“Allegedly,” Neal dodges, “not every plan works out. The mark of a good con is to know when to cut your losses.”

“Uh-huh,” Peter says, unconvinced. “Come on, Neal. Just admit it.”

“There’s nothing to admit.”

“Sure there is.” Peter leans forward, almost gleeful.

Peter, don’t say it; please, please don’t say it.

“You’re scared of the Batman.”

It takes a moment for the words to register, because— really? Peter thinks that’s his big, dark secret?

Neal laughs. 

People (mostly women) have told him that he has a great laugh. Other people (mostly Mozzie) have told him that his real laugh—not the one he uses for his marks—can get kind of creepy. Especially when other people can’t see the joke.

“Peter,” he snickers, “you think I won’t go to Gotham because of Batman? Out of everything in that godawful pit, you think I’d be scared of Batman?”

Peter looks temporarily discomfited. “Well…”

“What,” Neal continues, “because I’m a criminal? So that means that Batman is the worst thing that could happen to me if I went to Gotham?”

“I didn’t…”

“Batman doesn’t kill,” Neal says, still smiling. From the unnerved looks on Diana and Jones’ faces, he probably looks pretty manic. “You know who does kill, Peter? The Joker kills. The Penguin kills. Even the Riddler kills sometimes. You know those names? You know what those guys really don’t like? They don’t like it when outsiders come into their city and start thinking they can pull scores.”

He sees Peter make a face at that and, yeah, he’s definitely seen the stories about Gotham.

“Nobody works in Gotham and survives unless they pledge to one of the big names.”

“And, Peter,” he continues, looking him dead in the eye, “There is not a score in the world that would make me tie myself to one of those monsters.”

He leaves that to hang in the air.

“I’m not arguing on that one,” Jones says, hunching over a bit in his chair. “Gotham is crazy. And that’s before you get into the whole Batman-and-Robin thing. You know, I saw this article in Wired. They went back through all the old archive photos, back to the real blurry Bigfoot ones back when everybody still thought Batman was just an urban myth, right? And so they ran all those photos through a bunch of tests, and they were saying that there’ve been, like, six Robins.”

Even Neal raises an eyebrow at that, though probably for a very different reason than the rest of them. “Six?” he repeats doubtfully. Sure, he hasn’t kept that close of an eye on Gotham (liar), but it’s pretty easy to tell when Robin has been recast. 

Or maybe that’s just because he already knows— with the exception of the girl (and he’s still not sure what happened there), keeping an eye out for the newest celebrity adoption is probably a lot easier than poring over cape-chasers’ candids.

“Messed up, right?” Jones leans back in his chair, satisfied. “Makes you wonder where he gets ‘em all.”

Orphans-R-Us, probably, Neal thinks uncharitably.

“Ugh.” Diana makes a face. “I guess it makes sense, though. I remember seeing Robin on the news when I was in, what, high school? By now he’d probably be almost your age, Neal.”

She can’t know that Neal Caffrey had written himself 4 years older when he’d first arrived in New York. He laughs it off. “How old do you think I am?” he says, mock-offended.

“No, no, Diana’s onto something,” Jones says, leaning forward. “You are about the right age and you fit the profile— you got something to tell us, Caffrey?”

“You got me,” Neal says, completely seriously. “I used to fight crime dressed in green scaly panties and pixie boots.”

Jones and Diana howl with laughter, and even Peter cracks a smile before his attention is caught by something on the monitor.

“Look who decided to show,” he says, already reaching for a set of headphones. “Alright, Boy Wonder, time for you to earn your keep.”

Later, after the evidence has been recorded and Peter has hustled them back to the FBI building to start the process of obtaining an arrest warrant and magnanimously allowed the rest of them to head back home for three full hours of sleep before they’re expected back in the office, Jones catches up to him in the lobby.

“Hey, Caffrey, hold up!” he calls, and Neal slows enough that Jones can fall into step beside him. “Heading home?”

Like his anklet pinging from anywhere other than Riverside Dr. at this time of night wouldn’t have Peter interrogating him for a good half an hour the next morning.

“Was hoping to squeeze in at least a couple hours sleep before it’s back to the grind,” he says easily.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Jones giving him a funny look.

“Peter didn’t tell you?”

“Didn’t tell me what?”

“Don’t worry about tomorrow— or, uh, today now. Peter can’t officially tell us to play hooky, but when the whole team’s up all night in the surveillance van, no one expects us in until, like, 3. Peter’ll probably run home to see Elizabeth and change clothes and then come right back, because he’s Peter, but you can sleep in.”

“Oh.” Peter hadn’t mentioned it; probably it hadn’t even occurred to him that the consultant wouldn’t already know, not like the real agents would. “I’ve worked on less sleep before, I don’t mind coming in.”

Jones shrugs loosely, unconcerned, but Neal knows from hours of poring over case files and crime scene photos that Jones is even more observant than he’s usually willing to let on.

“Peter’d probably appreciate the help,” Jones acknowledges, “not that he’d ever say it. But he also prefers his team rested. It’s your choice, Caffrey.”

The choice of words is not coincidental: Peter’s team; Peter’s choice who to include, and he has made it clear in so many ways that he has chosen Neal.

Neal feels a sudden burst of appreciation for Clinton Jones and smiles at him. It’s not the showman’s smile, but something a little bit more real.

Jones sees it and grins back, bumping their shoulders.

“Hey,” he says. “You survived the Batman rant. There’s no going back now, you’re stuck with us. Bet you never thought you’d be part of a team like this, huh?”

B would never have approved of him going into law enforcement the traditional way— and even like this, where there’s no chance of him ever being handed a gun, Neal can imagine the look of disappointment. Disgust, even, for a criminal who thinks he can still play a hero.

But here he is.

“You know,” he says, “I don’t think I ever did.”

Maybe if he manages to stick around for long enough without fucking up, he’ll get that ten-year pin after all.

Chapter Text

There’s a man—a rich man, a powerful man, a man with connections—and his son. 

His son, who he hasn’t talked to in years. 

His son, who fled halfway across the world to escape the shadow of his father.

“What kind of father is that?” he demands as they walk out into the late August sun. He feels restless, full of energy in a way that he can never quite satisfy these days. His palms itch for the feel of rough brick and concrete.

Peter’s more pragmatic about the whole thing. “His job puts Chris at further risk, so he came to us sub-rosa instead to protect him.”

“Tough love?” Neal scoffs.

“It's what my father would have done.” 

“Your dad was a bricklayer, not a diplomat,” Neal shoots back, irritated, and Peter takes it more gracefully than he probably deserves. 

“Okay, so he would've tried to break through the mortar walls of the prison first instead, but he would've done the same thing.” Of course he would have— Peter had been a good kid, a good son. The worst trouble he’d probably ever got in was for staying out past curfew, maybe having a couple of beers while he was still underage. And Neal knew from off-hand comments that Peter and his dad had been close, are still close in spite of the 4-hour drive-up between them. 

And Chris’ dad said that he was a good kid too, for all that they didn’t talk anymore. 

Peter could be right (again, it was kind of annoying how often he was), this could be Wilson’s honest attempt to keep Chris’ situation from getting any worse, but something feels off about the whole thing. It’s one thing to hide the relationship from the Burmese, but another to keep it from the people who are trying to help. 

Is he so ashamed of his own son that he’s buried any connection between them? Are the people who know him even aware that he has a son, or does he pretend that his son had never existed at all?

Or is there something else going on here, something that Wilson is still holding back?

“What about yours?”

It really shouldn’t, but the redirect catches him off guard. He mentally rewinds the last few seconds of conversation. “My dad?” 

“Yeah. I don't know much about him.”

“Ohhhh,” Neal drags the sound out purposefully. “I thought you knew everything about me.”

“Well, there's a big, gaping hole before your 18th birthday.”

“Enjoy the mystery.”

“Oh, come on. You don't want to talk about him?” 

Peter’s digging, like he always does, but this is one secret that should stay buried. “What do you want me to say?” he asks, curt.

“I don't know. Start small. What did he do for a living?” 

“He was in the circus,” Neal says, straight-faced, and as he predicted, Peter just gives a little scoff.

“Uh-huh. Let me guess— the guy in the middle with the big top hat, right?”

Neal grins a little at the jab and adjusts the set of his own hat, but doesn’t bother to correct him.

After all, the conman, the ringleader, the acrobat—they’re all performers, at heart. Slightly different roles, slightly different costumes, but all drawing from the same place. Top hat, tailcoat, suits and silks and sequins… they’re useful props, but the showman’s best costume is always his self.

His dad—the man who gave him his bright laugh and sharp cheekbones, who gave him his yearning to fly—taught him that.

“He died,” Neal admits. He’s not sure what makes him say it. “When I was nine.”

Immediately, Peter’s face softens. “Ah, Neal,” he says softly. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” Neal clears his throat roughly. “It was a long time ago.”

He doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, and even though he can see the questions stacking up behind Peter’s eyes, he does have some tact.

Neal, for all his skills and charm, apparently does not. Or maybe it’s just this case that’s wearing it away like cliffs off the sea.

It’s a strange case for them; Diana’s contacts, through her father and otherwise, are helpful (surely a man like Wilson must have contacts of his own?), but there’s only so much the rest of them can do until they find the thief. It isn’t until the gems come out on the fine velvet tray that Neal really feels in his element.

(“You said friend, not alias,” Peter hisses, and Neal insists, “I consider them my friends.” He does; they’re him, but they’re also not-him. When you live in different skins long enough and often enough, you have to be able to differentiate the this-me and the that-me or soon there won’t be any me left at all.)

The con is simple enough, but there’s a quiet joy in the craft. Sweat and blood and artisan’s pride. If you ask him, their pigeon-blood is just as much a work of art as the ‘authentic’ article.

Ironically enough it’s as the case is wrapping up, once a confession has been obtained and the thief delivered to the Burmese, that Neal starts to unravel.

They’re all in the conference room, just waiting on good news, when the topic comes up.

When he brings it up, really; there’s no one he came blame for this one but himself.

“When was the last time you saw your son?” He tries not to sound too judgmental, but he can hear the way the last word comes out too sharp.

Wilson reflects for a second before he answers. “Eight years ago.” 

Chris is twenty years old, and barely that. Eight years is probably half of his life as he remembers it. 

“I'm sure it must be pretty difficult with your position,” Peter prompts, though not without sympathy.

Wilson isn’t a man to whom brooding comes naturally, but he manages a fair pensiveness.

 “My divorce was messy,” he says. “I tried to remain close with Chris, but he ended up resenting everything I stand for. And ultimately, he said he didn't need me.” 

“A twelve-year-old doesn't know what he does or doesn't need.” 

Peter shoots him a warning look, but Neal ignores it. Peter with his cookie-cutter family and his wife and dog and welcoming townhouse couldn’t possibly understand it. 

Twelve years old— just a kid. Just a stupid kid.

“He didn't want to be my son. There was nothing I could do.” 

The way he says it makes it sound so… mundane, so final. Like he was just a bystander watching some terrible tragedy unfold. Like he wasn’t the adult in the situation.

Like it was all just inevitable.

Twelve! Even Bruce wouldn’t—

“Yeah. Well, you're his father. If you didn’t even care enough to keep trying, maybe he was better off without you.”

“That’s enough,” Peter snaps and grabs Neal roughly by the arm. “Give us a minute.” He hauls Neal out of the conference room before Wilson can reply, past the curious gazes of the agents in the bullpen. He drags them back away from prying ears, and only when they reach the relative privacy of an empty hallway does he round on Neal.

“What the hell was that?” he hisses.

“Nothing,” Neal mutters, annoyed. Normally, he doesn’t really mind how physical Peter can be— he kind of appreciates it, actually, all the shoulder bumps and pats on the back— but today he’s in no mood to be hauled around like a sullen toddler. Even if it’s somewhat deserved. “I lost my temper. I’ll apologize to Wilson. Okay?”

“O— Okay?” Peter repeats, incredulous. “Not okay, Neal, not okay! What were you thinking?”

Neal feels his temper flaring up again. “I was thinking that if he actually cared, maybe he could have been there for his son before he got stuck on death row!”

Peter stares at him for a full minute, mouth open. The pause does little to soothe the flickering anger in his stomach; if anything, it kindles it that much higher.

Where the hell does Peter get off, scolding him like a naughty kid? He’s not Neal’s father either, no matter what this weird rebellion-authority dichotomy they have is. The only fatherly  thing about it is how Peter manages to put the pater in patronizing. 

They’re partners, or they’re supposed to be, equals, so why exactly does everyone think that means they’re entitled to put him in time-out every time he makes a mistake? Why, why do they all think they can just bench him like he’s thirteen years old again? Like he can’t even be trusted to take care of himself? Like he’s a liability?

“Look,” Peter says finally, “clearly this thing with your father—”

“He is not my father,” Neal says heatedly, unthinkingly. He doesn’t even really realize what he’s said until Peter tilts his head a little and says, “Who?”

“What?”

The patented Peter Burke X-ray Vision is turned up to eleven; with less than a foot of space between them, there’s nowhere for Neal to hide. He’s pinned under that gaze, that first hint of a dawning understanding. “You just said he isn’t your father. Who is ‘he’?”

“I just meant this isn’t about my father,” Neal says quickly.

“That’s not what you said.”

“Well, it’s what I meant.” Please, please, Peter, just drop it. For once in your life, just leave it alone.

Peter’s lips are a thin line as he studies Neal, looking for… something. A tell, maybe.

If he finds it or not, Neal doesn’t know, but his gaze twitches down and he puffs air between his lips like he always does when he’s frustrated.

“Fine,” Peter says. “Whatever else is going on with you, and your dad, or whatever— clearly, you don’t want to talk about it. Fine. Right now, I need you to get your head in the game. Whatever your feelings about Wilson’s parenting, our job is to help him get his son back safely. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yeah.” It’s an easy promise to make: they have their perp already, the have the confession; the hard work is done.

Except that clearly, by thinking it he’s jinxed it, because Diana pokes her head around the corner, face pinched. “Peter, the ambassador's aid just called. They want to see you.”

Somehow, it’s only when everything falls apart that it starts to make sense again.

No matter what kind of suit he wears, he just can’t resist the temptation to try and solve other people’s problems. Peter, unlike some others Neal could name, does not approve of the admittedly unorthodox methods that are sometimes required.

“You met with Wilson yesterday,” Peter says accusingly; and then, when Neal doesn’t deny it, warningly, “Neal, whatever he's asking you to do…”

He could deny it. But— legal or not, this is the right thing to do. Surely Peter can see that. “He’s got nowhere else to turn.”

“Oh, God, Neal. Don't do it.” 

“Look, Wilson's trying to make good with his son, and I can help him.”

Peter sighs. His demeanor is that of a man called to bail out his sixteen-year-old from lock-up at 2 a.m. on a Wednesday.

Neal just knows that he’s in for another there are right ways and wrong ways lectures, and it sends anger rising in his veins. For once, he is in the right.

“The system failed him,” he says, trying to make Peter understand. That was the big difference between Peter and B— Peter believed in the system with his whole heart. He’d never been small, alone, helpless, as the system churned up the shattered remains of his life and tore him away from the only home he had left. He’d never burned with the need for justice, for closure, and been left wanting.

But B knew; everything that he was, that he did, it was for the ones that the system had discarded. The child that Neal had been had vowed to do the same one day.

Why not today?

Peter is still talking. “You’re rationalizing, and you know it. Nothing gives him or you or anyone the right to go around the law.”

“It's his son,” Neal says, with heat. “That gives him the right.”

“I don't agree with that.” 

“It's what a father should do.”

“I’m guessing you still aren’t going to tell me what this thing is with fathers that’s messing with your head?” Peter asks sourly.

“Nope.” Neal pauses, gentles his voice. “If this were your son... Or my son... I know what you would do.”

It’s a low blow, emotional blackmail.

It’s the kind of thing he would have said to B, to get him out of his stubborn head, to put it into terms that he can deal with, to kickstart his stunted emotional intelligence, to get him to understand.

He just wants him to understand.

Peter, he takes it to the gut.

He turns away, his big shoulder squared as his mind churns through responses, rebuttals, ways to drag Neal away from this by the scruff of his neck. There are none that don’t end with Neal back in prison and Peter knows that and Neal knows he knows that. Neal’s mind is made up and if Peter tries to force his hand, well— he knows what he’s willing to lose.

Peter meets his gaze, looking tired and angry and resigned in a way that only makes Neal feel guiltier. “One wrong move inside the Burmese consulate, and they will extradite you. You'll end up in a Kabaw prison.” Peter searches his eyes, brown to blue.“I can't protect you.” 

“I'm not asking you to.”

(Of course Peter turns up anyways. Because he’s Peter.)

(With Peter, he’s never needed to ask.)

It’s almost embarrassing how completely Neal’s opinion of Wilson has taken a 360 degree turn since he realized exactly how far the man was willing to go for his son.

And now, watching him throw distance and propriety aside and embrace his son for the first time in eight years, Neal wonders, suddenly, if Chris really traveled halfway across the world because he wanted to leave his father behind… or because he wanted to know if his father would follow.

It’s something to consider— academically speaking, of course. Not that this case has any potential ramifications for his own issues. Clearly.

Ugh.

That being said, it’s maybe not the worst idea in the world for him to… talk to someone. And it’s not like Peter will leave it alone until he does, so.

“You asked me about my dad.” Neal is careful to keep his eyes on the tearful reunion. “He really did die. I didn’t lie about that.”

Peter’s voice is gentle. “I never thought you did.”

It’s a lie, but a kind one. There are too many of those.

“He didn’t just die,” Neal says, eyes still fixed straight ahead. “He was murdered. My mom too. I was— I saw it happen.” 

There’s a sharp intake of breath, but Peter doesn’t speak, which he’s grateful for. That’s its own can of trauma, but it’s not what he needs to say.

“I didn’t have any other family. The police took me away, they would’ve put me in the system, but… there was this guy. He was there when my parents died, and he sat with me afterwards. He offered to foster me.”

“Did he hurt you?” Peter asks quietly, and Neal suddenly remembers that Peter has seen his scars.

So Neal makes himself look his partner right in the eyes. “No,” he says firmly. “Never.”

“Or,” he amends at a thought, “not on purpose. He was a good man, and I think he cared about me, in his own way, but he wasn’t the most emotionally available. I was a pretty messed up kid, and I needed more than he could give.”

“You said he wasn’t your father,” Peter recalls, an undertone to his voice that Neal doesn’t really want to decipher right now.

“He wasn’t,” Neal says, then, “He’s not. I mean, legally, he was my guardian, but it wasn’t like he was going to adopt me or anything.”

“Why not?” It’s a provocative question, and Peter knows it. He knows they’re edging around something more complicated, more difficult to put into words.

Neal thinks carefully about his answer. “He wasn’t looking for a son,” he says slowly. “It was more like— he saw what happened to me, and he knew that he had the resources to help me, so he did. Because he knew it was the right thing to do. Not because of… me.”

“There’s more to taking care of a kid than just feeding him and giving him a bed.”

“Yes, I know,” Neal bites out. He takes a deep breath in. And out. “I know. But, Peter, you have to understand, I was so angry. I… I wanted to hurt people. I wanted them to hurt like I was hurting. When he took me in, he probably saved my life. He helped me find a way to use the anger, to turn it into something good.

“But he couldn’t fix me, that bad part in me, the part that wanted to hurt people and, Peter, I did something, I did something terrible, and,” his throat closes up and he realizes, to his humiliation, that he’s blinking back tears.

“Neal.” The command in Peter’s voice leaves no room for challenge. His hand comes up to rest at the back of Neal’s neck, gently but firmly guiding his view towards where Chris and Wilson and Rocker are still standing together. Rocker is wrapped firmly around one of Chris’ arms and Wilson has his hand wrapped protectively around his opposite shoulder so that they form a living chain, unbroken.

“You did that,” Peter says. “And maybe I don’t know everything that happened then, but I know you now, Neal, and you’re not bad. Sometimes you make me want to pull my hair out and lock you in a concrete box for the sake of my own sanity, but you’re not bad. And if you don’t believe me, you can ask El or June or any of the other people you’ve helped, and they’ll all tell you the same thing.”

Neal laughs shakily and Peter pretends not to notice while he discreetly wipes his eyes.

“Thank you, Peter,” he says sincerely. “That means a lot.”

“‘Course,” Peter mumbles, clearly embarrassed, and then he clears his throat roughly. 

“So!” he says. “Sticking with the circus story, huh? I think you’d make a great clown.”

“I would, actually,” Neal says, unperturbed. “But the shoes always bothered me.”

“What, they don’t make size 42B in Italian hand-tooled leather?” Peter snipes, and Neal laughs, loud and carefree.

“Yeah, and it’s surprisingly hard to find a Devore with purple and orange polka dots.”

“Oh, really? You don’t say.”

Chapter Text

The thing about warrants is that once you get them—once some judge with a robe and a gavel says, yes, now you have official permission to go violate someone’s privacy—you actually have to carry them out. And when it’s official, you can’t just steal in at dead of night and rummage through the pertinent evidence; no, you have to go through everything, even the stuff you know isn’t relevant, and you have to follow procedure and fill out paperwork and stumble around dirty warehouses at 10 o’clock on a Saturday.

(Not that he hasn’t searched dirtier warehouses before, and even more exhaustively— but it feels somehow worse in the light of day.)

“So remind me again what we’re looking for here?” Neal asks, checking halfheartedly under a folding chair, as if someone might have taped forged Persian artifacts under the seat.

Peter shoots him a dirty look. “Anything that might indicate that the forged artworks could have been stored here. Oh, will you stop that? It’s just a little dirt. It’ll wash out.”

Neal hits him with a flat glare. “This is wool. It’s dry clean only.”

But Peter seems to have become miraculously deaf. Fine. 

Neal pokes around a few more corners, still irritated. This case— he half-suspects that Peter chose it just to punish him for something. His skills are entirely unnecessary on this one; the forgeries that they’re chasing are so amateurish that they hadn’t even needed an expert—let alone one of his caliber—to spot the flaws. And the paper trail is clear enough, if tedious, that there’s no need for undercover work, or even direct contact with the suspect. Even mortgage fraud is more interesting than this case, because at least there’s still a little mystery to finding the perpetrator!

But Peter had insisted that every case is equally important, so here he is on a Saturday morning, tiptoeing around rat droppings and forgotten yogurt cartons that must have been stewing for years.

The things he does.

“Hey, Peter?” Jones calls out from the other side of the warehouse. “I think I got something here.”

Peter immediately drops the empty chinese food container he’d been examining on the end of a pencil (for what, Neal couldn’t imagine— a shipping manifest hidden under scraps of moldy lo-mein?) and makes a beeline for Jones. Neal, lacking anything better to do, follows.

Diana beats them there and is crouching down to check around the bottom edge of Jones’ crate. Unlike the rest of this warehouse, it’s new and practically untouched; there’s a shipping label from a company that Neal doesn’t recognize, with a Middle Eastern-based corporate address. A logo that he can barely make out, some sort of stylized bird with a gash of black ink across its eyes. In its claws, a twist of thorns. Or is it barbed wire?

Definitely suspicious.

“Was it already opened?” asks Diana, zeroing in on the broken padlock hanging off the lid.

Again, strange— nothing else in the warehouse had been secured at all, and now this is just sitting open for them. It’s almost too easy. There’s something else, too… something that’s pricking at the edge of his awareness…

“Yeah,” Jones confirms. “I didn’t even touch it.”

“Open it,” Peter orders.

This is wrong, Neal thinks mutedly, this is all wrong, but before he can say anything, Jones grasps the edge of the lid. He’s barely lifted it more than a few centimeters when it hits Neal— a sharp hiss and that smell, the scent of chemical carrion, unforgettable even after fifteen years.

“It’s gas!” he shouts, but it’s too late; Jones is backing away from the crate, which is seeping a thick, greenish haze, not quite solid enough to be called smoke.

“Everybody out!” shouts Peter, and they stumble towards the doors. 

Diana hits them first and rebounds.

“Shit!” Jones yells, hauling at the handles to no avail. “We’re locked in!”

No way it’s a coincidence— someone planned this, set a trap and waited for someone (them?) to stumble in and spring it.

He reaches instinctively to his belt, but Neal Caffrey doesn’t carry a rebreather. Neither do the FBI, for that matter; they’re sitting ducks.

The first tendrils of gas tease at their ankles.

Neal fumbles with his tie, manages to loosen it enough to draw his collar up over his nose and mouth. “It’s fear toxin,” he spits out, using as little air as possible. “Need to stay calm. Cover your mouth and don’t breathe it in.” Makeshift masks won’t do much good, but if he can just get them away from the source before the hallucinations start to kick in…  He tries to think if he saw any alternate exits coming in, but he can’t remember— 

(—sloppy, always case the environment when you’re in an unfamiliar location, you know better than this, Ro—)

“No!” someone wails. Jones. “No, get away from me! Get away!”

He’s staring at nothing, arms up by his face, cringing away from some horror only he can see. A vein is bulging at his temple and sweat shines on his scalp.

“Get AWAY!” he howls, taking a swipe at thin air, then another, not seeming to notice that he’s completely failing to make contact with anything corporeal. 

But Neal can’t spare the time to worry about Jones, because suddenly he has a much bigger problem.

Diana’s clawing at her belt, fumbling her pistol out of its holster with a carelessness that she would never allow in her right mind. Her gaze is wild but her hands are disturbingly steady.

“Diana,” Neal rasps. His heart is racing already, he can feel the pulse at the base of his throat, but he can’t tell how much is just adrenaline and how much is the gas affecting his nervous system. “Diana. Agent Berrigan. It’s not real, okay? Put down the gun. It’s not real.”

She shakes her head, but he can’t tell if it’s a rejection of his words or in response to some nightmare playing out in her mind.

“Charlie?” she whispers, and she sounds younger than he’s ever heard her.

He drops his makeshift mask, for all the good it was doing, raises his hands placatingly. He doesn’t think he’s imagining the way they tremble. “Charlie’s not here, Di. Listen to me, it’s just the gas. You need to put the gun down before someone gets hurt.” He glances behind him for help, and his vision distorts at the edges, like a funhouse mirror. “Peter, I need you here.”

But Peter’s gaze is glassy and horrified. “El,” he moans. “No, El. Stop it, don’t hurt her. Stop it!”

Neal grabs his arm, staggers a little but holds on when Peter tries to yank away. “Peter, you need to fight it!”

“Charlie!” Diana screams, and pulls the trigger.

The gunshot is deafening in the empty warehouse and it sends Neal reeling away from Peter. His heel hits something and he falls (the gas— he doesn’t fall, not like that, it’s the gas in his lungs).

His vision is wavering as he tries to stand, to walk. He forces himself to focus on the concrete beneath his feet, the chilling dampness of sweat across his neck and shoulders, the weight of the gun in his hand, the

the gun

the

No— Diana. Diana has the gun. He’s not— the gas is affecting him. Messing with his head. Dredging up the terrors that he’s buried so deep under smiles and charm.

Another gunshot and he flinches violently. 

(what’s the matter, Freddy? Don’t you want to play?)

Peter screams, an awful, gut-wrenching sound and Diana turns blindly in his direction, raising the gun again…

And then her hands are empty and she’s flinching back, clawing at her own arms as the disassembled pieces of the gun clatter to the concrete at his feet. 

He blinks.

He doesn’t remember—

Peter is still screaming, hands buried in his hair, Diana’s arms are bleeding as she tears at her own skin, Jones is pressed back into a corner, rocking himself and moaning, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees—

—he sees—

(the coin hangs in the air and he’s not sure which side he wants to come up but, no, he does, they always save the civilian first)

His phone. His phone is ringing. He fumbles it out of his pocket and wastes a good thirty seconds staring uncomprehending at the screen before it occurs to him to press the button.

“Caffrey!” Hughes voice rings out, tinny and tinged with static. “Finally! No one’s answering their— is someone screaming?”

Everyone’s screaming. All of them. All of the people he failed. And above that, that awful scratchy laughter. “Stop it,” he whispers.

“Caffrey?” Neal would never have guessed that Hughes’ habitual bark could sound so concerned. “Neal, are you hurt? What’s going on? Where’s Peter?”

Peter. Peter needs help. Jones and Diana. He forces himself to focus.

“Trap,” he grits out from between his teeth. He’s afraid that if he unclenches his jaw, he’ll start screaming and he won’t be able to stop. “Hughes, it wassa… trap. Gas. Need— hazmat.”

“Alright, Caffrey, I need you to stay calm. Hazmat will be there soon. I need you to tell me if Peter and the others are okay. Can you do that?”

“I— ”

“Focus, Caffrey.”

He closes his eyes, presses the heels of his palms into his eye sockets to try and block out the nightmares. It doesn’t help.

“Fear toxin,” he manages. “Lysergic acid based. Dispersal method: aerosol. T-time of exposure… unknown. Chances of survival—”

“Fifty-fifty,” rasps a voice at his ear, “Just how I like it.”

He can’t help it; his eyes shoot open.

“No,” he whispers, backing away from that grotesque, lopsided sneer. “No, you’re dead. You’re dead.”

Someone’s calling a name that he thinks he should recognize, but he can’t focus.

Two-Face stalks toward him, a baseball bat dragging on the concrete behind him. Flecks of blood stand stark against the varnished wood.

“But we never finished our game,” he grates, one half of his face twisting up in demented glee. “You remember the rules, don’t you, Robin?”

The scarred face of the coin grins at him.

“First, we need the stakes, don’t we? What do you think, kid— second time’s the charm?”

The gallows. Two nooses, twelve steps to the top. He remembers.

The hooded figures are somehow vague, almost indistinct, but doesn’t need to see them to know.

“Good old Double Jeopardy,” Two-Face crows. “Time to make a choice, brat. Who dies first? Heads I win, tails you lose.”

The gun is in his hand.

He doesn’t think just raises it and 

fires

Dent smiles with both halves of his face as a thin line of red trickles from the single hole above his ruined left eye. 

“Now, what would the Bat say?” he asks mockingly. “His little birdie, all grown up and a killer. I guess out of the two of us, I made the stronger,” he hefts the bat meaningfully, “impression.”

“You’re DEAD!” Neal screams. “You’re dead, I KILLED YOU!”

Two-Face howls with glee. “I don’t know about you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, but that sounds like a confession to me— guess there’s no need for a trial after all!”

“No!” Neal realizes what’s going to happen a second before it does, but even as he lunges forward, Two-Face presses a button and the trapdoor 

d

r

o

p

s 

(the sound of bone and flesh, snapping, breaking, bone and)

(falling, still falling   f a l l i n g)

(spray of hot blood on his face, against his )

(lips, taste of salt and iron)

(falling and he can’t)

(stop them stop them)

(s t o p them make it stop)

(STOP)

He sees them all there, limp, broken dolls, bent in all the wrong directions; his mother and father, still in the last costumes they’d ever worn; Mozzie, his glasses cracked and speckled with red; June, her elegant neck twisted all the way around, dark eyes staring emptily; Jones and Diana, both nearly unrecognizable; Peter, almost untouched but for the blood thick in his hair and El’s still, twisted form draped carelessly across his caved-in chest; a dark-haired boy whose features are blood-streaked and unfamiliar in red and green.

And, a little way apart, a mountain of unmoving black fabric.

No no no no no no

He scrambles over, stumbling on the hem of his cape, bare knees scraping bloody on the concrete.

(cape? something not right, he can’t—)

“No,” he says, hauling at an armored arm. “No, no, no please, please I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

He finds the leverage and the mountain shifts, crumbles. He turns him onto his back, so that the emblem stares blindly upward.

It’s the old suit, black on gray, the cowl that comes down to a point at the tip of his nose and he eases it off, hoping, praying that maybe there’s been a mistake, a trick, maybe it’s not—

His face is just as he remembers it, the same lines, the same too-blue eyes, the same scar on his chin that he tells everyone he got playing quoits (and smiles and nobody ever questions that faultless white smile, the most perfect disguise he’ll ever wear). There’s a single perfect hole in his forehead and the red runs down, pooling in his left eye, tracing his strong cheekbones, curving his mouth into a one-sided grimace.

He wants to touch him but he can’t, he can’t, he did this and his hands are smeared with red, red like the roses they told him to drop on the coffins, red like the glare of city lights as a murderer begs on his knees.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers, pleads. “I didn’t mean it, please, I didn’t mean it!”

That distorted, red-traced mouth opens, moves, even as the rest of the face remains completely corpse-slack.

“Not Good Enough,” it says in Dent’s voice, that awful sick rasp twisting against something deeper, gravel and concrete.

Its hand rises like a marionette with invisible strings, held up awkwardly, unnaturally, at the joints; it reaches for him and he fumbles backwards, but there are more hands, clawing, tearing at his skin and he struggles but he can’t escape he can’t escape and they drag him down into the ground and dirt rains down in his eyes in his mouth until it’s all he can see all he can smell and he chokes on his own grave and then there’s just—

—darkness.

If someone asked him to make a list of people he would expect to find sitting at his hospital bed, Reese Hughes would not be among them.

Even in a hard, uncomfortable hospital chair, with thin reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, Hughes is a predominating figure as he glares down at a sheaf of what are no doubt very important papers. At some point he’d loosened his tie just enough to open the very top button, but this slight relaxation of formality doesn’t make him look any less formidable. If anything, it reminds Neal of a brawler rolling up his sleeves before he enters the fray.

It takes only a few moments for those sharp lion-eyes to notice that he’s awake.

“Caffrey,” he says, setting the papers to the side and folding away the reading glasses. “How are you feeling?”

Now that they’re gone, Neal almost wishes they’d stayed; it’s an uncomfortable sensation to be the unrestricted focus of that penetrating gaze. He lets his own gaze skitter away, unable to hold for long.

“I’m— okay,” he lies. Hughes is FBI, but he’s not Peter. This is not a place to admit weakness. Never mind the nasal cannula and the IVs pinching at the inside of his arm. “Head hurts a little. What happened?”

Hughes leans forward, not quite leaning on the bed, but enough that his elbows brush the loose folds of the sheet. “You don’t remember?”

He… almost remembers. It’s right there, he knows it, smudges of voices and memory and thick dark fear, but he can’t quite pull back, get perspective to see the whole picture.

“Not really,” he says. “We were… at a warehouse?”

Hughes grunts an affirmation. “You were carrying out a warrant for the Zycker case. There was some sort of trap, a chemical attack. Your team was exposed.”

“Fear toxin,” he recalls. The box, the doors locking behind them, the others falling prey to the gas—

He jerks upright so fast that if it weren’t for Hughes’ quick reflexes, he probably would have spilled straight onto the floor. As it its, he nearly garrotes himself with the nasal cannula. His chest, too, flares with pain, like someone stitched his lungs to the inside of his ribs. The thought sends a shiver up his spine but he ignores it.

“Diana,” he gasps. “Jones. Peter. Where— Did they—”

“Easy,” Hughes barks, struggling to hold him still as he tries to get his uncooperative limbs in some semblance of order. “Calm down, Caffrey, that’s an order! Burke’s fine. So are Jones and Berrigan. They’re alright.”

Slowly, Neal’s struggles weaken. “They’re okay?” he confirms uncertainly. “They’re not…”

“They’re fine,” Hughes repeats. “A couple of stitches for Berrigan, and they want to keep Jones under observation for a couple days since he was closest to the device, but they’ll be okay.”

“And Peter?” It’s hard to quash the anxious paranoia even when he knows that it’s just a lingering remnant of the gas.

Hughes rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. “Nurses already caught him trying to sneak out twice. Only way we could get him to stay in bed was to promise I’d sit up here with you until you woke up. Speaking of which, I should probably let him know you’re awake before Elizabeth has to physically sit on him.”

“Yeah, sure,” Neal says distractedly as other details start to come back to him. The gallows, gunfire—

He doesn’t know what is on his face, but it stops Hughes in his tracks. “Caffrey,” he says carefully. “Neal?”

That pries loose another memory, and a worrying one.

“You were on the phone,” Neal recalls, fixing on that austere, senatorial face. “You called, and I… I remember…”

He’d… reported. Like he was a kid again, and the Boss was demanding a sit-rep.

Fear toxin. Lysergic acid based. Dispersal method: aerosol. Time of exposure: unknown. Chances of survival—

Criminal informants don’t report like that. FBI agents don’t report like that. And the details—that he’d recognized fear toxin, that he knew about its chemical composition—had Hughes noticed?

And moreover, what about after? He didn’t remember hanging up the phone. How much had Hughes heard? Or—had it been like when Peter was kidnapped, had he put the phone on speaker, had everyone heard him screaming—

(You’re DEAD! You’re dead, I KILLED YOU!)

He doesn’t notice his breathing speeding up but suddenly his vision is swimming and Hughes is hauling him up with surprising strength given his age and pressing against his back, saying, “Breathe, Caffrey. With me— In-two-three-four, out-two-three-four-five-six-seven, in-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight, out-two-three-four…”

He keeps counting, hand pressing firmly between Neal’s shoulder blades, until Neal’s breath has smoothed into something less ragged, more controlled.

As he slowly rises back to awareness, he realizes that he’s just had a panic attack all over Reese Hughes. Embarrassment bubbles up like burst champagne and he extricates himself from Hughes’ still-hovering hold as quickly and politely as possible (and doesn’t think about how comforting it felt).

“I’m fine, must be leftover from the gas,” he says, forcing a chuckle. “You should call Peter, I’ll be fine.”

Hughes lets him putter on with his weak excuses until he runs out of steam. Then, in the new silence, he leans forward, his cellphone tucked between his long, thin fingers.

There are callouses there, yes, from years in the field, but they’re outnumbered by wrinkles and the sharp lines of tendons that stretch out under the delicate skin. He’s an old man, Neal realizes, not for the first time.

“Caffrey,” Hughes says quietly, dipping his head so that Neal can’t avoid his eye, “You did good.”

It’s so unexpected, it takes him a moment to process what he’s heard. “Sir?” he questions uncertainly.

Hughes eyes are unusually pale, like a reflection off still water, and uncharacteristically gentle.

“You did good,” he repeats. “You stayed calm, you communicated vital information, you did everything that we try to train agents to do in a situation like this. Because of you, hazmat were able to obtain an antidote and administer it as soon as they arrived on the scene. If it had taken even a few minutes longer, you all could have suffered permanent damage. Because of you, Caffrey, all of my people will walk away from this with their lives and their sanity. So, Neal—” and this time Neal smiles a little to hear his first name in Reese’s gravelly voice, “you did good. And thank you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Neal tells him, and he means it. There’s a warmth under his ribs and it chases away a few clinging tendrils of fear. “But really, you should call Peter before he pulls a Steve McQueen. Trust me, it’s the first few hours that make or break an escape attempt— best to head it off now.”

Hughes’ lips quirk. “Well,” he says dryly, “I guess I’ll have to trust our resident expert.” He pats Neal’s shoulder once, briskly, before he departs.

When the soft, rhythmic rapping of his footstep has faded into the ambient noise of the hospital, Neal allows himself a deep, settling breath. Hughes— he’s good people. All of them are.

He settles back against the pillows, tugging at the over-starched hospital bedding until it doesn’t feel quite so much like four-point restraints (he would know), but he doesn’t bother to sleep.

A nurse comes in, checks his vitals, asks if he has any questions. He doesn’t; the man write something on his chart, smiles at him, tells him to press the call button if he needs anything, and leaves him to ‘rest’. He doesn’t.

He waits.

Sure enough, it’s not even an hour later that he hears muffled voices outside the door of his room.

“You should be resting, mister.”

“I’m fine, hun. The doctor said—”

“The doctor said that you shouldn’t strain yourself!”

“Oh, come on, honey, it’s just down the hallway, and besides, we’re this far already.”

“He’s probably asleep— like you should be.”

“I’m just going to peek in, El.”

“You guys don’t have to hide out in the hallway,” Neal says at a normal volume. The whispers abruptly cut off, and a second later, Peter’s head pokes around the doorframe.

“Neal?” he says, still faintly hushed. “Hey, you’re awake.”

“As I’m sure Hughes already told you,” Neal says, amused. Peter in a flimsy polka-dot hospital gown and dark blue robe, with a bandage stretched crookedly across his chin and an impressively fluffy case of bedhead, is a truly inspiring sight. He wishes he had a sketchbook— but alas. “Nice hair.”

Peter looks confused, hand shooting to his hair, and from the hallway there is a half-stifled giggle.

“Hey, El,” Neal calls a little louder, and Elizabeth appears behind her husband, grinning.

“Oh, Neal, it’s good to see you up. How are you feeling?”

“I’m good,” he says. “How about you?”

His question is mostly directed at Peter, but he can’t help but notice that behind her smile and neat blouse, El looks unusually strained. He wonders how soon they let her in to see Peter, whether the antidote had fully taken hold. If not, what she might have had to see, or hear, as the man she loved most in the world screamed his way through a world of nightmares.

“Good as new,” Peter says, moving further into the room to drop into the chair that Hughes had abandoned earlier. “Everyone’s telling me we got the antidote just in time, and I hear we have you to thank for that.”

Neal shrugs that off. “This wasn’t an accident,” he says darkly. “That crate was set to gas anyone who opened it, and it wasn’t a coincidence that the doors locked behind us. It was a perfect trap.”

“I know.” Peter’s face is grave, and when El puts a hand on his shoulder, he covers it with one of his own. “The question is, was the trap meant for us or for someone else?”

Neal thinks of the smell of blood and gunpowder and a dead half-face laughing in his ear. “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

El’s hand visibly convulses on Peter’s shoulder and Neal immediately feels guilty. He decides to change the subject.

“I really am okay,” he says. You didn’t have to send Hughes up to babysit.”

To his surprise, Peter shakes his head, his lips curving up a bit at the edges. “That was all Reese’s idea. Don’t think he’d ever say it, but he was pretty worried. You gave him a real scare there when he lost you.”

“Lost me?” Neal repeats dumbly.

“On the phone,” Peter clarifies. “Guess you dropped yours. Which reminds me, you’re going to need a new phone.”

“Considering I lost it in the line of duty,” Neal says pointedly, “I really think the FBI should reimburse me for that.”

“We’ll see,” Peter says, which isn’t an answer.

Neal grins at him, quick, before a lingering anxiety rises again. “Um, he— Hughes didn’t happen to mention when the phone cut out, did he?”

Peter and El sharing a meaningful look, and then El says brightly, “I think I’m going to run down and grab myself a coffee. Is there anything you need, Neal?”

“I’m okay, thanks,” Neal says, not sure what to make of such an obvious gambit, and El smiles at him, presses a kiss to the top of Peter’s head, and bustles out of the room.

“What was that about?” Neal asks when he’s sure she’s out of earshot. “We planning your great escape now? Because if you need some papers, I have no problem being the Blythe to your Hilts.”

Peter somehow manages to ignore his staggering wit. “Hughes says you recognized the gas— that’s how they knew what antidote to give us.”

“...Yes,” Neal admits reluctantly, paranoia back full-force. He knew he wasn’t nearly lucky enough to get away without someone noticing.

But Peter doesn’t seem suspicious. “So... You’ve seen something like this before.”

“Sort of like it, yeah,” Neal says cautiously.

“I haven’t.” Peter is staring down at the scratchy hospital bedding as though it’s suddenly fascinating. “Not even close. I ever tell you about Quantico?”

“Don’t think so,” Neal says, both curious and a little concerned about where this line of thought might be leading. In fact, Peter has mentioned Quantico a few times, at least obliquely. Sometimes he’ll reference some case that everyone (except, of course, the non-agent criminal consultant) studied there, or he’ll reach out to an old Quantico buddy for a favor on a case. Neal knows that Peter was still fairly young when he started at the FBI academy, that he’d put his math degree to good use and specialized in financial crimes, that he’d been, if not top of his class, then close. He can’t imagine how any of that relates to being drugged out of your mind with a hallucinogenic fear toxin.

“When I was at Quantico…” Peter fusses with the edge of the sheet, smoothing down some imperceptible crease. “You never know where you’ll end up being assigned. Everyone has their top choice, of course they do, but— Things happen, you end up going in different directions. And you never know where a case might lead. The FBI wants all of its agents to be prepared for anything. So they teach you about field protocol and major cases and financial crimes and drug crimes— just a little bit of everything, right?”

“Right,” Neal says, although he suspects that the FBI’s idea of everything had probably been a little different from his own mentor’s. He highly doubts that Peter studied forensic pathology or pharmaceutical chemistry or palynology or auditory cognition. And that’s not even getting into foreign languages or criminal psychoses.

But for a civilian—so to speak—the FBI academy probably seems pretty comprehensive.

“And no matter what you specialize in,” Peter says, tone growing flatter and flatter with each word, “they teach you about the serial killers. About cartel killings. About meta terrorism. And they show you pictures.” There’s something haunted in Peter’s expression, something that makes Neal ache. Peter shouldn’t have that expression. Not Peter, who works White Collar and cares about every victim, who is so awkward but earnest with small children and helpless with crying women. Not Peter, who is so good.

“I know you don’t like violence,” Peter continues, oblivious to his train of thought. “You can’t understand how something like that stays with you. You just can’t. Hell, I’m glad you can’t.”

Oh.

Ironic, that Peter sees the same innocence in him that he sees in Peter. 

“And,” Peter continues haltingly, “you know—they tell you—that some of the monsters who did those things— they were never caught. They’re still out there, free… free to do it again.”

It’s not surprising that Peter looks at Neal Caffrey, epitome of a nonviolent criminal, and sees someone innocent to the worst savageries of the world.

But Peter, too, is very sheltered in some ways; he’s seen guilty men go free because of insufficient evidence or shoddy police work or bribes— but he’s never seen a known killer go free (again and again and again) because the system simply couldn’t hold them.

Is it worse, Neal wonders, not knowing the face of the shadow that stalks you, not knowing if it’s the neighbor who borrows your tools or the young man who smiles at you in the supermarket…

…or is it worse knowing it too well, seeing it mocking you as some under-paid news anchor reports that he’s escaped custody yet again? 

He’s only ever really known the latter; even when it had been his parents, before he’d gotten the name, he’d had a face to blame.

“That’s what I saw.” Peter says in an undertone, dragging him back from his dark thoughts. “All those pictures, the blood and the— but it was El.”

Again, oh.

He remembers hearing Peter scream for El, but it hadn’t really clicked until just now.

Peter is a man who loves with all his heart, fiercely, fervently; how could his greatest fear ever be anything but that same love twisted in on itself, perverted?

“I couldn’t protect her. All those horrible things— she was screaming and begging me— It was so real, Neal. How could it feel so real?”

“It was the gas, Peter,” Neal says gently. “That’s what it does. It makes you see things. Bad things. Everything that you’re afraid of. And you can’t tell what’s real and what’s not. That’s why it’s so dangerous.”

Peter finally breaks from his intense investigation of the bedsheets. There’s something very vulnerable about his expression, where normally he hides vulnerability away behind a stiff upper lip and a ‘Cowboy up, Caffrey’.

“What did you see, Neal? What are you afraid of?”

“Nothing.” Peter’s face closes off and he goes to pull back, but Neal catches his arm. “No, Peter, I mean it. I saw nothing. I was… alone. Everyone I cared about, they were all gone, and it was my fault.” He shrugs, tried to make it careless and knows that he fails. “Guess that’s my worst fear. Losing... people. Everyone.”

He’s still holding Peter’s arm, so he lets go, leans back against the pillows and pretends that he doesn’t see the sympathy in Peter’s eyes.

“Well,” Peter says, a little awkwardly, but with a crooked half-smile that eases its way, “I don’t think you’ll feel like you’re alone anytime soon, if the rest of the team has anything to do with it. Last I heard, they were starting up a schedule for whose turn it is to visit you. Carol’s even saying she’s going to be bringing you some of her famous brownies.” He waggles his eyebrows conspiratorially and Neal laughs.

“Well, if there are brownies...” and Peter laughs with him. 

Soon enough, El returns and finds them heckling each other like it’s just another weekend at the Burke’s. She chivvies Peter off to rest, in your own bed! with poorly-hidden indulgence in her eyes.

Alone again, Neal nestles into the inadequate bedding and tries not to think about how, once, he’d been able to tell Peter with full honesty that he’d never lied to him.

Not anymore.

When the nurse catches him tossing and turning, she smiles sympathetically and blames the gas. Eventually—finally—he sleeps.

He dreams of blood and gunpowder and a two-faced coin, falling endlessly into the dark.

Chapter Text

For an adult male of Neal’s age and metabolism, it will take approximately a week and a half for the last traces of toxin to clear his system.

He can’t tell if it’s those lingering traces or his own paranoia that has him dreading so fiercely his return to the office.

Luckily, it goes well; a few agents pat him on the back, a few more ask him how he’s feeling or tell him he did a good job, and Carol does indeed bring him some of her famed brownies. Even Diana, her forearms still swathed in bandages, doesn’t refuse when Neal magnanimously offers to share.

He is surprised when they’re all cleared to return to the office and the first thing Peter hands him is a file that very definitely is not the Zycker case. He can guess immediately what’s happening—too close to the case, traumatic ordeal, possibly still targets—but he can’t comprehend that Peter—Peter, a man more stubborn than the Col de Turini!—would ever just accept it.

When he asks, Peter looks sour.

“Bancroft’s orders,” he says, not quite resentfully. “When he heard about the gas, he brought in an outside team. Experts. From Gotham.”

And then, while Neal’s trying not to grimace (he really doesn’t need this right now, of all times), Peter gripes, “Experts in what, I don’t know. Seems like they can’t keep those psychos locked up more than a few weeks. Some experts.”

Neal drops the subject, suddenly very grateful for a bit of distance from a case that, it seems, can only bring him more headaches.

Otherwise, it’s more or less back to business as usual.

(Neal wakes from screaming night terrors two nights  out of three, and from their haggard looks, neither Jones nor Diana nor Peter is much better. That bit, they don’t talk about.)

They take new cases, close some old ones and, on the side, spend fruitless evenings talking in circles about different ways to track down Vincent Adler, or at the very least whatever it is that he’s seeking so desperately that he would kill for it.

Adler… He’d told Peter that Adler is the man who made him who he is today, and while an outside observer might call it a bit of an exaggeration, Neal still doesn’t think it was a lie.

There have been many men (and women) who’ve helped to make many hims, but the one that Peter understands best (Neal Caffrey, criminal) was not born until the day he’d met Vincent Adler.

The Adler job had not been his first crime—by any metric—but it was the first time he had really  felt like a criminal. Before, there had always been some justification; he’d been careful to only hit (other) criminals, drug dealers and thieves whose stashes of cash would mysteriously disappear right before the local police received an anonymous tip. Like a modern day Robin Hood.

(Who, incidentally, in the original tales was often shown protecting the poor and abused, but rarely actually sharing his spoils. The monetarily generous Robin Hood of popular imagination, as Mozzie often likes to point out, was a much later invention.)

Likewise, forgery had seemed fairly harmless in the long run; fake ID’s were a necessity for survival anyway, and fudging the birthdate for a couple of 18-years-olds who wanted to hit a bar hadn’t felt like it was really so bad either— after all, who was he to talk about age? And the bonds— well, he knew better than most 18- (or according to his then-shiny-new ID, 22-) year-olds exactly how major corporations like that worked, and the kind of budgets that they ran on. A few phony bonds would hardly even register on their profit margins, and with the quality of his forgeries, no one would ever blame the poor teller unlucky enough to cash them for him. No harm, no foul. So to speak.

In fact, if you really thought about it, he’d actually helped them, to some degree. He’d exposed security weaknesses that a more unscrupulous criminal might have exploited on a far greater scale. He’d made, what, six copies of the Atlantic Partners bonds? What was thirty, or even forty thousand dollars to a man like Stuart Gless? Especially when Neal knew for a fact that Gless had employed a security consultant whose annual salary was at least three times that amount and yet who had failed to turn up even half the vulnerabilities that Neal had exposed?

(He’s never tried that argument on Peter— he doesn’t need to see the look that that one will get him.)

But with Adler… For the first time, he’d walked into an (as far as he’d known at the time) innocent man’s life with the intention of deceiving and defrauding him. It doesn’t matter what he’d found out later, what Adler had done while he knew him or after. It doesn’t even matter that Kate’s blood is on Adler’s hands, because in the end it isn’t about Adler’s crimes or Adler’s decisions or Adler’s lies. It’s about his, Neal’s, and the path they set him on. A path that… swerved.

Falling into crime had been so easy— Intentionally or not, the man who had trained him to catch brilliant criminals had given him all the skills he needed to be a brilliant criminal. For all that the Bat always had tomorrow’s tech yesterday, at heart he’d always been rather old-fashioned. Chemical analyses were all well and good, but if you couldn’t identify a forged ID at a glance in the field, then you were already behind the curve. Making your own had just been the next logical step. Neal had cut his safe-cracking teeth on the likes of the Riddler and the Penguin, where non-industry-standard was the rule and booby-traps a given; after that, what chance did the rich shmucks of the world stand?

He’s still not sure how much of it he regrets; he regrets lying to Kate, obviously, and he regrets the way she’d died, but the rest of it… he’s still proud of most of his heists, of the skill and the ingenuity, and while prison wasn’t exactly enjoyable, if that was the price to end up here, with Jones and Peter and Diana and Hughes and the rest of the team and the box of brownies on his desk and all it represents, then it was a price worth paying.

He thinks—he knows—that when they do find Adler, it won’t be another Fowler situation. At some point that he hadn’t noticed, the grief he feels for Kate has moved from something skinned and raw to something scabbed over— still painful, still liable to crack and bleed if he worries at it too much, but healing.

When he was very young, before his parents let him so much as touch the trapeze, they sat him down and taught him the three rules that would, they hoped, keep him alive.

It hadn’t saved them, in the end, but every time he finds himself on the edge of a drop, he always comes back to those three rules.

The thing is, it’s not just Gotham; not just Metropolis, or Central, or Star City or any of the other cities that have been claimed by a member of the Justice League. 

It’s Denver. It’s Osaka. It’s middle-of-nowhere Nevada. It’s wherever bad people think they can get away with bad things.

Today, it’s Manhattan.

Not investigating the gas attack doesn’t mean they’re not still involved; they’re still witnesses—victims, by the FBI’s reckoning—and that means there are interviews and follow-ups and double-checking details and questions that are supposed to sound like double-checking details that are really checking if they’re lying. Well, if he’s lying. He’s noticed that the others have gotten considerably fewer of those.

Really, not handling the investigation themselves doesn’t provide the distance Neal was hoping for, it just means they have to watch impotently as the experts from Gotham bungle it.

He’s never really stopped to think about what would qualify an FBI expert on somewhere like Gotham, for all that he’d encountered a fair few in the old days. The ones here— if he’s being generous, then he’ll assume that they’re not representative of their specialized training.

Compared to the team that he’s used to working with, they’re painfully close-minded; their expertise limits their thinking. They know that they were called in because of their knowledge of Gotham and its incomparably psychopathic criminal coterie, and so they assume that that knowledge is what is required. They’re blinkered by their assumptions that since it was fear gas, that must mean Scarecrow is the mastermind. As if, after almost a decade on the streets, those compounds aren’t available on the black market for the right price.

He doesn’t think Scarecrow has anything to do with it— it’s a feeling that he can’t quite explain, but he’s certain of it. It’s painful to watch them blunder in and not be able to point out their mistakes.

The preliminary interviews, they’d done while everyone was still in the hospital. Some agent that Neal knows by face but not by name, who’d been reassuringly thorough and courteously understanding when the traces of gas in his system had him jumping at shadows and memories.

When the Gotham team came in, they’d been handed those interviews, the crime scene analyses, the case notes from when they’d believed that it was an open-and-shut forgery case. The experts had been handed all that, and what had they done? They’d taken all that information, all those potential leads, and picked out the parts that supported their theory and discarded the rest. A perfectly infuriating exercise in confirmation bias.

When they’d first asked him to come in for follow up interviews, the paranoia had crested again, whispering, that someone had recognized him. Had connected a boy with black hair and a mask to a man with too much knowledge about a Gotham-derived substance like fear toxin.

He walks in with his nervousness carefully concealed under his usual charm, and walks out with his frustration right at the surface.

He can’t decide if his emotions are influencing his opinions or if he’s notorious enough that they’d dumped him on the greenhorn as some kind of hazing, but he’s almost offended by how sloppy the investigation is. The agent assigned to him fluctuates between doubting every detail he provides and ignoring everything that doesn’t contribute to their working theory.

It’s after one such interview that Peter catches him throwing his rubber-band ball against the file room wall with, perhaps, slightly more force than is strictly warranted, and drags him out for lunch at some pub with acceptable fish and chips and a gratifyingly decent microbrew selection.

It’s maybe not the restaurant he would have chosen for himself, but it’s a reasonable compromise between their respective tastes.

Peter seems similarly on edge, frustrated with the lack of progress and the experts’ blinkered view, but he doesn’t seem keen to talk about it, picking at his shepherd’s pie and scowling at whatever sport is playing on the TV behind the bar. 

Neal doesn’t press him; it hasn’t escaped his notice that Peter still doesn’t much like even talking about the gas. That conversation at the hospital— it lanced the wound, but whether it heals or festers from there, Peter clearly believes that unearthing it again will only aggravate it.

On the walk back to the office, they don’t talk much, enjoying the uncharacteristically warm early November afternoon. It’s pleasant, in a quiet kind of way. Which is probably why he’s so unprepared for what happens next.

It starts with a low buzz, like the prickling hum of the third rail.

He doesn’t even notice it at first, still distracted thinking about this latest interview, wondering if he could, perhaps, give the Gotham team a friendly little… nudge in the right direction, or if that’s just tempting fate. Not that he hasn’t done riskier things on less consideration, but he’s trying to curb those impulses.

They’re stopped at the corner, waiting on the light, when Neal notices the growing, prickling sense of wrongness.

The light changes, but Neal puts a hand on Peter’s arm to stop him before he can cross. “Do you hear something?” he asks.

Peter might’ve opened his mouth to say something, but it’s at that moment that the world explodes.

In that first moment, when you leap out into the air, you have less than a second before gravity realizes what you’re doing.

In that second, you’re weightless. In that second, you can fly.

And then gravity catches up.

He blinks, and dust and grit clings to his eyelashes. The sun— Where there should be sun there’s a haze of smoke and dust, gray-tinged and smothering. Somewhere in the distance, people are screaming.

He’s lying on his back. He can feel little pieces of gravel and concrete and who knows what else digging into the back of his once-spotless jacket.

And to think, he thinks giddily, he’d been so pleased earlier that it was still warm enough to go without an overcoat.

And then he coughs and the pain hits him full-force.

He groans.

He brings his hand up, wincing as he brushes over scrapes and bruises and digs into tender spots. Definitely going to feel that tomorrow. No broken ribs, though, from the feel of it.

Something strong latches onto his wrist and he almost punches Peter in the face before he recognizes him.

His eyes are wide and dust coats his hair. It makes Neal want to laugh, seeing him gray before his time. He does laugh, a little, then regrets it.

“Neal!”

Oh, right— Peter’s calling his name, patting him down clumsily for injuries.  One big hand slips behind to cradle his head while he checks for a neck injury.

Neal bats his hands away. “I’m fine, it’s just bruises. Help me up?”

Peter looks dubious and opens his mouth to object, but Neal doesn’t really need his help that much after all. He’s fought through worse injuries.

He makes it to his feet with only a slight waver, and though Peter still looks worried, he contents himself with hovering close enough to catch Neal if he should fall.

“You alright?” Neal asks, giving him a once over of his own. From a vertical perspective, he can see that Peter looks equally worse for the wear, the suit that had probably survived 15 years in service to the FBI now tattered and liberally coated with thick gray dust.

“Fine,” Peter says shortly, but he’s clutching high at his ribs in a way that makes Neal think he might actually have been the one to come out of this better off. “The blast—”

Right.

Through the thick cloud of ash and grime, Neal can barely make out the shape of the cars on the street. A few yards ahead of them, a young woman and a little girl are huddled against a fire-hydrant, glassy-eyed and dust-streaked but not, as far as Neal can tell, seriously injured.

A few more stragglers stumble away down a side-street, seemingly with little more direction than away from the screaming. Neal doesn’t blame them, even if he doesn’t share their instincts.

At first, he can’t figure where the blast could have come from; there’s dust everywhere and scattered debris, but no wreckage— no sense of where the ragged chunks of metal and concrete might have come from.

It isn’t until a shadow passes over their heads that he thinks to look up.

Thirty feet above their heads, a hole gapes in the side of the building directly across from them like some kind of urban dragon’s maw with ashy breath and jagged brick teeth. The smoke is so concentrated around the blast-site that (especially from their angle and distance), it’s nearly impossible to make out details. But—and his stomach lurches—it’s clear enough that the building itself is residential. Apartments. Some of the screaming, it’s coming from up there. There’s probably people trapped inside.

He’s about to say as much to Peter when something flies over their heads again— towards the hole. Something large.

Human-sized.

That just leaped the height of a small building.

“Did you see tha—” he starts to ask, turning towards Peter, but he never gets to finish.

All in an instant, the tenor of screams changes. A different kind of scream; metal, rubber on asphalt.

The truck comes out of the smoke sideways; the driver must have lost control when he hit the dust, because the semi is skidding inexorably, shooting off shards of metal and rubber as sides of the trailer shred against the asphalt. The cabin is somehow still upright, and Neal gets the briefest glance of the driver’s horrified face through the ash-smeared glass.

In that moment, everything is as clear as if he’s looking down from the top of a drop: he sees the truck, sliding; he sees the wall of the apartment building, already weakened; he sees the two figures directly underneath, the woman and her little girl with the dust-tipped pigtails.

(His family had three rules for staying alive on the trapeze.)

If he does nothing, they will die.

(Rule #1. Pick a point; pick the point in space you’re headed for and never look away for even a second)

When you’re in the air, you have to be able to judge speeds, distances in less than a second; he knows he can make it to them. Knows that they won’t make it far. But. It could be enough. 

He picks his point. 

He leaps.

He hears Peter scream after him as he runs, but the words twist in the air, unable to reach him. They hang there, still unheard, as he pushes his muscles for that last speck of speed, that last nanometer of distance. 

In the time since he started moving, the mother has just started to react. She’s managed to push most of the way to her feet, dragging her daughter up by her upper arms with that legendary maternal adrenaline.

They can’t possibly make it, though; the truck is bearing down on them, seconds away from turning them into two more broken dolls and a casualty count on the 7:00 news. The girl’s lips stretch open in a scream that no one will ever hear.

He hits them full speed, tackling the girl into her mother and using momentum more than body strength to throw them back those few precious feet. They hit the corner of the doorway hard enough that Neal’s teeth rattle in his skull and he spares a second to worry about the fragile bird-bones crushed between two sturdier adult bodies, but then the truck hits the side of the building and all thought is shaken right out of his head.

It’s like someone managed to focus an earthquake; the whole building shudders worse than it ever had for the initial explosion as the skidding cab of the truck hits the breezeway first and goes straight through with a spray of stone and plaster. Neal can actually feel the wind as it passes within inches of the three of them where they’re pressed into the doorjamb.

And then it’s past, but the danger isn’t anywhere near over. 

Even as the roof of the overhang collapses, one edge clipping his shoulder painfully as it crumples, the truck hits the side of the building and keeps going, brick chips flying everywhere in a blinding, stinging spray. The entire edifice shakes down to its foundations as the body of the truck finally breaks out the other side, taking out most of the bottom corner of the building as it does.

If he had any less on his mind, he might have been more gratified to see that punching through two solid brick walls has finally brought the truck to a painful, grinding stop.

As it is, he’s more concerned with the way the building is still shivering with strain. A chunk of stone crashes to the ground only a few feet away from their shallow refuge, sending tiny shrapnel flying, and Neal flinches reflexively.

(His family had two more rules, in case the first one doesn’t work. In case you feel yourself giving into the fear. Sliding—)

One of the civilians—he can’t tell which one—screams directly in his ear as the building shakes and a hail of bits of stone and brick pelts the ground ever closer to them.

(—losing your grip and starting to fall.)

Alright, so this might not have been the best thought-out rescue attempt he’s ever been a part of.

(Rule #2. Build yourself a net; build a safety net out of plain, simple facts to stop the panic, to steady you.)

Facts:

1. His name— The name on his driver’s license is Neal Caffrey. 

2. He is a consultant for the FBI.

3. The truck is no longer directly a threat but it has further destabilized the building; the explosion weakened it, like taking away one side of a child’s tower of blocks, and now the truck has struck at the foundations and set the blocks teetering. They will fall, and the three of them are directly underneath, no time to escape.

4. The doorway is solid stone and mortar, and will provide some protection. And the civilians are small enough to fit behind his body where he’s braced up against the doorway. So, really, the debris won’t be hitting them, it will be hitting him. Even if a decent portion of the outer wall should come down around them, so long as the doorway stands, their chances of survival are pretty good.

His own, not so much.

(But if rule #2 isn’t working, if you still can’t shake the fear—)

It’s almost funny, in that dark-humor kind of way, just how much time he’s spent denying his instincts—locking himself into his apartment at night so he didn’t go hunting muggers; running anytime a gun got within fifty feet of his hand, no matter which way it was pointed; effectively blinding and deafening himself to the screams and the pain—all of it, years’ worth of selfish self-denial, and now he’s as good as thrown it all away twice in as many weeks. 

First the gas, and now this.

Maybe that’s what this is— maybe the gas is still in his system, maybe that’s why his chest feels half its usual size, why he’s over-aware of every breath that huffs between his lips.

(—and your grip, it isn’t holding—)

There’s a reason B made him train every spare moment, so that going in ill-prepared didn’t just add another body to the count. 

Well, blew that one.

(—his family had a third rule for staying alive.)

He feels the rumble stutter as more supports give way, and looks up to see spiderwebbing cracks creeping across the lintel as the weight of accumulating rubble bears down on it. For a second, he thinks it might hold yet, but then there’s a sound like a gunshot and one, then two, then more of the cracks are gaping wider and wider, black wounds weeping flakes and dust. 

He knows it won’t work, won’t get them out of range of the rubble, but he has to try; he throws them forward, out of the collapsing doorway right as the stone gives way under the strain and collapses in on itself. Debris fills the recess that they’d so recently occupied. The building shivers once more and then the strain becomes too much and the whole front wall peels away from the structure and topples forward. Right on top of them.

(Rule #3. Pray you land somewhere soft)

He closes his eyes, tucks his head in against the girl’s, and prays.

The wall hits the ground with the force of half a building’s worth of rubble behind it; in terms of pure destructive force, it might well have been even stronger than the initial blast. It hits the ground in sections, a staggered sensory bombardment from all directions.

It doesn’t even hurt.

The first thing he thinks is that maybe they were right about his mom and dad— maybe, if it’s sudden enough, you really don’t feel it. 

Then common sense catches up and he opens his eyes.

The chunk of rubble that would have killed them is hanging in the air, six feet above their heads. Close enough that Neal can count every brick.

But right at this moment, he doesn’t even care. He’s too focused on the figure standing over them— the figure that was not there a second ago. The blue-and-red figure, who is currently holding a 2,000 lb chunk of masonry over his head like it’s nothing.

He must make some kind of noise, because those eyes—so familiar, that shade, so bright blue that if you didn’t know better you might call it unearthly—flick down to his.

“It’s okay,” says the Superboy, looking him full in the—unmasked—face. “You’re safe now.”

.

.

.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Probably the most useful lesson that Neal Caffrey ever learned in his criminal career came from the unlikeliest of sources: not from Batman, who trained him to think like a criminal to catch them; not from Mozzie, who showed him how to act like a criminal to be a better one; not from Catwoman or the Riddler or the Penguin or Freeze or Ivy or even Vincent Adler.

No, the most important lesson he ever learned came from a mild-mannered, glasses-wearing reporter at the Daily Planet.

Superman had always taken the ribbings about his alter ego with good grace— and really, why shouldn’t he have? Superman had the most famous face on the planet, and his great disguise was a pair of glasses and a little bit of clumsiness. And yet—and yet!—no one ever gives him a second thought; he’s just Clark Kent from Smallville, Kansas, journalist, genuinely pleasant but ultimately forgettable. Even with all of B’s precautions and his secrecy, there are more people who know the face beneath the heavy cowl than there are people who know the face beneath that single windswept curl.

It had always driven B crazy, not that he’d ever admit it.

But for Robin, whose own identity was shielded by little more than a scrap of fabric and who’d always had a certain amount of hero-worship for Superman, it was fascinating— even Lois had spent years chasing Superman and being chased by Clark Kent and never realized they were one and the same.

“It’s not just about the face,” Clark had said, smiling indulgently as Robin spun in circles on the chair that was technically supposed to be occupied by whoever was on monitor duty. “Pa always says, people see what they’re looking for. If they’re not looking for Superman walking down the street like everyone else, they won’t see him. The glasses are more for me than them, really. They help me remember.”

“To act human?” Robin had asked—naively, he thinks now. Like Clark hasn’t always been more human than most card-carrying members of Homo Sapiens.

But Clark had just laughed. “To act like me,” he said. “Like Clark Kent, Ma and Pa Kent’s boy. Someone who doesn’t need superpowers to help people. Sometimes a disguise isn’t a mask or a wig. It’s just a different part of the real you. But I guess I don’t need to tell you that.”

“What do you mean?”

Clark’s gaze had been knowing, and so gentle. “Robin is a part of you, isn’t he? And your parents— Don’t you bring them with you, every time you put on your uniform?”

He’d been right, of course; Robin had been a part of him. The part that could act on the vicious anger that still burned under his skin on bad days. On good days, Robin was the part that could help others, could find solace knowing that others would not suffer what he had.

Robin was the part that could honor his parents without being called gypsy, circus trash, orphan boy.

He was the part that could wear their colors, use the skills they taught him, take the lullaby that his father used to sing to him every night and use it to comfort the victims, to give them (and himself) courage even in the darkest times.

That—the song, the cape, the mask, quips and colors—was who Robin was. That was what people looked for.

Maybe that was why no one ever saw Neal Caffrey coming.

For a second, he can’t understand what he’s seeing. 

He knows the symbol, and that face, that impossibly square jaw are familiar, but… not. Softer. Younger. And since when did Superman wear a leather jacket? 

He can feel his mind wanting to fill in all the details that he once knew so well, but the pieces won’t quite fit. He’s looking, but he’s not seeing.

And yet there is undeniably a young man holding two tons of rubble over his head with only a hint of strain and the distinctive ‘S’ blazing on his chest. His head hurts, and nothing is making sense.

And then suddenly Peter’s there, grabbing at his shoulder, hauling him back, out of range of the debris that Superboy is still holding at bay. Neal is in no shape to think of releasing his death-grip, so the civilians are pulled along with them in a stumbling, six-legged mass of humanity.

“What the hell were you thinking,” Peter is shouting in his ear. “Goddamnit Neal, you could have died, I thought you were dead!”

“Peter, I’m fine, I’m fine,” he protests rather weakly, though, in truth, he’s not sure he’d even be able to tell if he was missing a few extremities. But he’s not the important one right now. 

“Worry about them,” he insists, loosening his hold enough to pull the civilians to the fore.

Appropriately, the little girl chooses that moment to make an awful, rasping wet noise and cough blood directly onto his once-white shirt. 

There is no way that is ever coming out and yet Neal has literally never cared less about the state of his clothing.

“Peter!” he says urgently, and Peter is already there, helping him ease the girl down without jarring anything as her mother clings to the three of them indiscriminately. Neal has to gently but firmly draw her back by the shoulders so that Peter can lean in to check the girl for injuries.

She’s shaking, big rolling shudders up and down her body as she watches Peter carefully check the little girl’s airways. Neal squeezes her shoulders a little, reassuringly, but she twists out of his grip to move back to her daughter’s side. She isn’t in Peter’s way, so he lets her be. In truth, he doesn’t really have the heart to drag her away again.

There’s a thud, loud enough to startle Neal, as Superboy tosses the debris to one side. “She okay?” he calls over, vaulting over a piece of rubble with more force than human strength could rightly account for.

Things have finally clicked together in his head; he can remember seeing Superboy on the news for the first time. And he can remember scoffing at the sidekick-ness of the name. He feels significantly less inclined to laugh now.

There’s a moment where Neal isn’t sure what to do, what will draw the least attention—would this chronologically-two-year-old clone know the face of a moderately-famous boy who disappeared almost ten years ago? Is it more suspicious not to react, to remain unmoving when a regular civilian would turn in gratitude or, at the very least, in curiosity?—and then, when Superboy gets close enough to try and reach for the girl, he decides he just doesn’t care.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says, dodging into his path, getting right up in his face. He’s not stupid enough to try and overpower a Kryptonian by strength alone, but Superboy doesn’t know that.

It’s a dirty trick, relying on Superboy’s unwillingness to hurt even the most obnoxious of civilians.

(There’s a reason that the Justice League needs a Superman and a Batman. Good men can only do so much— sometimes you need someone who understands when to hit below the belt.)

Superboy draws back a bit, hesitating, and that’s all Neal needs.

He raises his hands slowly in front of his chest, keeping his eyes wide and sincere.

First priority— deescalation.

“Look,” he says, pitching his voice low, almost soothing. “I know you want to help, but Peter— he’s FBI, he knows first aid. Let him take a look before you start trying to move her. Okay?”

Superboy glances between the two of them. God, he can’t be older than sixteen, biologically. Sixteen hadn’t seemed nearly so young a decade ago.

“I can help,” he insists.

But Neal remains resolute. “Let Peter work.”

Peter has been ignoring the exchange completely. His examination is careful yet methodical. His hands sweep gently up her sides, and when he presses gently at her ribs, she gives a horrible airless wail.

Peter’s face is white, but his hands are steady and businesslike as he catches her wrist before she can touch.

“Broken ribs,” he says grimly. “I don’t think she’s punctured a lung, but it’s close. What’s her name?”

“Hana,” her mother whispers, tears cutting jagged tracks through the grime on her face.

“Okay. Hana, can you hear me?” he asks, but the girl doesn’t respond, her round little face screwed up with pain as she squirms in Peter’s grip. The elastic on one of her pigtails has broken, and the loose hair is a lopsided, tangled black pool against her cheek. “Hana, my name is Peter, and this is my friend Neal. We’re going to help until the ambulance gets here, ok? But I need you to stay very still for me. Can you do that?”

“It’s the third rib on the left,” Superboy pipes up unexpectedly. “I can see it, it’s rubbing up against the side of the lung. Can you turn her on her side a bit? It should take some pressure off it.”

Peter glances at him and then, ever so subtly, his eyes flick over to Neal’s. Neal gives the slightest of nods and Peter leans down to speak soothingly to the little girl and her mother, presumably explaining what they’re about to do.

Neal turns back to Superboy, who is still hovering (figuratively, not literally. Always important to clarify when you’re dealing with metas).

“You got a line to EMS?” Neal asks. “Can you see how far out the ambulance is?”

Superboy tilts his head like he’s listening. “Two minutes, maybe? They’re up that way,” waving vaguely up the other end of the street, past the rubble and the wreckage of the truck. “Sounds like they’re having some trouble with visibility.” 

Neal frowns. “Do you… Don’t you have a line to dispatch? NYPD? Someone?” Superboy just blinks, and Neal tries very hard not to grab him by the leather jacket and shake him. “Do you at least have a phone? How did you call for an ambulance?”

“Um,” Superboy says.

Neal huffs in disbelief and reaches into his own pocket. He hasn’t replaced his phone yet after the whole gas fiasco, so he’s been stuck with cheap plastic burners until Mozzie turns up with a better phone that meets his high standards for anonymity and encryption. Today, though, it’s nice to know that the device he’s tossing at a literal vigilante superhero’s face contains no identifying details.

“Call dispatch, tell them to let the ambulance know what they’re walking into,” he orders (it’s one thing to take charge when it’s his team and he knows that they’re out of their depth, it’s another to start bossing around a teenage superhero. But it’s just so easy to fall back in— and the rules are pretty much out the window at this point anyways).

Superboy is looking at him strangely, like there’s something that he wants to say but it hasn’t fully formed even in his own mind, when Peter interrupts them.

“Damn it— Neal, I need you here!”

He’d managed to get her halfway up on her side before she’d started thrashing.

Peter has her braced at the hips, trying to keep her from rolling back over on her back— or, worse, onto her front. The mother is struggling to pin her legs, pleading in a jumbled mixture of English and another language—Japanese, from the sound of it— to stay still, please don’t move. 

The girl wails her displeasure and weakly tries to fight, even as it only sparks another coughing fit that leaves her with bloody lips.

Neal abandons Superboy without another thought, dropping to his knees at her head and catching her hands before she can try smacking at Peter. 

“Hey, sweetheart, no,” he croons, gently maneuvering her head into his lap, petting feather-light touches across her arm and shoulder, anywhere that seems safe.

With her head resting against his legs like this, he can feel the way her frame convulses as she coughs and it makes his heart break. She feels as delicate as a doll.

He curls in over her, close enough that their foreheads touch, close enough that he can block out the world, just for a moment.

The words come to his lips as naturally as breathing, even after all this time.

“Once I was happy but now I'm forlorn,” he sings into her hair, low at first, and then more surely.

“Like an old coat that is tattered and torn
Left on this wide world to fret and to mourn,
Betrayed by a maid in her teens”

At first, the little girl struggles harder, twisting in his grip, kicking out at Peter as he grimly holds her as still as he can. Neal keeps singing.

“Now, the girl that I loved she was handsome
I tried all I knew her to please
But I could not please her one quarter so well
As that man on the flying Trapeze”

Although he’s usually a fairly decent singer, today he doesn’t think anyone will blame him if his voice isn’t at its best. And this is a song he knows better than his own heartbeat. The tune is simple enough, upbeat over the melancholy.

If his voice is a little weak, a little scratchy, it doesn’t detract too much from the effect. Slowly, slowly, the girl’s struggles ease. Her breathing is still labored, painful-sounding, but she doesn’t fight the hands that hold her still. Neal gently brushes some hair away from her face and she pushes into the touch as weakly as a newborn kitten. 

“He flies through the air with the greatest of ease
That daring young man on the flying Trapeze
His movements are graceful, all the girls he could please
And my love he has stolen away…”

He sings until the ambulance arrives, until practiced hands ease her from his grip to transfer her to a stretcher. He barely manages to straighten, joints aching from the uncomfortable position, before the mother is clutching at his hands, sobbing out thanks and apologies. An EMT appears, wraps a shock blanket around her shoulders and leads her away. 

Someone tries to do the same for him, but he shrugs them off and staggers his way to where someone has managed to wrestle Peter into the back of a second ambulance. Something he seems supremely disgruntled by. His expression sours further when he sees Neal moving under his own power.

“You’re the one who nearly got crushed to death,” he accuses. “How come you still get to be walking around?”

Neal shrugs. “I’m slippery.”

“Don’t I know it.” Peter’s tone is fond.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flash of color at roof-height, and then again, moving closer. 

A flash of red.

Time to go.

He intentionally twists a bit too far as he turns, and the wince is completely genuine. Peter catches it, as Neal was counting on him to do.

“Hey!” he calls out to the nearest EMT, half-sitting up on the stretcher. “Why hasn’t anyone checked this man for injuries yet?”

“Peter, I’m fine, really,” he says, letting a little of his genuine embarrassment come to the surface. “I don’t want a lot of fuss.”

“You nearly died,” Peter retorts fiercely. “And if I have to go to the hospital again, so do you, buster. You’re my responsibility, remember?”

“I remember,” Neal says softly. This time, he accepts the shock blanket, and hauls himself up into the ambulance. Peter sits up and scoots over to make room on the stretcher, ignoring the EMT’s chastising looks. Neal settles in next to him gratefully.

Peter grunts approvingly and turns to start arguing with the woman about the necessity of the blood pressure cuff.

Her partner looks amused and leaves her to it, hopping back out of the ambulance and drawing the doors most of the way closed.

Not a moment too soon.

“Superboy!” He hears the snap of a line retracting, but the half-open door of the ambulance blocks his line of sight. “You weren’t answering your comms.”

“Oh.” Superboy, on the other hand, he can see all too clearly.  He digs in his ear with one finger, drawing out something small and flesh-colored. “Yeah, shorted it somehow. I couldn’t hear anything after I went in.”

“I caught a little.” And suddenly Neal has never been so grateful for anything in his life as that open ambulance door. “I thought I heard— Was someone singing?” 

Superboy wasn’t the nightmare, this is the nightmare.

He needs to not be here anymore.

Superboy’s head tilts a little, casting his face into profile. His resemblance to Clark really is striking like that. “Oh, yeah. There was this guy… It was actually kind of weird, he reminded me of…”

Hurry up, he urges the medics silently. There are people bleeding back here!

Something yellow flutters into view at the edge of the ambulance door. “Where is he now?”

 “Uh, he was just right over—”

As Superboy starts to turn, the last EMT hauls himself up into the back of the ambulance, slamming the door shut behind him. “All good back here, Em!” he calls, rapping twice on the partition to signal the driver.

“Gotcha,” Em calls back, and the engine roars to life. 

The ambulance pulls out slowly, swerving at least once to avoid a piece of rubble in the street. For all Neal knows, it could be the very piece of rubble that had so nearly turned him into a human pancake.

As they pull away, for just a moment through the tiny back window, Neal can see Superboy, and the slight, red-black-and-yellow figure next to him.

He’s only half-turned, the light glaring off the lenses of his mask. It’s impossible to say for certain that he can see Neal as clearly as Neal can see him.

But somewhere inside, Neal knows.

And then the ambulance swerves again and he’s gone. Just like that.

“Hey,” Peter says next to him. “Still alright?”

He feels strangely disconnected from his own face as he smiles. “Of course.”

“Seems like this hero thing is starting to become a habit,” Peter says, sarcasm to cover the concern. “And here I thought you got into enough trouble on the wrong side of the law.”

“I promise you,” Neal says, not lifting his gaze from the dingy little ambulance window, “this kind of trouble, I don’t go looking for.” 

His fingers flex against his thighs.

“This one just found me.”

Ten years. Ten years away, ten years building something different and this is how it all starts to crumble.

Not for the first time, his thoughts spin down darker, more paranoid paths.

Was it fate or fortune or something more calculated, that Neal Caffrey should be walking down the street right as it explodes, with Superboy and Robin conveniently on hand to swoop in and save the day?

And now— now Robin knows, he could see it in his eyes, he knows. And if Robin knows, then soon enough, Batman will know.

He’ll know. 

In a strange way, it’s almost lucky that the search for Adler goes to hell shortly after that. He ends up not have much time at all to dwell on all the ways that his life is going to start falling apart, because it’s too busy blowing up— Adler’s back and Alex is missing and he and Sara are suddenly something and there are booby-trapped WWII U-boats and stolen Nazi treasures and he doesn’t really have time to breathe let alone brood (it’s lucky that Alex really did have the code to disarm the booby-traps— even for a man of Neal Caffrey’s varied skills, it would have been hard to explain why early 20th century EOD was among them).

And then Adler is gone and it’s Peter in his face, furious, accusing him of a crime that (for once) he didn’t commit.

When he finds himself standing in front of a stolen Nazi treasure big enough for him to disappear so thoroughly even Batman won’t be able to find him…

…well, it’s no more an excuse than Peter’s strange, sudden suspicion. 

But. 

Neal Caffrey is one of the greatest art thieves in the world. 

He’s a liar, a cheater, a conman, a criminal. 

And now, no matter how he got here, he is standing in the middle of the greatest treasure trove ever assembled in one place outside of the Louvre.

All that art, and it’s his. For whatever purpose he decides to put it to.

(Sometimes the best disguises are just a different part of the real you.)

Slowly, he smiles.

Chapter Text

This building is not one that Neal Caffrey would have chosen for a base.

Oh, the bones are good enough—elegant lines, high windows, multiple staircases for quick egress—but it’s descended into somewhere between industrial chic and up-scale drug squat. Plus, plenty of hipster college students living on Mommy and Daddy’s money who might remember your name or face if they ever manage to surface from their kegs and bongs.

Peter briefs them as they climb.

“This guy’s a skilled forger, safe cracker, lots of panache, and everything we got on him says he’s just a kid. I think we might be looking at the next Neal Caffrey.”

Neal scowls. “He’s a hacker. I don’t hack.”

They round the last flight of stairs.

“You’re right,” Peter agrees amiably. “A Neal Caffrey for the new millennia, then.”

Neal scowls harder. “When I was his age, I didn’t get caught.”

In his opinion, Diana is (not that he’d dare say it to her face) far too eager to break down doors. But before he can think on it more, he’s swept aside by the wave of FBI agents pouring into the room, guns drawn.

“FBI!” Peter shouts, “Hands in the— Oh-ho. Cute.”

Neal ducks inside to see what’s caught his attention and finds a whole team of grown FBI agents standing around a Roomba with an upturned vase on top like a bunch of grinning idiots.

“Why are you smiling,” he asks Peter.

Peter chuckles. “He’s clever.” Indicating the Roomba, “It casts a shadow on the door and doesn’t move in a fixed pattern. He realized we were sitting on him and bolted.”

“Looks like that,” Neal says, wondering why no one seems upset that their suspect is gone. If this was how the FBI had acted when they were chasing him, it was no wonder he’d gotten away with it for as long as he had.

And Peter is treating the whole thing like he’s a preschooler with a shiny new toy.

Not that Neal’s jealous, no matter what Peter seems to think.

It’s just that things have been… strained between them, since the whole treasure thing. They’ve reached a sort of equilibrium, but it’s not—

It’s not what they had before, and that hurts.

And now Peter’s picked up on some upstart new punk like the two of them are birds of a fucking feather.

“I love tracking the smart ones,” Peter says happily. “Now that you’re on my side, I miss the challenge.”

Am I on your side, Peter? You tell me. No, really. Tell me.

And then Diana calls grimly from deeper within the apartment, “Boss, you need to see this.”

All across the length of one wall, someone has created a masterpiece that would make a conspiracy theorist cry. Delicate red threads tie together mugshots, surveillance photos, building blueprints, police reports, and even a few glossy photographs that have clearly been carefully trimmed from gossip magazines into an intricate, meandering spider’s web of research. At the center of the maelstrom is a single piece of lined notebook paper on which someone has scrawled a messy question mark in thick black marker.

“These photos,” Peter says, leaning in to examine a cluster of photos of what Neal recognizes as the second site the thief had hit. Scrawled along the edges are notes in a cramped, messy hand. “These are professional. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think our thief had training in law enforcement.”

“He knows how to case a building,” Neal agrees, but his attention has been caught by something else. Carefully, he reaches out and unpins a single photograph from the collage. “Look at this.”

Peter comes right up behind him, peering over his shoulder. “That looks like the necklace from the Wright robbery. But that’s not a surprise. That was the one that put him on our radar in the first place.”

“Yes, but look at this,” Neal insists, angling the photo upwards. “You see these gems? See how green they are?”

“I see,” Peter says, but his eyebrows are bunched up in a way that says he’s still waiting for Neal to make his point.

“Hazel Wright filed an insurance claim for one emerald necklace. The only picture she had was in black and white, so I didn’t notice— Peter, have you ever seen emeralds that color?”

Peter takes the photo from his hand and examines it more closely. “No, I don’t think so,” he admits. “So you’re saying it’s a forgery?”

“Worse.” Neal reaches and takes down another picture, and another. All the loot from their young thief’s crime spree, stamped out laser-printed in full color. And from every photograph, that same vivid, unearthly green glares up at them. “I think our thief is after something a lot more dangerous than Granny’s jewels. 

“Peter, what do you know about kryptonite?”

As soon as they get back to the FBI, Peter disappears into Hughes’ office. The rest of the team gathers at the foot of the stairs, peering upward, but it’s impossible to tell what’s happening in the belly of the beast.

“How long do you think,” asks Diana, arms crossed tightly, gaze fixed on the glass wall of the ASAC’s office, “before Agent Smith and Agent Smith show up and tell us to forget all about this?”

Neal assumes, at first, that she’s being facetious, but her face is completely stolid.

Jones grunts unhappily. “Last time they were waiting when we got back.”

“Last time?” Neal asks, incredulous. “This has happened to you before?”

“Well, not this,” Clinton admits. “Last time it was some idiot trying to pass dangerous alien artifacts off as ancient Sumerian antiquities. Some messed up Raiders of the Lost Ark shit. We thought it was just forgeries, didn’t realize until we got in there. Anyways, the Men in Black showed up with a bunch of blacked-out paperwork and walked out with the artifacts, neat as you please. Bancroft came down himself, told us all not to talk about it again.”

“You’re talking about it now,” Neal points out.

“Yeah, and if they want to neuralize me for it, I’ll save ‘em a trip.” He shakes his head. “Kryptonite, though. Damn. Hey, think if we get it all back, the big guy will come and say thanks?”

“If we get it all back, I’m pretty sure the big guy will be smart enough to stay far away,” Neal says, not letting himself think of the disaster it would be if Superman did show up at White Collar.

“Oh, right,” Jones says, disappointed. “Anyways, Peter was spitting mad last time. He’s not going to give up this one without a fight.”

Appropriately, at that moment the two men in the office seem to come to some kind of agreement. Peter says something inaudible, gesturing down at the bullpen, and Hughes nods and waves him off, already on the phone.

Peter steps out onto the landing, apparently unsurprised to see them all huddled up like naughty schoolchildren waiting outside the principal’s office.

“Conference room,” he calls down, and the team obediently follow him up and settle around the long table. Someone has already moved what few files they do have so far on the mysterious thief into the room, and the most pertinent of the crime scene photos are pinned up on the tack-board.

Neal chooses a seat at the head of the table, the sun at his back; sometimes he’ll forgo the chair entirely and join Peter up at the front, but today he finds he’s not in the mood.

Peter steps forward, carefully laying out a pile of full-sized photographs one by one. Each of the pieces that have been stolen in the last few weeks, plus a few they hadn’t known about until they’d found the pictures pinned up on that apartment wall. There are pendants, chokers, tennis bracelets, rings, tie pins, even a watch— and every single one of them gleams kryptonite-green.

Peter pins them all with his steely brown stare. “For the last three weeks,” he says, “we’ve been on a new player who’s been hitting some of New York City’s most affluent and well-protected neighborhoods. So far, we’ve been assuming that his target of choice was jewels, but thanks to Neal—” a slight incline of his head in acknowledgement. Neal carefully does not react. “—we now know that his target is something much more dangerous.”

He plucks up a photograph of one of the more opulent items; a heavy collar encrusted with what appeared to be diamonds and emeralds that, when worn, would have stretched out across the length of its owner’s shoulders.

“Kryptonite,” Peter says grimly. “It’s a stone that doesn’t occur naturally on Earth, and it’s extremely hazardous. Most people have heard about how it affects individuals with Kryptonian genetics— Yes,” Peter says, acknowledging the slight murmurs, “like Superman, and some others— but what most people don’t know is that kryptonite emits low-level radiation that can be extremely dangerous to humans under prolonged exposure.

“As far as we know, none of these individuals,” a motion towards where the victim profiles were neatly lined up across the top of the projector screen, “were even aware that their possessions contained kryptonite, which is a highly controlled substance. We’ve already assigned agents to discreetly contact each of the victims and ensure that they receive proper medical screening for any complications arising from exposure.”

“However, I’m sure I don’t need to tell any of how important it is at this time to keep all information relating to this case under wraps until we know whether we’re dealing with a super-level threat or just some kid who’s in way over his head.”

His gaze sweeps across them and every agent nods or makes some sign of acknowledgement. Neal remains sullenly silent.

“So now what, Boss?” Diana asks.

Peter’s gaze lingers on Neal for a moment longer before he answers her. “Now, we work the case. Eighteen robberies in a little over a month, each one focusing on a specific piece. He gets in, he gets the kryptonite, he gets out; nothing else is ever missing. Sixteen of them were simple break-ins, mostly while the owners were out, and no one ever remembered having heard or seen anything unusual.”

“Oh, this kid did the Hartford Mansion job?” Jones whistles lowly as he looks up from the file in front of him.

“Ooh.” Neal flutters his hands derisively. Hartford Mansion had hardly been that impressive; the security system was top of the line, sure, but embarrassingly spotty at the edges of the property; that the gem had disappeared from off the lady of the manor’s neck during a crowded gala was flashy, certainly, but not much of a feat for anyone who knew even decent sleight of hand.

His partner doesn’t rise to the bait. “What can you tell us about him?”

“He’s a kid,” Neal says flippantly. “Thinks he’s a big man, thinks he’s smarter than everyone, so he does whatever he wants.”

Peter looks at him, and he sighs.

“He’s not in it for the money, but he grew up surrounded by enough wealth to know how those kinds of people think. He has training, a mentor, but he’s starting to strike out on his own. Push the boundaries. He has a mission of some kind, one that only he knows, and he’s not going to stop until he completes it.”

“You think he’s dangerous?”

“Lots of people are dangerous.” Neal drums his fingers once across the arm of his chair. “None of the victims knew anything about the Kryptonite. They wouldn’t have known about the radioactivity. And most of it was in jewelry, things that were worn right against the body.”

“By stealing it, he probably saved at least some of them from getting pretty sick,” Diana adds, sounding a little uncomfortable with the idea. “You think he’s trying to help?”

Neal spreads his hands helplessly. “I don’t know. We don’t even know if he knows. None of the kryptonite has turned up for sale yet, but maybe he’s waiting until he can sell it as a single haul. And we don’t even know how a bunch of law-abiding civilians ended up with Kryptonite jewelry without realizing it, or why. There’s too many pieces missing. All we know is that, somehow, this kid knows where to find these pieces and he’s going to keep stealing them.”

“And he’s cocky,” he adds, after a thought. “Almost getting caught won’t stop him.”

“Will he get bolder?” Peter asks, and Neal slouches down lower in his seat so he doesn’t have to meet anyone’s eye as he admits in a mumble, “That’s what I did.”

Sometimes it’s funny to think how much things have changed since the start of this partnership.

 Once upon a time, Peter had been scandalized and frustrated that his criminal informant would think it was ok to show up at his home (really though, he’d had the break in the case— was he supposed to have just waited?).

Now, Elizabeth doesn’t even bat an eye when she walks in to find them both poring over case files at the kitchen island. Expects it, even.

“So, what’s the case?” she asks curiously after they’ve finished their adorable domestic teasing.

Peter lights up with his usual enthusiasm for a new puzzle. “Young con man stealing from New York’s wealthy.”

“Ooh, a young Neal?” El says brightly, and Neal grits his teeth silently. “…touchy subject?”

“Apparently,” Peter says, and Neal forces his jaw to unclench.

“It’s not,” he says, daring Peter to contradict him. Peter visibly suppresses a grin but lets him have it.

It’s slow going, sifting through the files with no idea of what they’re looking for— the apartment is a dead end, paid for under a generic alias, the few possessions within impersonal and unremarkable. Soap, a few boxes of protein bars, a few changes of clothes, empty cans of energy drink. No hairbrush. No laptop, although a probie did find a charger for a phone plugged in by the bed. No phone, though, and no phone records attached to the alias used to rent the apartment. No physical evidence at the previous crime scenes, and no apparent pattern for where the thief would strike next.

“Maybe we could draw him out,” Peter suggests, not for the first time. “Create some ‘kryptonite’ of our own, put the word out. Maybe he’ll bite.”

“Yeah,” Neal says, “because after the FBI raided his apartment, that won’t seem like a trap at all.” He grunts, drops the map that he’d been studying to dig at the bridge of his nose. “Besides, however he’s tracking the kryptonite, he’d be able to tell ours wasn’t real.”

Elizabeth, who’s been quietly focused on her own work as they talk in circles, looks up curiously. “‘Tracking’? Like a Geiger Counter?”

Neal shakes his head. “Kryptonite’s radioactive signature—especially for pieces of this size—is weak enough that a Geiger Counter wouldn’t reliably be able to distinguish it from natural atmospheric radiation unless you were right on top of it. You’d have to already know where the kryptonite was, which defeats the whole purpose.” 

He notices both Peter and Elizabeth staring at him and shrugs a little. “I read,” he says simply.

“…Right,” Peter says. “So not a Geiger Counter. How about some sort of atmospheric measurements?”

“For a half-ounce piece of kryptonite?” Neal raises an eyebrow. “It would be like trying to find a single drop of blood in the ocean.”

El makes a face. “Well, there has to be some way to find it. How does the Justice League do it?”

“They—” He comes to a halt abruptly.

“Neal?” Peter says, sounding concerned.

Neal says nothing. His mind is spinning. 

“Elizabeth,” he breathes after a few moments. “You’re a genius.”

“I am?” she says, surprised.

“Yes!” He nearly shoots out of his chair, newly flush with energy. “Years ago, Wayne industries invested millions of dollars in installing advanced particulate detectors in most major cities. Originally, they were pitched as a way to monitor pollution levels and air quality, but then people started figuring out that they could be used to detect all sorts of kinds of foreign particles, even trace amounts. Since then, scientists have been using them to study substances that it’s difficult to create or collect for laboratory study. Unstable substances, things like that. And they’re extremely sensitive. As long as you know what you’re looking for—”

Peter’s eyes light up. “We can use these detectors to pinpoint a location.”

“Exactly.”

“And that’s what the Justice League does?” El asks uncertainly.

Thrown, Neal stutters. “Wh— I-I— I wouldn’t know. I mean, I think they have, like… satellites and things. It just— Made me think of it.” 

“Okay,” Elizabeth shrugs, appeased.

Meanwhile, Peter has produced his laptop seemingly from nowhere and is typing furiously. “It looks like there are three labs in New York that work with the data from your particulate detectors.”

(“They’re not mine,” Neal objects, but no one seems to notice.)

“The first,” Peter says, ”is EPA. No surprises there, but I doubt that they routinely check for Kryptonite. The second is more interesting: it’s just listed as ‘Team 7’, and everything else is marked ‘classified’.”

“Now that sounds like a black-site to me,” Neal remarks and Peter makes a little noise of agreement. “What about the last one?”

“Columbia University labs. I pulled up the university website, and you might be interested to see which departments share that particular lab.” He swivels the laptop around so that Neal can see, and immediately, he sees what caught Peter’s attention.

“Department of Extraterrestrial Studies?” he reads, glancing up wryly. “If there’s anywhere our thief could have learned everything he wants to know about kryptonite, it’s gotta be there.”

“Sounds like a good place to start,” Peter says, kissing El and reaching for his coat.

The geriatric professor who claims to run the lab seems distinctly unimpressed by Peter’s badge. It takes nearly half an hour of wheedling and a threat to call the bursar before the man finally relents and allows them inside his precious lab.

Once inside, though, he brightens considerably once he understands what they’re actually interested in.

“Ah, kryptonite,” Professor Tuft coos, sounding suspiciously like a crazy old cat lady calling for a favored tabby. “Such a fascinating little rock. So innocuous, and yet such a staggering effect on Kryptonid species!”

“Don’t you mean Kryptonian?” Neal can’t resist asking, even as he very carefully avoids letting his jacket even brush the side of the various dishes and test tubes covering every inch of flat surface.

The professor peers at him through bifocals that have clearly been sat on at some point in time. “Young man, I know what I said. Now— you were asking about the Wayne-Tech particulate detectors?”

“Yes,” Peter jumps in. “We were wondering if these detectors could possibly be used to track small amounts of kryptonite— say, the size of a gemstone.”

“Possible?” Tuft says. “Possible? Why, I’d say it’s more than possible, Agent Book! It’s funny you should ask about it, in fact, as just a few weeks ago, a young man came in asking something very similar— I still have the cartography stored on the servers, if you’d like to take a look.”

“It’s Burke, actually,” Peter says, “And we’d like that very much.”

With how pleased Tuft seems to be just to have someone interested in his work, it’s no wonder that the thief was able to learn all about kryptonite without setting off any alarms. Add in the fact that Peter (or, as he seems to be resigning himself to being called, ‘Agent Book’) has to walk him through sending an email, he’s exactly the sort of low-tech amateur enthusiast that would slip right through the JL surveillance net.

But he’s helpful enough, even if he doesn’t seem to understand how sharing the location of a highly controlled substance like kryptonite with some random kid might be a bad idea.

“Can you remember anything about the person who asked you about the kryptonite readings?” Peter asks.

The professor thinks for a minute, scratching at his elbow. “He was a young man. Very young. Dark hair. Looked a lot like your friend here— You two aren’t related, are you?”

“No,” Neal snaps, before Peter is steering him away by the elbow, thanking Tuft for all his help and promising to keep him updated.

“There’s no way this will work,” Neal complains as Peter discreetly flashes his badge at the security guard outside Chad Stewart’s $20 million loft. 

“It will work,” Peter insists out of the side of his mouth, maintaining eye contact with the doorman as he calls up to his employer. “This was the only significant deposit of you-know-what that our thief hasn’t hit yet. And seeing as the longest gap between heists so far has been five days, he should hit Mr. Stewart any day now. All we have to do is watch and wait.”

Neal suppresses a grimace as they’re forced to dodge out of the way of two workers carrying a crate with enough booze to give Gorilla Grodd alcohol poisoning.

“It’s not going to work,” he repeats, but Peter ignores him.

It does work (mostly thanks to Neal’s impeccable skill, as usual), but by the time Chad agrees to let them stake out the party, Neal is already wishing it hadn’t.

Chad is like every stereotype of an arrogant young dot-com millionaire with more money than taste. He’s clearly one of those people who views himself as a trendsetter, as the pioneer of the next generation, as someone who’d outpaced the niceties and the comprehension of the generations that came before. 

Basically, he’s a little shit.

But he’s a rich little shit; everything in his loft seems to have been chosen specifically to flaunt its expense. From the $100,000 motorcycle that is to be the centerpiece of his current party, to the  brilliantly-green ‘emerald’ carvings that he’s adapted into beer tap handles.

Beer tap handles.

And they’d thought they’d actually have to go looking for the kryptonite.

At the core of it all, Chad is just a child who never really grew up, with an unlimited allowance and no supervision. And now he has the FBI as his newest playthings.

Peter, that lucky bastard, gets to hide out in the van while Neal and Jones stoically endure Chad’s ever-more-irritating antics.

By the time Chad sends his undercover buddy, Agent Westley, to fetch him a beer, Jones is right on the edge.

“Come on,” he snaps, taking both beers from Westley and depositing them on the drinks tray of a passing waiter. The waiter—a skinny blond in an ill-fitting jacket who definitely doesn’t look old enough to be serving alcohol—looks startled to have two untouched bottles added to his load. But then, it doesn’t look like most of the party guests are the kind of people who pass on alcohol. Especially not when there are girls in painfully tight dresses offering body shots at 3:00 in the afternoon.

He probably doesn’t want to know how much of an obscene amount of money all of the staff are undoubtedly being paid to keep their mouths shut and not look too hard at anyone’s IDs.

It’s when Chad starts actually telling people that they’re FBI that Jones has finally had enough. He plasters on a huge fake smile and drapes an arm around Westley’s shoulders. “Okay,” he says, “It’s time to put the fear of God in him,” and deftly steers Westley through the crowd towards their host.

Left alone, Neal lets the party flow around him.

“I'm not sure how long our cover's gonna last, Peter,” he warns, not bothering to keep his voice low. No one’s paying attention.

Peter’s voice crackles across the radio. “You need to make positive I.D. on our young thief as soon as possible.”

Easier said than done; with the exception of the few FBI agents, every single party guest is young, fake, and only here for Chad’s money. But that’s pretty par for the course with these kinds of things.

He glances at the bar but the kryptonite taps (still tacky as hell— probably literally at this point with the amount of beer that’s been flowing), but they’re still in place. The only people anywhere  nearby at this point are Agent Casey, who’s nursing a tonic, no gin a few feet down the bar, and the bartender, who’s been as vetted as possible given the time frame. No one else has lingered much longer than it takes to get a new drink. If their thief is here, he’s certainly taking his time.

Or waiting for something.

There’s a crack like a gunshot and someone screams.

The FBI agents in the crowd react immediately, guns out, shouting the crowd back as they search for the threat. Neal is only a few steps behind, heart in his throat. They’d assumed—partly on his assessment—that their thief was nonviolent, that this would be a theft, not a robbery. If they’re wrong, all these people are at risk.

Finally, he finds a break in the crowd, pushes through. It takes him less than a second to take in the details of the scene before him.

Jones and the other agents are in a loose half-circle, weapons lowering. In the center of the ring are a handful of startled-looking partygoers with drinks still in hand. One of the women still has her hand pressed loosely against her throat. She’s clearly the screamer.

Scattered across the ground are shards of glass. On the wall above, a lamp with the exposed filaments still smoking.

“Neal!” Peter is shouting in his ear. “What’s going on? NEAL!”

“It’s okay,” Neal manages. “False alarm. Just a faulty bulb.”

“And the kryptonite?”

Neal spins and swears.

The bartender is slumped over the bar, likely unconscious, and the kryptonite is gone.

“It was a distraction,” he spits, scanning the crowd. “The thief is here, he has the kryptonite.”

“All teams, move in!” Peter barks over the radio. “Seal off the building, no one in or out!”

The party is in chaos, the guests already pressing against the agents on the door, shouting and panicked.

Amid the frenzy, one flash of movement catches his eye. Movement in the wrong direction. One fish, swimming against the current.

The young waiter is heading purposefully towards the back door, shedding his ill-fitting jacket as he goes.

The blond hair has slipped, revealing a few wisps of black around the edges.

“Jones!” Neal shouts, pointing through the crowd, and heads turn.

Unfortunately, the thief’s is one of them. He turns just enough for Neal to catch a hint of profile, a flash of blue, and then the thief bolts.

“Oh no you don’t,” Neal growls and follows.

He dodges through the crowd with agility borne of long practice, but the thief has a head start; he slams through the service doors precious seconds before Neal.

And Neal, in spite of the fact that he once spent five years being trained to never go through a door unless you know what’s on the other side, follows him without even breaking step.

Agent Davies had been assigned to cover the back exit; Neal leaps over his prone body as he lies, winded, on the floor of the service corridor. Two more steps and he slams through a second door, and then he’s in the alley, just in time to see the thief disappear over the top of the fence blocking off access to the street.

Blood pumping, Neal follows.

He doesn’t bother with the fence itself— too tall for a straight leap, vaulting would only waste momentum.

Instead, he aims at the wall, pouring on that last little bit of speed. Plant a foot on the bricks. One, two, three steps, one hand on top of the fence. Let his momentum carry him over the top, tuck into a roll (another suit, ruined), and straight back up to a run.

The thief is still ahead of him, but his lead is narrower. Not enough— he’s seconds away from the open street and anonymity.

So he acts.

It’s a stupid thing to do, seeing as he has absolutely no plan for what he’ll do if he actually catches the thief, but he’s so caught up in the chase itself that he doesn’t even stop to think.

“Hey!” he yells, and to his surprise, the thief actually glances over his shoulder, stumbling to such a sudden stop that he nearly face-plants straight into the ground.

He knows that face.

It’s you, he thinks, just as the thief says, “It’s you!”

There’s something intense, almost eager in that narrow face.

“I mean, I knew you were— but I didn’t think—” He glances at the fence behind Neal, back towards the party and the agents who will swarming any second now. “I can explain, I promise, but not now. I’ll find you, okay? I promise.”

It feels more like a threat than a promise.

The fence rattles as a body collides with it and begins to climb.

But he can’t— he physically can’t move as the thief bolts an instant before Peter hauls himself heavily over the fence, hampered further by the gun in his hand.

“Neal! Where is he?”

Neal forces his tongue to unstick from the roof of his mouth. “He ran out the back.”

Peter swears and points at one of the agents who followed him clumsily over the fence. “Set up a perimeter, he couldn’t’ve gone far. White male, dark hair, white shirt and black pants. Go!”

“It’s too late, Peter,” Neal says, cold in a way that the June heat can’t touch. “He has everything he needs.”

Chapter Text

Twelve hours ago, Neal Caffrey woke up in his beautiful, airy apartment with a stunning, fearless woman in his bed.

He’d eased out of bed, so careful not to wake her, and gone to make breakfast because, well— that’s what you do, when you’re lucky enough to have a woman like Sara Ellis sleeping in your bed on a beautiful Tuesday morning.

Besides, if there’s one skill that he can be wholly, unconflictedly proud of, it’s his cooking. It’s something that he made an independent decision to learn and, best of all, it’s not even illegal.

(Diana might tease him about a bit of illicit unpasteurized cheese, but— the real crime there would be to accept an inferior substitute.)

So he gets to show off a bit, even as he pampers her as she deserves, and if Peter showing up unannounced ruins some of his more ambitious plans, well. There’s always tonight. And tomorrow. And the day after that.

And the treasure is always there, in the back of his mind, the expiration date that he keeps putting off just a little longer, but how can not let himself enjoy this for however long it lasts? And sometimes he thinks, hopes, that just maybe, if he plays his cards right, if he finds the right words to explain, to persuade, then maybe this—them—doesn’t have to end. Maybe she’ll— Choose. Him. Them. The two of them, together.

It’s probably a foolish dream, but somewhere deep inside of him, there’s always been a quiet spring of unremitting optimism.

But that was all this morning.

Funny, how easy it is to fall from what had felt like the top of the world.

He doesn’t black out, exactly.

Nor does he dissociate— he’s endured both, knows how they feel. This isn’t that.

He’s still inside his own body, he’s still aware and responding to people when they talk to him, he’s going through all the necessary motions. He can remember forming plans, possibilities, a million different, coherent thoughts flickering through his mind, but he can’t seem to hold on to them.

It’s like someone took the last few frames of film and held them over a candle, until they started to blister and smear. 

Or maybe like he’d been been painting a picture, focusing on every stroke, only to find out at the end that he’d forgotten to put paint on his brush. He can remember the action, but not the substance. It’s a strange feeling.

There are other symptoms too: cold hands, dry mouth, colors that seem just a little too bright.

He knows what this is. Trauma response. 

But that doesn’t make sense.

Not because he’s stupid enough to think he’s not traumatized—that’s kind of a given—but because there’s no reason for him to feel it now. Nothing happened, there’s nothing that should have triggered him. He’s just being ridiculous.

He makes it through the debrief back at the office on autopilot. Sits quietly through the office-wide commiseration on the failed sting. No one seems to notice anything too far out of the ordinary— he’s not the only one who seems to be brooding on their failure. Peter, too, seems as surly as he always does when a criminal manages to escape his grasp.

Big change from his attitude yesterday at the empty apartment. If Neal weren’t so preoccupied, he might have wondered why.

Instead, he escapes back to June’s as soon as possible.

Sara’s working a case of her own tonight—the insurance recovery business never sleeps, he supposes—and there’s a message on his phone telling him not to wait up.

He’s— glad is the wrong word for it, but it certainly makes things easier.

Neal wakes up in his beautiful, airy apartment with an empty bed and a pit in his stomach.

He doesn’t bother with breakfast— no point. It wouldn’t stay down, anyways.

He dresses carefully, layers on the armor.

He feels like he’s coming apart at the seams, like Neal Caffrey is just a thin coat of paint over what has always been underneath, and it’s peeling away. He feels like anyone could look at him now and see.

Well, they say that the clothes make the man. He dons his favorite hat and sets it carefully at a jaunty angle.

It’s more important than ever that he looks his best.

Not that anyone at the office seems to notice. Neither Diana nor Jones gives him so much as a second glance, too engrossed in evidence reports and witness statements.

Which is, obviously, the best case scenario. Extra scrutiny is the last thing he needs.

(and for the rest of it, well, he chooses to believe he simply looks his best every day.)

Peter—well, Peter wouldn’t notice if Neal showed up in a feather boa and short pants. Not when there’s a mystery to solve.

“We’ve got a name,” Peter announces, and then, before Neal can have a heart attack, “Our thief is going by Alvin Draper.”

“Alvin?” Neal can’t help asking.

“Yeah, talk about an obvious alias,” Jones opines.

“There’s more,” Peter says, and hands him a photograph. Neal has to peer over Jones’ shoulder to get a good look.

It’s surprisingly high-quality— no distortion, no pixelation, even if the angle is a little unusual. Almost vertical. No timestamp, so not a surveillance camera.

The photographer had caught him just as he was bursting through the door to the alley. The ill-fitting waiter’s jacket is half off his shoulders and the blond wig sits crooked across his crown, partially obscuring his features. Small miracles.

Still, there’s no denying that it’s very definitely their thief.

Neal looks at the picture.

What are you up to now, Robin?

“When you said ‘kid’, I thought you meant nineteen, maybe twenty,” Diana says, a crease carved into her brow. “College age. Not the kind of ‘kid’ who probably still has his learner’s permit.”

Peter looks grave. “We haven’t been able to confirm his age—or his identity—but for right now, we assume that he is a minor. And we act accordingly. Understood?”

“Understood,” Jones agrees. “And is it just me or could this kid practically be Caffrey’s little brother?”

Neal is quick to put that one to rest. “This kid has nothing to do with me.”

“You sure?” Jones checks. “‘Cause it’s a little uncanny.”

He glares, and Jones backs off.

“Where are these from?” Diana asks pragmatically. “These don’t look like any of ours.”

“Anonymous tip,” Peter says, and there’s a flicker at the edge of his mouth that could be either satisfaction or vexation.

That’s… interesting. Neal’s first instinct is to say that it was Robin himself who’d sent in the photo, but that seems very self-sabotaging, even for a Bat.

Even with a photo, there’s only so much they can do for now (and Neal doesn’t want to stop and examine how he feels about that—the fact that they literally can’t do anything for the case also, conveniently, means he doesn’t have to make any difficult decisions—but if he admits that he’s glad for the reprieve, then that’s kind of making the decision, isn’t it?). Once the APB is out, Peter sends Neal out to ‘see if he can get any leads on Alvin’.

Which, translated, means ‘go ask Mozzie to check if any of your criminal friends know anything’.

It’s rather lucky that Mozzie has either never noticed or never actively objected to the fact that he is basically only one degree removed from being an FBI consultant himself.

Well, Neal’s lucky. To have such a good friend who’s willing to go so far against his nature for Neal’s sake.

Even if he is a little too gleeful when he relates the latest word on the street.

“Oh, you're gonna love this. The street is abuzz. Someone is looking for you. No name. He's a kid. Word is he talks the talk, so to speak the speak.”

“Did you enjoy that sentence?”

“Yes, I did.”

The idea that Robin would be sloppy enough to ask around in a way that Neal would hear about it is laughable— unless, of course, Robin wants him to know. Neal says as much (well, maybe minus a few pertinent details), and Mozzie frowns a little.

“You think he’s got juice?” he presses, skittering a wide berth around a middle-aged woman in teddy-bear scrubs.

“Oh, I know he’s got juice,” Neal says sourly.

Mozzie’s eyebrows rise over the rims of his glasses. “He with one of the Families?”

Family is a strong word, but… “Something like that.”

Mozzie’s expression tightens and Neal remembers belatedly that Moz has his own history with crime of the Organized variety.

“You know,” Moz says pointedly, “Suspicious, potentially dangerous individuals asking around for you by name— One could take it as a sign that it’s time for us to engage our golden safety chute and sail off into the sunset.”

It’s the same thing Mozzie’s been saying for months, and Neal has always successfully deferred it another day, another few weeks. Always another reason to wait, to hold on just a little longer. One more case. One more beautiful morning.

That being said, there is a part of Neal that wonders if maybe Moz… isn’t wrong.

Because that was the plan, wasn’t it? That was his first thought all those months ago, when he’d first seen the gleaming piles of treasure. Cash in on the score of a lifetime, disappear where not even the World’s Greatest Detective could find him. Leave Peter and Elizabeth and the Team to their lives, become just another distant memory.

Again.

But there’s another part of him that thinks maybe he’s—and god, even after all these years, the pun still makes him cringe—jumping the gun.

Robin knows. There is no doubt in his mind. That was genuine, comprehensive recognition on his face last night. He’s asking for Neal by name. He knows.

And yet Neal would bet every penny of the treasure that, for whatever reason, Robin has not yet seen fit to share it with the big man. Sixteen hours is more than enough time for someone with both an official and covert jet at his disposal to make a trip that takes under two hours by car.

And yet the shadows are no deeper than they usually are; there is no flutter of black in the edges of his vision.

Somehow, B must genuinely not know, or else he already would have shown up and dragged Neal back to Gotham to pay for his crimes.

(unless, says an awful little voice, he doesn’t even think you’re worth the effort) 

(he’s probably already forgotten you)

The smart course of action probably would be to take the treasure and run, like Mozzie’s been saying since the beginning, but something is holding him back.

It’s just— he doesn’t like the idea of leaving all that kryptonite out there. That’s all. Whatever mission it is that Robin seems to have assigned himself, he’s already leaving a mess behind him. It would be— irresponsible to bail now, before he’s seen this through.

Besides, the treasure isn’t going anywhere. They have time. That’s what he’d told Mozzie— they take their time, and do it right.

He makes his decision.

The kid’s pretty good, he has to give him that; he doesn’t react at all when Neal falls into step beside him.

“You’re being followed,” he says.

“I know.” The kid doesn’t look around, keeps his face turned ahead and slightly down. He’s lost the blond wig. It seems his idea of ‘civvies’ is dark sunglasses, combed-down hair, and bright red Converse with the laces trailing out behind. “I clocked them four blocks back, by the bodega with that ugly poodle poster. Pretty sure they’re League.”

He’s apparently unconcerned about being stalked by literal ninja assassins. That’s a great sign.

“Your little bald friend’s watching us too,” the kid adds. “400 meters to our 8 o’clock. Is it just me or does he have a periscope?”

“Yes,” Neal confirms without having to look.

“Why?”

Because Neal had specifically asked him to let him handle this alone. 

(He really should have known better.)

“Heard you were looking for me,” he says instead. 

“Yeah.”

“So talk.”

The kid looks at him, unreadable. “Is there somewhere private we could talk?”

Neal raises a brow. “Why? You got something you don’t want everybody to know?”

They’ve come to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing the other foot traffic to divert around them with annoyed grumbles and more than one ‘accidental’ elbow. Good old New York.

“Look,” the kid says. “He doesn’t know, okay? Let’s just get that out of the way. I haven’t told him and I’m not going to, so all of this—” he gestures vaguely and awkwardly between them, “—you don’t have to. Okay?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Neal bites out, knowing that he’s losing the maturity contest to a sixteen-year-old and not caring.

The kid makes a strangled noise of exasperation deep in his throat. “Look, at the very least can we go somewhere where I don’t have to pretend not to notice that I’m being stalked by literal ninja assassins? Please?”

Shit, Neal thinks, but what he says is, “You ever pulled a Lex Luthor?”

“Was the ATM really necessary?” the kid asks, for about the fiftieth time. He’s kept the sunglasses, but he keeps running his hands through his hair so that he’s ruined the neat comb-down and the front has spiked up almost like he’s in costume. “They were only League assassins, I could have taken them.”

Mozzie surreptitiously moves his chair farther down the table. Neal doubts he understood the significance of League assassins’, but the existence of a clandestine organization of assassins would fit nicely into his general worldview. 

A stick of a sixteen-year-old casually dismissing the fact that he was being tailed by multiple assassins?

Not so much.

“Neal,” he says, his voice a pitch higher than usual, “who is this unsettling child?”

While the kid scowls at being called— well, a kid, Neal rolls his eyes and simply places a glass of wine in front of his friend.

“Mozzie, this is—”

“Alvin Draper,” the kid says just as Neal finishes, “—Our kryptonite thief.”

They look at each other.

“Kryptonite?” Mozzie repeats, eyebrows climbing into his nonexistent hairline. “As in, the Bane of Superman kryptonite? The kryptonite that is personally regulated by the Justice League? That kryptonite?” His eyes dart between them, and when no one refutes it, his nervous tics instantly double.

“Neal,” he hisses in what is probably supposed to be a whisper (Robin politely pretends not to be able to hear him perfectly), “The Justice League? Do you have any idea what kind of resources they have access to? They could throw us in jail on, on the moon— the moon, Neal! Or in another dimension— just for knowing about the,” and he drops his voice another few registers, but not a hint in actual volume, “you-know-what.”

“It’s okay, Moz,” Neal says soothingly. “I promise, it’s just another case with Peter, the League isn’t involved. It’s fine. But yeah, if you could maybe give us a minute.”

Mozzie looks at him, mouth still hanging open, then at Robin, who’s still sitting so prim and innocent, fiddling a little with his hoodie. He closes his mouth.

“Right,” he says, edging toward the door with his wineglass clutched between his hands like a security blanket. “I’ll just— do that. You all just… carry on! I’ll…” His voice trails into inaudibility as he disappears through the front door. Neal has a strong suspicion that June’s formidable wine cellar will soon find itself a few bottles poorer.

Robin’s gaze follows him, mouth a flat line. “He’s a criminal, isn’t he?” and the perfect lack of inflection is just so B that Neal’s temper flares.

“I don’t think either of us are in any place to be throwing stones, Mr. Draper,” he snaps, and Robin looks momentarily chastened.

“Sorry, I just—” he takes a deep breath. “He won’t tell? You trust him?”

“With my life,” Neal confirms, even as he feels a pang of guilt. It’s true enough, but there’s a reason he hasn’t told Mozzie the whole truth.

He’s imagined coming clean a dozen times—it would require careful preparation, little bits of truth at a time, nothing too unbelievable or overwhelming, all names and identify details carefully left out.

Definitely not just throwing it at him like this, with Robin sitting in his kitchen, absentmindedly chewing on the string of his hoodie.

“You know, if you’re really trying to pretend you’re not actually you, you’re doing a pretty bad job of it,” the kid says.

“That sentence was a trainwreck,” Neal informs him, “and I’m not pretending anything any more than you are.”

“Are you really gonna try and tell me you’re just some random criminal?” Robin demands. “‘Cause random criminals don’t know about the League of Shadows, and they definitely don’t recognize me out of costume.”

“Again,” Neal says, “I’m not telling you anything. You’re the one who’s making all sorts of assumptions.”

“They’re not assumptions,” Robin says, sounding offended. “I have evidence.”

Neal’s heart ticks up a notch, but he keeps his face calm. “Do you.”

“After the explosion, you left your phone with Superboy. I ran your prints and DNA through the Batcomputer. Just to be sure, you know.”

Shit, he’d forgotten the burner. Still, could be worse.

“And?” Neal prompts blandly.

Robin narrows his eyes. “And there was no match. For either sample.”

Good to know he’s still smarter than the average bear. Bat. Bird? Whatever.

He makes a show of straightening his cuffs. “I guess you were wrong then. So much for your evidence.”

“I wouldn’t be wrong about this,” the kid says with surprising certainty. “So I ran it one more time against a different sample. Looking for familial relation.”

...Well, damn. Kid is smarter than he thought.

“Guess you forgot to swap out your parents’ samples too, huh, Dick?”

Dick leans back in his chair. “Didn’t forget,” he admits. “Never intended to. Tim. Or do you prefer Timothy?”

“Tim’s fine,” says the kid, unperturbed.

“Great. So, Timmy,” he catches the slight grimace and definitely does not mark a point for himself (because against a sixteen-year-old, that would just be petty), “Now that we’ve got all the secret identity bull out of the way, what could you possibly want from me? I’m out of the business— you should know that better than anyone.”

“I know that the FBI is investigating Alvin Draper.”

Dick lets his voice drop another ten degrees in warmth. “If you’re asking me to interfere with a federal investigation—”

“Not exactly.” The kid—Tim—raps his knuckles lightly on the table. “Maybe I should start from the beginning.”

“If you don’t mind,” Dick says, gesturing magnanimously and settling back in his seat for what he’s certain will not be a story he will enjoy.

(He’s right.)

“I guess it all started a couple of months ago,” Tim says, toying with the string of his sweatshirt. “You probably know, the Justice League keeps a close eye on the underground kryptonite trade. Well, about nine weeks ago, GL led a raid on a dealer in Tampa—Florida, not Ohio—and came back with 14kgs of K.”

“Fourteen kilograms?” Dick repeats, not liking where this is heading already.

“Yeah.” Tim’s expression was tight. “B keeps a number of secured warehouses across the country for JL use, so Kyle took it there until it could safely be disposed of.”

Kyle, Dick notes, distantly wondering whatever happened to Hal Jordan. B had always made a show of disapproving of his antics, but Hal hadn’t been a bad guy, from what he remembered.

It’s also interesting to see how blasé Tim is being with the identity of a hero that he must know Dick wouldn’t already know. It doesn’t feel like carelessness. It feels like a test.

Great. He hasn’t missed this at all.

“So, load of kryptonite, secure JL warehouse,” he recaps. “How exactly did it get from there to Manhattan?”

Tim flicks the drawstring off his shoulder. “We don’t know.”

“You—” Dick sighs, feeling very old. “You don’t know how someone walked away with 30 pounds of kryptonite.”

“30.86,” the brat corrects. “But long story short: no. Kyle and Zatanna showed up a couple days later, and it was gone. No sign of a break-in or anyone tampering with the system. Whoever took it, they didn’t leave any clues. We waited for it to show up on the black market again, or for someone to launch an attack, but nothing happened. Then, about three weeks ago, I started picking up trace K-isotopes in Carnegie Hill.”

“The first robbery,” Dick states, and Tim nods a confirmation.

“At first I thought it was just an isolated incident— it wasn’t until more pieces started showing up that I connected it to the robbery.”

“And that’s when you went to Professor Tuft,” Dick concludes.

“Yes.” It’s a little disturbing just how sharp the kid is— sharp chin, sharp wit, sharp elbows. He has decent muscle tone—he has to, to do what he does, and Dick knows from experience that he’s certainly even stronger than he looks—but he’s at that stage of post-puberty where he’s approaching maximum height, but his body has not yet registered that means it’s time to start filling out. It means he’s all lines and angles, past the point of child-softness.

“So why the grand larceny?” Dick asks lightly. “Kryptonite can be hazardous stuff, sure, but it’s mostly only dangerous with prolonged exposure. Nobody else seems to have noticed that there’s a bunch of loose kryptonite running around. There was no immediate danger. You could have gone through official channels, reclaimed it legally, but you didn’t. Why?”

He has a fairly good suspicion, but he wants to hear the kid confirm it.

Robin gives him a knowing look. “Nobody else seems to have noticed that there’s a bunch of loose kryptonite running around… yet. Funny enough, the League aren’t too keen to advertise that someone can crack their security and steal freaking kryptonite right out from under their noses— even SB hasn’t been officially notified, and he’s Kryptonian! Well, half.”

Again, he’s a little bemused that Robin is just… sharing these little, personal details about heroes, like Dick has clearance or reason to know them. So Superboy is only half-Kryptonian? Not really a lot of relevance for their little problem there, so why is Tim telling him?

“Although Clark might’ve given Kon a call,” Tim adds thoughtfully. “If he did, he hasn’t said anything.”

And now they’re back to actual secret identities. Fantastic.

He decides to steer the conversation back on topic. “So that’s why you decided on Alvin Draper: Thief.”

Robin bobs a nod. “I’ve been looking for the fence who broke the K down and set it. Traced most of the pieces back to a Thomas Carlisle. He’s a person of interest in multiple jewelry heists and black-market sales. He’s not the original thief— I’ve been watching him, and it looks like he has a source. Every few days, he shows up at the office and there’s a new bag full of shards in his safe. I tried watching the building, but it’s too hard to predict when the next delivery will show up. They never showed while I was there, but I don’t know if they knew I was watching or not.”

If that’s true, then it might be the most concerning piece of evidence yet; the number of people with the skills and the training to be able to tell that Robin was watching is low enough— the fact that whoever it is also has the patience not to try and confront him only makes it more worrying.

“But there’s a problem.”

“When isn’t there?” Dick asks rhetorically. “Hit me.”

“The way he’s disposing of it… I don’t think he knows about the kryptonite either.”

“So? That makes it even easier— If he doesn’t know he has kryptonite that was stolen from the Justice League, he’s not going to be going around telling anyone that it’s possible to steal kryptonite from the Justice League. Squeeze him for his source, grab the K, and leave him for the feds. Easy.”

“Yeah, except that he has connections to Lex Luthor.”

Shit.

“He definitely knows what kryptonite is, he’s just never seen any,” Tim says. “But he also knows gems well enough to know they’re not really emeralds. Probably he thinks they’re some new synthetic. But the second anyone connected to the Justice League shows up—”

“—he figures it out, clams up about his source, and as soon as Luthor springs him, becomes the richest kryptonite dealer on the East Coast,” Dick finishes. “Yeah, I can see the problem.”

That could be a problem. Though not, perhaps, as much of one as Tim seems to think it has to be.

The thing is, there’s a simple solution, but it runs counter to every bone in Robin’s interfering little vigilante body.

But first, a few details.

“And the League of Assassins?” Dick prompts, still not entirely clear where they fit into this whole mess. “What’s their angle?”

Tim flushes red and is struck by an entirely unconvincing coughing fit. “Um. Right. Them.”

“Right, them,” Dick mimics. “Is Ra’s involved somehow?”

“Not exactly. They’re sort of there to…help me?” Tim winces. “Recently, I, um, sort of accidentally impressed him? And now I think he’s trying to recruit me?”

Dick feels his eyebrows rising. “You impressed Ra’s Al Ghul and now he wants to recruit you,” he says slowly, “by giving you ninjas.”

“Yes?” Tim tugs on the drawstring so that the mouth of his hoodie scrunches up at the back of his neck. “I mean, at first it was just some low-level initiates that he sent to follow me around and spy on me, but I’m pretty sure he knows about the K now, which is obviously not good.”

“He wants to recruit you?” Dick says again, still hung up on that. “You’re sixteen! Plus, I thought he was all obsessed with Bruce?”

Tim shrugs. “I’m pretty sure he’s finally accepting that Bruce is never going to say yes and that having one of his protégés is probably the next best thing. And I am pretty good— he calls me ‘Young Detective’ and everything.”

There’s a hint of defensiveness there, like he really thinks he has to... defend his right to the suit or something. Like he thinks his predecessor of ten years might still ask for it back.

In hindsight, that costume was embarrassing enough as a prepubescent; on a grown man, it would be just plain pathetic. And probably a public indecency charge just waiting to happen.

He doesn’t have a problem if the kid wants to run around with his underwear on the outside. That’s his decision. But all the same—

“Ra’s never called me that,” Dick says, inexplicably put out. “He never really even seemed to notice me.”

Robin just looks at him. “Didn’t you once tell him that his face looked like a raisin had a baby with a mongoose?”

“He still remembers that?” Dick asks, flattered.

“No, Bruce told me.”

Oh. He’s… not sure how he feels about that. Bruce still talks about him?

He chooses not to think about that now. “Maybe you’re right,” he says. “It’s probably better if the head of a global assassin cult doesn’t remember me.”

Something else occurs to him suddenly, and he asks, “Do you think Ra’s had one of your little friends send that picture to the FBI?”

Robin looks at him sharply. “Picture? What picture?”

“You don’t know?” He absolutely should not feel a flash of self-satisfaction at that— it’s petty and unfair and more than a little wretched of him to even think it, but for all the shit he’s done, he’s always kept The Secret. There are no compromising photos of him floating around (at least, not that kind of compromising).

He forces it down. “Don’t worry; It’s not clear enough to identify Tim Wayne, though it’ll probably give Alvin a few headaches.”

“I kept Drake, actually.” There’s a crease between his brows but his gaze is fixed on the far distance, so Dick thinks it’s probably not offense.

“I guess it could have been Ra’s,” Tim says slowly. “But— I’m not going to say he wouldn’t interfere if he thought it would benefit him, but he’s usually one for playing the long game. I just don’t see what he’d get out of it.”

“That’s why they call it the long game,” Dick points out, but privately he agrees. If it was Ra’s—and he’s not convinced either—then there must be even more going on here than even Robin’s aware of. Some further layer that’s only visible when you look at it through Ra’s special lens of zombie elitist insanity.

Which is about as far from comforting as you can get, but they can work with it for now.

(and when exactly did he decide that there was a ‘they’?)

But first, they need a plan. No— a Plan. Full capitalization and all.

Something… bold. Decisive. Maybe something with just a hint of common sense, although he knows that will be asking a lot of two Bat-trained (current and former) vigilantes.

He’s just opening his mouth to say as much when there’s the sound of voices—footsteps—on the stairs.

Chapter Text

Then:

He hadn’t really wanted to know the extent of the damage, after. Not laid out like that, so clinical. So… flat. He’d lived it, after all. He was still living it with every painful breath. He didn’t need to hear his list of broken parts.

But when Doctor Leslie started reading it out, explaining it, with her best bedside manner, he didn’t know how to tell her to stop.

Broken ribs. Shattered ulna. Two-part fracture just above the joint of the elbow. Ruptured spleen, internal bleeding, severe damage to internal organs. Fractured skull.

He could see every time she started to get angry again and forced herself calm.

“Batman caught him, though, right?” Dick had asked, partly to reassure her and partly for confirmation. “Two-Face is in prison now?”

Leslie hesitated, not meeting his eyes. “He hasn’t talked to you about this?”

“No.” He hadn’t seen his ‘partner’ once since he’d woken up in his own bed at the Manor.

(Well, except— he’d woken in the middle of the night, once, and there had been something: a shadow. A presence, even. Heavy, but in a good way. Like the soft space under a dark cape. Or a guiding hand at the back of his neck. It had been Him, he’d been sure of it. But he’d been on the good drugs still, and his eyes had been so very heavy, and he’d only meant to blink but when he opened his eyes again, the shape was gone and Alfred was knocking with the breakfast tray.)

But if Two-Face was still on the loose, then maybe that explained it— he wasn’t… he wasn’t avoiding Dick, he was just busy. Two-Face was dangerous. Dick could understand that. The mission came first.

Leslie sighed and took off her glasses. “That— No, never mind. Yes, Dick, Dent is in custody. You’re safe.”

That should have been reassuring, but Dick found himself wanting to reject it.

“But— Batman—” He instinctively tried to sit up just a little, which was a major mistake. The pain was so bad that it made him gag, which was worse.

Leslie eased him back down, rubbing his uninjured shoulder until the spasms subsided. Conversation was pretty much abandoned after that.

The worst part of healing wasn’t the pain, though. It was the emptiness. 

Even when he was little, when he was upset he’d always filled that void with moving, with doing. With people. 

Now, he could barely twitch his fingers without pain, and he was alone. No visitors— after all, if anyone were to find out that Dick Grayson was mysteriously injured at the same time as Robin the Boy Wonder, it could put The Secret at risk.

(And if he wished, sometimes, for Clark or Diana— well, that would be awfully selfish of him, wouldn’t it? There were so many people who needed them, and he was already safe and recovering. There were better uses for their time.)

Alfred and Leslie did their best to keep him company, but they both had other duties. He didn’t visit.

Until he did.

Now:

There’s the sound of voices—footsteps—on the stairs, and they both freeze. 

Dick can think of at least half a dozen different people who might have decided to drop in without warning, ranging from the mildly inconvenient to the absolutely disastrous.

These particular steps are two-part—heel, toe, heel, toe—the sharp clack of stilettos, which narrows the list dramatically. Not necessarily for the better, but. He’s pretty sure he knows what to expect here.

“Oh, Sara!” Mozzie says loudly from somewhere outside the door. “What a completely unexpected surprise!”

“Nice to see you too, Mozzie.” As usual, when faced with Mozzie’s many eccentricities, Sara sounds cooly nonplussed. “Can I get in?”

“In?” Mozzie shrills. “Why wouldn’t you be able to?”

“Because you’re blocking the door, Mozzie,” Sara says patiently.

There’s the sounds of shuffling and Dick distinctly hears a yelp that he recognizes as someone getting on the wrong side of Sara’s very spiky heels.

Quick as a snake shedding its skin, he lets the mask fall back and it’s Neal Caffrey blinking away the late morning sun where it slants through the balcony doors.

Tim glances at him questioningly, his sunglasses having magically reappeared on his face, and Neal flicks his fingers in a silent go with it.

Even though she’d probably smack him for saying it, every time he sees Sara he’s struck all over again by how lucky he is; she is, without a doubt, one of the most remarkable women he’s ever met. She’s sophisticated but tough as nails, the perfect contrast of smooth planes and sharp angles. Every day she challenges him anew.

And she certainly doesn’t take his bullshit.

She gives Tim one glance and stops dead in the doorway. “Okay,” she says, planting her hands on her hips. “Who wants to tell me what’s going on here.”

“Sara, I’d like you to meet— Alvin,” Neal says, only stumbling slightly on the name. “He stole about $70,000 worth of radioactive jewels from some very bad people and made the FBI look like idiots, so he’s laying low here for a little while.”

Sara’s hands stay at her waist. “Of course he did,” she says sardonically. “So now we’re hiding wanted felons in the apartment?”

“Well, it wouldn’t exactly be the first time,” Neal says, shrugging. “But anyways, um, Alvin, this is Sara Ellis. My girlfriend.” He feels himself flushing slightly, still amazed that he can say that and get away with it.

“Nice to meet you,” Tim says, rising to shake her hand with a perfect, polished socialite’s smile. Neal seems to recall that the Drakes were Gotham upper-crust as well. He might even have met them once or twice, at one of the innumerable galas that Bruce was obliged to hold and attend. He doesn’t ever remembering seeing a little Tim trailing along behind, or hovering by the snack table, but maybe he’d been too young or something.

Sara shakes his hand automatically, then turns on Neal with a smile that he knows means trouble.

“Does Peter know about this?” she demands.

“Not exactly,” he admits, and then rushes on before she can interrupt. “Look, Ti— Alvin got himself in a little bit of trouble. We’re trying to get him out of it. That’s all.”

“We are?” Mozzie queries dubiously from the stairway.

“Yes. We are.” He turns to Sara with his most pleading expression. “Will you help?”

She stares at him, perfectly manicured fingernails drumming across the taut leather of her purse.

“I’m going to need,” Sara says, “a little bit more explanation than that.”

Then:

He thought that conversation would stay with him until the day he died.

This was all a terrible error in judgement.

You’re fired.

Robin’s finished.

You disobeyed a direct order! An innocent man is dead and you were nearly killed!

It’s over, Dick.

He was empty in a whole new way after that. Empty of hope.

Because that’s what Robin was to him— Hope. Hope for the people he saved, but also for himself. Hope that he could help people. That he could make a difference. Hope that he could be needed. Hope that he could be wanted.

Without that flame, it was a cold convalescence.

Now:

The version of the truth that they end up giving Sara—and, in regards to a lot of the details, Mozzie as well—is significantly abridged and leaves out an awful lots of the whos and hows and whys, but is not, actually, untrue. So that’s one point in favor of domestic honesty. And the details they’d left out aren’t necessary, really, when it comes to what they have to do now.

It’s interesting; for someone who calls himself Robin, Tim is surprisingly amenable to letting Neal take the lead in explanations. Could be that he doesn’t trust himself not to slip up (unlikely), or that he wants to see how much Neal is willing to entrust his associates with (another test), or perhaps a gesture of goodwill, proof that he’s willing to follow Neal’s lead (which is a test all its own).

Jeez. Less than an hour, and he’s already feeling as paranoid as Mozzie.

Sara swirls the last of her wine thoughtfully, but replaces it on the table without actually taking a sip. “So, this Carlisle guy— we need him to flip on his kryptonite supplier, but he can’t know that you’re involved,” with a nod towards Tim, “or that it’s actually kryptonite.”

That had been one of the whys they’d elided; Sara had accepted the Lex Luthor connection with few questions (hard not to, with the number of times that his latest supervillain scheme had been plastered across the front page of The Daily Planet— thank you, Lois Lane), and it wasn’t that far of a leap to believe that if Luthor found out about a skilled thief in possession of a large amount of kryptonite and with the knowledge to track down even more, said thief’s life would be in significant danger.

“A worthy challenge,” Mozzie crows, rubbing his hands together. Now that they’re all planning felonies together, he seems to have lost his instinctive criminal fear of all things JL-adjacent.

“Great,” Sara says flatly. “Someone remind me why we can’t just tell Peter all of this?”

Neal is about to answer when Tim speaks up.

“Because I stole the kryptonite,” he says simply. “It’s gone, and so is any evidence. Even if your Agent Burke believes us, what can he arrest him for?”

Sara glances at Neal almost imperceptibly (almost) before replying. “Peter will believe us.”

“Doesn’t solve the problem,” Tim says, and Neal can see the gears in his mind turning. Planning.

That’s only going to lead to trouble.

So Neal smiles. “Sure we do,” he says. “It’s simple. All we have to do is make sure that Peter finds the kryptonite.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” Tim says, frowning. “He doesn’t have the kryptonite!”

“But you do.”

He can see the exact moment that it all clicks together in Robin’s head.

“That’s planting evidence,” Tim says flatly.

“Returning it,” Neal corrects cheerfully, and somehow isn’t surprised when the semantic difference fails to appease him. “Really, it’ll be like you never stole it at all!”

“That’s—” Robin looks like he can’t even decide what words could possibly be appropriate. “That doesn’t—”

Neal smiles brighter as he watches Robin struggle for an objection other than that’s illegal.

He knows exactly what the kid’s thinking; the same training that birthed this Robin birthed two before him. The Bat might not any respect for search and seizure laws, or coerced confessions, but he would never have countenanced planting evidence.

He watches the kid carefully, smile never wavering. If any part of this is an act, he wants to know now.

(And if he really is the perfect obedient partner that B had always wanted— this, this is where it would show. And he wants to know that too.)

But Robin just— breathes for a moment, the string of the hoodie wrapped tight enough around his finger that the flesh is white.

There are a million thoughts going inside that head, Neal’s sure of it, but he can’t read them.

And then Tim drops his head a little and lets the string go slack.

“I… Most of the kryptonite is out of reach,” he says. “Somewhere safe. But I still have the plates from Chad Stewart. I stashed them with a friend before I went to meet you. Just, you know. In case.”

It’s a peace offering. There’s a tightness to his shoulders that tells Neal he’s not… happy about the plan, but he’s trusting them.

(Trusting him.)

Neal lets himself soften a little bit. “Think of it as a gray area,” he says quietly, aware as ever of Sara and Mozzie listening. “This isn’t exactly a normal case for us either.” 

I understand, he means. And: I’m trusting you, too.

Tim doesn’t smile, exactly, but his head tilts in the subtlest of nods.

Neal catches Sara’s eye and raises an eyebrow. Are you in?

In answer, she slips her hand into his.

Neal lets out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

 “Alright,” he says. “So how do we do this?”

Then:

It takes a very special kind of woman to juggle a high-stakes career and a relationship with a man whose mask is more real than his face.

Especially when that career is as a world-class cat burglar and that man is probably the most inflexible vigilante known to man.

Selina Kyle, though, managed to pull it off with style.

Dick had always been pretty ambivalent towards her. The whole Batman-Catwoman relationship fluctuated between awkward and annoying (he couldn’t count how many times he’d been sent to go wait in the car while Batman, ahem, collected evidence), but it felt even stranger to be interacting with Selina the civilian.

She wasn’t like most of the other women that passed through the Manor— she lasted more than a couple of days, for one. And for another, she actually knew The Secret, so he didn’t need to worry nearly as much about keeping up appearances.

They didn’t really interact much on either side of their lives, but when they did, she was nice enough, he guessed. Asked about his school, his acrobatics. Smirked at his lame jokes. Even tried to give him a kitten, once, although B had nixed that one before it happened.

Still, to say that he was surprised when, on the dawn of his second week of bed rest, Selina appeared in his doorway in one of her slinky dresses, arms full of shopping bags, would be an understatement.

“Hey, kiddo,” she said, breezing in without bothering to wait for permission. “Wow, you look like crap.”

That was one of the things he did like about Selina— she didn’t treat him differently just because he was a kid.

“I’m fine,” he said, knowing that it was a lie, and a stupid one too. Selina could see the mountains of bandages and the plaster and the half-drained IV stand as well as he could. Better, probably, seeing as he could barely sit up by himself. But maybe— maybe if he said it enough, it would make it true. And then he could prove to B that he could still carry out the Mission, that he could still be Robin, that he could be better.

And he could. He could be better. As soon as he was healed enough, he could start proving it. And then B would change his mind, he was sure of it.

“Mhm,” Selina said, not even bothering with skepticism. “Here, I have something for you.”

“Is it stolen?” he asked dubiously, even as he painfully began to scootch into an upright position. Selina helped him without a word, her hands gentle but strong. He appreciated that she didn’t feel the need to make a big deal out of it.

“You boys,” she sniffed, smoothing the sheets around his waist with a surprisingly practiced hand, “So picky. You know, the polite thing to do when someone gives you a gift is to say thank you.”

Dick pouted at her, eyes big as he could make them. He knew how pathetic he must look.

Selina wasn’t impressed.

“Here,” she said, plucking one of the bags off the floor and settling it in his lap. “And before you get your shorts in a twist, it’s all legally bought and paid for with my hard-earned money.”

Money which she’d probably stolen, but whatever. He wasn’t exactly in the vigilante business at the moment, so it wasn’t his problem.

Still, he looked in the bag with some trepidation. She was—sort of—a criminal, and even though Dick didn’t think she’d hurt him, she was also kind of really weird sometimes.

But in the bag, all he found was—

“Paper?” he said questioningly, pulling out the… drawing pad? It was pretty high quality, the kind of paper that even felt fancy under his fingers.

“Pencils, too.” Selina had her chin propped on one hand, green eyes practically glowing in the light from the half-open window. “And some charcoals, but I wouldn’t recommend using those in bed. They can get pretty messy, and I don’t think Alfred would appreciate charcoals ground into his nice clean bedsheets.”

The mention of Alfred reminded him— He really did have manners, so he said, “Thanks, Selina, this is really nice. But, um… why?”

Selina shrugged. “Thought you could use a distraction. I’ve been laid up before. Wasn’t much fun. Drawing helped me take my mind off of it for a little while.”

“Thanks,” Dick said again and forced himself to smile. It was strange— he’d spent so long wishing for just a little company, and now that Selina was here, he kind of just wanted her to go away. But he thought that was pretty ungrateful after she’d brought him a present and everything.

Luckily, she seemed to sense that he wasreaching the end of his energy, and she just smiled and stood gracefully. “I’ll let you sleep,” she said “Feel better, Tweety.” 

(Or maybe it was ‘Sweetie’— with Selina, it could have been either.)

Before she left, she helped him lie back down. He tucked the pad into the shelf of his nightstand and let her help him tuck the blankets back down around him. It was awkward, but— nice. His mom used to do that for him when he was sick. 

Not that Selina was his mom. Or, you know, anything like that.

Before she left, she drew her fingers through his hair once, lightly, more like he was one of her cats than anything else. Dick’s eyes burned and he immediately regretted wanting her to leave.

But she was already gone.

Now:

By the second hour of Mozzie and Tim arguing yet another obscure point of the security system (or rather, Mozzie arguing while Tim listens intently and occasionally asks a question that, while not outright challenging, sends Mozzie down a whole new path of diatribe. Neal hasn’t yet decided whether Tim is subtly fishing for information or just being a brat), Neal needs a break. He excuses himself quietly and slips into the kitchen while the two of them are distracted discussing redundant security loops.

He’s gratified but not surprised when Sara follows.

“So,” she starts, leaning against the counter as he rummages through the refrigerator for a bottle of water (if he’s ever needed his wits about him, it’s now). “Kryptonite.” Her tone says it all.

“Kryptonite,” Neal agrees, a little rueful.

“I thought you were working on a gem case?” Sara says and it’s pointed, but Neal doesn’t take offense. Trust is something they’re working on and, today of all days, he’d be the worst kind of hypocrite if he begrudged her that.

“We were,” he admits, “and then things got— complicated. Look, Sara, this is all really hush-hush, okay? Peter had to pull a lot of strings just to keep the case from being taken over by black book secret task force.”

Sara bites her lip as she glances back out at the balcony, where Tim and Mozzie are still arguing intently. At some point, Tim had migrated from sitting in the chair like a normal person to kneeling on the seat, sneakers poking out the back slat, all his weight on his elbows where he’s leaning over the small collection of maps and diagrams Mozzie has acquired. He’s still wearing his sunglasses (neither Moz nor Sara have commented) and that ratty, oversized hoodie, and all together, it makes him look… like a kid.

Well, he is a kid. Which, on some level, Neal knows. It’s just strange to think about, knowing what Neal does about his extracurriculars.

He remembers—was it really only a few months ago?—seeing Superboy and thinking how very young sixteen really was. Biologically speaking, Tim is probably even a few months younger than Superboy had appeared. And yet it’s hard to picture him that way. Robin is a kid, yes, but he’s also so much… more.

Sara doesn’t know that. All she sees is a kid who’s barely shaving (if at all) and who is already being hunted by cops and criminals and shady government organizations.

“This plan…” she murmurs.

“It will work,” Neal says certainly.

“And after?” Sara turns those keen green eyes on him.

“Carlisle will go away for a long, long time,” he tells her. “And if everything goes according to plan, so will his supplier.”

Sara huffs out. “And, what, Alvin just walks away? Goes back to stealing kryptonite?”

“Chad had the last of the kryptonite that Carlisle has already sold,” Neal says, deliberately misunderstanding. “As soon as we have that supplier, it should be off the street for good.”

Her eyes narrow. “Neal.”

He winces. “Sara…”

“You have to convince him to turn himself in.”

Talk about worst-case scenario. “That’s not going to happen.”

The beginnings of a frown stretch across Sara’s face, and Neal hurries on, “Look, Sara, I know he didn’t exactly go about it the— legal way, but he was trying to help people. That has to count for something, right?”

Sara throws up her hands. “It doesn’t work like that! He’s not some sort of— of vigilante—”

Oh, if only she knew.

“—and neither are you! Just— what do you think Peter would say?”

Neal can imagine all too well. But that’s not the point. “Sara, I can promise you, there’s no way he’d ever turn himself in for this.”

She opens her mouth then closes it again, leaning back against the counter. “Look,” she says finally, leaning back against the counter. “I get it. He’s just a kid and he’s in trouble and he came to you for help. You don’t want to turn him in. Neal, I get it. But that’s exactly why you’ve got to talk to him. This is dangerous, Neal. You know that.”

Neal looks away. She doesn’t— She can’t know how close to home her words are hitting. Or— no, she does, but not the why.

She’s earnest and impassioned and far too good for him when she says, “This is your chance to show him there's another way.”

He swallows through the blockage in his throat, presses his foot back against the front of the counter until he can feel the edges of the ankle digging painfully into his skin. “Well,” he says quietly, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. “I'm not exactly a role model.”

Sara steps in close, lays a hand against his chest, and he bows his head in near enough to breath in the spicy-smooth scent of her perfume.

“You're probably the closest thing he has.”

Then:

Doctor Leslie said the most important things he needed to heal were time, and rest.

Time, he had plenty of— too much of, the days stretching out before him with no light at the end of the tunnel. Even once he’d been cleared to move around on his own (slowly, painfully, leaning on walls and, whenever he had the time, Alfred), he tired easily. Most of his days were still spent in bed, or walking slow, repetitive circles around the upper east wing.

He didn’t see B, and he couldn’t bear to ask Alfred.

So it was just him, and all the empty, empty time.

Rest was harder to come by.

The nightmares were back, worse than they’d been since those first few awful months after his parents died.

Only this time, it wasn’t his parents lying broken and bloody on the ground. 

It was him.

(Not Good Enough.)

It was the judge, drowning instead of hanging because of his stupid gamble.

(Not Good Enough.)

It was Two-Face, raising the blood-speckled bat for the final blow.

(Not Good Enough.)

It was all the villains, the killers, all their worst foes, laughing over his grave as soil rained down in his face, his eyes, down his throat, and he choked himself awake.

(NOT GOOD ENOUGH!)

A few nights after Selina’s unexpected visit, he woke up gasping, his sleep shirt soaked through with cold sweat.

He reached clumsily for his nightstand, for the glass of water that Alfred had left for him, but before he could find it, his hand bumped against the top corner of the sketchbook where it stuck out a bit.

He managed to find the switch for the lamp, and then, the water. When he’d washed the taste of grave dirt out of his mouth, he’d replaced the glass but hesitated before he turned off the light again.

He didn’t really want to try sleeping again. And it would be rude, wouldn’t it, if Selina came to visit again and he hadn’t even touched her presents?

Carefully, he maneuvered the pad and the box of pencils (not the charcoals, he didn’t want to risk Alfred’s disapproving face) up and into the bed. Sitting up enough to get a good angle was a bigger challenge, but he managed it with some painful wriggling.

Luckily, the box of pencils were the pre-sharpened kind. It was only once he pressed the tip of the lead against the thick paper that he realized he had no idea what he was doing.

He actually did know how to draw; Batman had made sure of that. Being able to accurately recreate scenes—and faces—was an indispensable skill for a detective. But those had been lessons in observation and reproduction. They’d been about replicating exactly what he saw, and only what he saw. Just the facts, not his feelings or interpretations. It had been a surprisingly difficult skill to learn.

But now, with pure white terrain stretched out across his lap, he had no idea where to start.

He casted around for inspiration, and his eyes fell on the framed painting that had hung on the far wall since long before he moved into the Manor. Heck, it had probably been there longer than Alfred.

It was nothing too special, just a portrait of some lady in an old-fashioned dress reading a book at a table. It couldn’t have been anything too interesting either, because she looked just about as exhausted as he felt.

He approached it like another crime scene; he traced every line, every detail, let himself unfocus to see the full picture.

His technical skill was fantastic for someone his age (hand-eye coordination is a definite must for a vigilante who jumps off literal rooftops), but when he looked at the finished product, it wasn’t quite… right, somehow. There was the woman, the book, the table, but looking at it, he felt… nothing. It was missing something.

Frustrated, he flipped to the next page, nearly tearing it in the process. He licked the pencil (a habit that he’d picked up from Alfred that even he thought was pretty gross but couldn’t seem to stop) and began again.

The second attempt was no better than the first.

By the third, he’d got the proportions worked out a little better so that her hand no longer seemed to be as big as her head.

By the fourth, he’d started experimenting with holding the pencil at different angles, scraping the flat of the lead against the paper rather than the tip to better mimic the texture of the original oil paints. That one was admittedly messier on the actual shapes and lines, but he was still pleased with it.

He fell asleep halfway through the fifth and, for once, the nightmares stayed away.

Now:

For all that Tim is clearly still not entirely comfortable with the plan, he offers useful suggestions. More than once, they’re exactly the same suggestions that Neal himself would have made.

Which is disconcerting, but. Makes sense. They’re products of the same training.

Well, not exactly the same; clearly, Tim’s training has had a much heavier focus on the computer sciences and cutting-edge technology, whereas Dick’s had a lot more… somersaults.

Tim is also pretty clearly a prodigy in more than a few fields but, Neal notices with some amusement, he is also very clearly a sixteen-year-old boy. 

This is made especially clear when Sara suggests a rather… unorthodox ploy to get security to let her up to Carlisle’s office and Tim is suddenly unable to look her in the eye without turning a rather distinct shade of red. It’s actually kind of adorable how embarrassed he is, especially since Neal knows for a fact that Tim would have met actual hookers before.

He also seems consistently more amused than offended by Mozzie’s antics, which have been thankfully restrained thus far.

They actually have a decent outline of a plan when Neal’s phone rings. He glances at the screen.

“It’s Peter,” he says. “My handler.” Like Tim—or rather, Alvin—didn’t already know that.

The others fall silent as he answers the call. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” Peter says, like in the age of caller ID, Neal genuinely might not have known who was calling. “I need you in the office. We’ve got a lead.”

“A lead?” Neal says, giving the others a warning glance. “On Draper?”

“Not exactly,” Peter says. “One of the jewelers broke— told us where they got the K in the first place. You ever heard the name Thomas Carlisle before?”

“Thomas Carlisle?” Neal repeats for the others’ benefit. “No, doesn’t sound familiar. Who is he?”

“I’ll brief you when you get here,” Peter promises. “Unless— You got anything? Any word on the street where Alvin might be?”

Neal looks Tim in the face and the little shit actually quirks an eyebrow at him.

“No,” he says evenly. “The streets don't seem to know where he's disappeared to.”

Peter grunts. “Alright. Have Mozzie keep his ears open. I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah,” Neal agrees, and listens to the click as Peter hangs up before turning to the others.

“Well,” he says. “Sounds like we just got our first step towards probable cause. I’ve got to go into the office. You guys okay to keep working till I get back?”

Tim and Mozzie scoff in unison, and Sara rolls her eyes. “I’ll keep an eye on them,” she says dryly, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “Go.”

He gives himself just a second to savor it, and then he reaches for his hat and flips it onto his head.

“I’ll be back as quick as I can,” he says, and then, only half joking, “Don’t commit any crimes without me.”

Sara’s flick over to the table and then back to him. “With these two? Better hurry.”

Then:

He really couldn’t explain, if asked, why he hid the sketchpad from everyone.

(Even if in this case, ‘everyone’ was just Alfred and Leslie.)

But he did.

He’d figured out years ago that there was just enough space between the underside of his nightstand’s drawer and the frame beneath where something flat and thin could be hidden.

For a while, he’d used it as a place to hide the thing that was the most valuable to him—his prized Flying Graysons poster, the only thing he really had left of his parents and his home—but as he’d grown more comfortable in the Manor, he’d consented to have Alfred hang it up where he could see it every day.

Now, its hiding place was occupied by the rapidly-filling sketch book.

It wasn’t just the bored lady anymore either; as his mobility slowly started to return, he branched out, wandering the long-disused wings until he found some family heirloom that caught his eye.

He tried drawing from life a few times, too; the view out of his window, Alfred, his own face in the mirror, but there was still that feeling of not right-ness.

He’d thought that his interest would wane as he moved further into recovery and Leslie finally okayed him to start physical therapy, but it didn’t; he spent his days pushing (punishing) himself physically and his nights soothing down the rough edges with soothing strokes of charcoal on paper (Selina was right, they were much more messy, but he kind of liked that. It made the edges feel softer, mistakes less glaring.)

As for Selina, her second visit was just as unexpected as her first.

It had been ages (literally ages, his fourteenth birthday had passed with little fanfare, though Alfred had done his best to make it a pleasant occasion) since she first dropped off the supplies when she reappeared in the Manor, this time in a large floppy hat and wrap-around sundress, with strappy heels and large dark sunglasses that reminded him a lot of her ‘work’ goggles.

“Hey, bird boy,” she said (he didn’t flinch). “You’re looking a lot better.”

“Thanks,” he said shortly. He felt like talking less and less these days, like the more his body healed, the more his throat closed up.

She leans in, peering at him through those ridiculous sunglasses. “Big Bad Bat still brooding?” she asked knowingly.

This time, Dick did flinch. He didn’t want to talk about— Him.

He cast around quickly for something to change the subject. “Thanks again for the paper and stuff,” he mumbled. “It was really nice.”

“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow and let the other thing—Him—slide. “Glad to hear you liked it. Do I get to see any of your work, or is it secret?”

Dick hesitated, but—if there was anyone who had a right to ask, it would be her, wouldn’t it? And—not that it really mattered, or anything, but—she wouldn’t tell either. That wasn’t the kind of person she was.

So he said, “Sure. Wait here,” and ran (actually ran, and how good it was to be able to do that again!) up to grab the sketchpad from its hiding place.

Selina was silent at first, flipping through, which was—well, it was stupid, he didn’t really care what people thought, he was only doing it to distract himself anyways, but it was kind of—nerve-wracking. Some part of him wanted to snatch the pad back, tell her that it was stupid, that it was just scribbles anyways, but she looked up before he could with a strange expression on her face.

“Dick, this is beautiful,” she said, and it was flat, with none of her usual sly affectation. “Did you do this freehand?”

Dick squirmed a little under her gaze. “Um, not exactly,” he muttered. “I usually, um, look at, like, some of the old paintings and stuff around here and just copy those. So, you know.”

“You’re very talented,” Selina told him, her fingers hovering gently above the bored woman’s face (eighth attempt, and he’d finally gotten her face just right), and it actually sounded genuine, which was— weird. It made him feel weird inside, kind of all squiggly.

After a moment, Selina closed the book and went to hand it back, but he suddenly found that he didn’t want that.

“No,” he said, thrusting the sketchpad back at her roughly. “You should keep it.”

Selina looked surprised and for a second, he thought she was going to reject it, but then her fingers closed around the pad carefully, as if it was something fragile and precious.

“Thank you, Dick,” she said softly and then, suddenly, Catwoman was back, sultry and mischievous. “You know, if you ever decide that a six-figure allowance isn’t big enough, I know a few people who would pay quite a lot for such lovely, ah… copies of their favorite works.” She winked at him so outrageously that he couldn’t help but laugh a little, rough and out-of-practice.

Robin—or former Robin, in any case—as a full-on criminal? A petty forger at that?

Like that would ever happen.

Chapter Text

He knew the deal was a bad idea from the moment Caffrey proposed it. It was tempting in all the worst ways, the kind of ways that risked him falling back on… call them old habits.

From the time when he was a little boy, Peter Burke has always loved puzzles.

Back when he was just a wet-behind-the-ears probie in the DC Art Crimes Unit, the other agents had teased him a little for being so serious, so obsessive, so engrossed in each new mystery that crossed his desk. 

They’d even had a nickname for him:

 The Archeologist. 

It had been more than a little embarrassing, but it wasn’t exactly inaccurate. That was who he was. Still is. Someone who’d dig, dig, dig for the truth.

The nickname didn’t follow him to New York (which he was grateful for), but the obsessiveness did. He’d started as a junior agent, highly-recommended but still relatively untested. Within only a few short months, he had already begun to build a reputation as a cool head under fire, a skilled undercover agent, and, above all, a keen mind for making connections in seconds that would take more senior agents weeks or months. By the end of his second year in New York, he’d lost the junior in front of agent. By the end of his third, he was running lead on cases (nothing high-profile, but still).

And then—by chance or by fate—one day a seemingly innocuous bond forgery case was pretty much dropped in his lap, setting in motion a chain of events that would lead to things that Peter Burke, The Archaeologist never could have expected.

At first, it really was just another case; the forger was surprisingly skilled, and Peter would be the first to admit that it was more luck than police work that the forgeries had been noticed in the first place, but otherwise the investigation was very straightforward. He canvassed the banks where the bonds had been redeemed, talked to the tellers, and collected the security footage. Not much luck there, so he expanded his canvassing, went for the banks that their forger hadn’t hit yet, but that fit the criteria.

He was just walking out after another swing and miss when a handsome, smiling young man with dark hair and that perfect guilelessness in his brilliant blue eyes stopped him on the sidewalk.

Agent Peter Burke walked away from that conversation with a sucker and a feeling that he couldn’t quite put into words.

It would take him another year to put a name—any name, no matter how fake—to the face, but that was where it really all began. On a sunny New York sidewalk with a smile and a sucker (and in addition to that, some candy on a stick).

That was where it began, and it would continue over half a decade, through heists and capers, cons and stakeouts, chases and aliases. It would continue over thousands of man-hours, over piles of records and boxes of inconclusive evidence.

It would even continue through that one last sting, through the arrest and interrogation. Through the trial. Through the sentencing.

For any other case, it would have ended there. Should have ended there. The perp was put away, justice was done, Agent Burke’s role was finished.

But he’d spent so long in that mindset, hunting Neal Caffrey, the One Who Got Away, that it was hard to turn it off. He’d show up at a crime scene and find himself wondering how Caffrey would have done it, if he’d been there. Or he’d hear about some painting that had vanished from a gallery and catch himself automatically reaching for the most recently updated Caffrey file.

The file that wasn’t there anymore, because that case was closed.

Caffrey’s wasn’t the first case that got under his skin, and it certainly wasn’t the last, but it was the one that dug its claws in the deepest; why, Peter couldn’t entirely say, even now. Maybe it had been his age, just a little bit, in the beginning. Maybe it was the wasted potential Peter still sees every time he looks at this brilliant, creative man that he’d knowingly sent to waste away in the suffocating mundanity of prison. Maybe it was some pseudo-paternal instinct, something to do with the way that such a confident, self-assured individual could still be so clearly longing for approval.

Or maybe it was more to do with Peter himself, with the way that he’d never met someone who challenged him so constantly, who matched him wit for wit without breaking stride. Maybe it’s because no matter how old he gets, Peter Burke will still always love a good puzzle.

And Neal Caffrey is a puzzle that he may never fully solve.

In all those years of chasing and searching, there were some blanks that were never filled. Not even a hint.

His past, for one, was an untouchable void.

No hint of where he came from, not a single detail of his life before the age of 18, as if Neal Caffrey had sprung fully-formed into the world of crime and confidence schemes. No whisper of any family, or how such a brilliant kid could have ended up on such an illegal path.

(No clue as to how he’d gotten the scars that he hides under suits and silks.)

He’d resigned himself to the mystery, to never having the answers. To leaving the puzzle unsolved, no matter how it pained him.

He’d put away the file and spent almost four years thinking about it only rarely. He’d moved on to other mysteries, other cases, and done his best to put Neal Caffrey behind him.

And then this.

The universe has a hell of a sense of humor sometimes.

For those first few hours—maybe even the first full day—there had been a window where he’d really believed his own insistence that it would all be perfectly professional, your standard handler-CI relationship.

Well. 

Thinking back on it now, it makes him want to chuckle a little, wryly.

When have Neal Caffrey and Peter Burke ever had a standard, professional relationship? Even back when the relationship had been cat-and-mouse, cop-and-robber, it had still been strange and a little too personal and undeniably unorthodox. 

Most criminals didn’t send their pursuers birthday cards. Or pizza to the surveillance vans. Or, on one memorable occasion, a subscription to a caviar-of-the-month club, paid for with Peter’s own credit card.

(He’d been able to get the charges reversed, but only after the first two months’ deliveries had already arrived and El had enjoyed them so much, so— It hadn’t been that expensive to reorder.)

And all that had been on Neal’s end; Peter’s side of things had been (as he consistently maintained) considerably more professional, but (as he would grudgingly admit) equally as dysfunctional.

Neal Caffrey is a conundrum. A cipher he can’t crack, a puzzle that he can’t solve, a mystery that doesn’t end just because he’s been caught. If anything, the mystery only gets deeper the more that Peter learns about him.

Neal Caffrey is an enigma.

Neal Caffrey is a bad habit.

There’s a box in his closet, still, that El wryly calls his ‘Caffrey collection’. All the things that he came across while hunting for Caffrey that there was no reason to log into evidence officially: brochures for places he’d stayed; brochures for places he’d robbed; the receipt for a suspiciously timed coffee delivery to the stakeout van that Peter had never been able to prove was from Neal; and of course, those damn corks.

He doesn’t look in it very often anymore—he doesn’t, the last time was when he was considering whether or not to take him up on the anklet deal, and that was perfectly legitimate research—but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t think about it occasionally. That he doesn’t find himself watching Neal doodle on the edge of a form and wonder if the old man with the neat mustache and unimpressed expression is something from Neal’s overactive imagination, or someone he really knows. Maybe even someone from that mysterious past of his.

That every time Neal lets some new little detail slip, he doesn’t catch himself surreptitiously taking notes. And then, later, obsessing over it, to the point that El has to gently remind him that Neal isn’t actually the criminal he’s supposed to be chasing.

(For now, Peter thinks, sometimes, when he’s at his wits end and the handcuffs in his pocket seem heavier than usual. He tries so hard to show Neal that there’s a better way, but— he’s just so Neal.)

As always, El’s not wrong; sometimes he does go a little too far. Digs past what he can reasonably justify as Caffrey’s handler. Forgets that Neal is his partner, not his case.

And when the real case is something like this, he can’t afford to be distracted.

It had started as something almost fun.

Neal might be his favorite puzzle, but he’s not the only one. This new thief is fun in a way that he hasn’t seen in a long time. It really is like chasing Neal all over again, but with the added bonus that this time, he also gets to have Neal on his side.

Not that he’d ever mention that last part to Neal— it’s far more fun needling him, watching him get jealous and refuse to admit it.

So yeah, it was all fun and games until Neal took one look at one photograph, and saw something that no one else in the entire Bureau could have seen on their own.

Literally— the first thing that Peter did when they got back to the office was call a friend of a friend over in Metropolis because he literally could not think of a single person in New York who had the expertise to confirm Neal’s intel.

It wasn’t the only time that Neal seemed to know things that he had no business knowing.

I wouldn’t know. I think they have, like, satellites or something.

Yeah, right. Peter has heard that tone of shifty non-engagement far too many times. He just thanks his lucky stars that whatever it is that Neal once considered stealing from the Justice League (the Justice League! Really, Neal?), he clearly never went through with it.

Peter shudders at the thought of Neal—impulsive, nonviolent Neal—locked up with the kind of monsters that the League puts away.

But then, the monsters aren’t the only thing to fear; if you ask Peter, the jailers are just as bad.

Not the League— while Peter might disapprove of some of the methods of some of their members, overall he accepts that the Justice League is a necessary shield between innocents and the kinds of threats that are far beyond the realm of Agent Burke and his gun and badge. Most of them, they really are heroes, and he can’t even begin to imagine how much they sacrifice to do it.

But.

The Justice League is independent of any government or nation. Their priority is protecting people, removing dangerous threats. Not everyone agrees with their priorities. 

“You know I have to inform the appropriate agencies,” Hughes had said, his expression making clear his opinion on the subject. “Kryptonite is a Class X regulated substance. Hell, they made a whole new category just for this shit. I’m obligated to report that—”

“That what?” Peter had demanded, grasping at straws.”Sir, we haven’t recovered any kryptonite. We haven’t even seen any real kryptonite. This is all still just theoretical.”

One craggy brow hauled upwards. “You think Caffrey’s wrong?”

Well, no, but—

“Neal’s good,” Peter admitted, “but he’s not infallible. If he was, we never would have caught him, would we?”

“But you think he’s wrong this time,” Hughes pressed.

Peter planted his hands on the desk. “I think that this is our case, Reese. I think that our perp is a kid, and we don’t know all of what he’s into, but maybe neither does he. I think that if those guys get their hands on him—no matter what he actually knows—that kid is gonna disappear. You know just as well as I do that they can do that.”

Better, probably; in his whole career, Peter has had one case that fell into the jurisdiction of what Jones likes to call the Men in Black. He has no idea how many Hughes must have seen over the course of his career and he’s pretty sure that, even if he asked, Reese wouldn’t be allowed to tell him. 

The lines around his eyes had deepened, and Hughes looked his age in a way that he rarely did.

“It’s worth more than just my badge if I don’t report this,” he said heavily, “but I’ll buy you as much time as I can. But, Peter— if any of this gets out past the team, I won’t be able to stop them from claiming jurisdiction. Do you understand?”

“I do,” he’d vowed.

That promise had been a lot easier to make before their trap misfired so dramatically. Now Peter has a very public disaster with plenty of rich, gossipy witnesses, even more kryptonite in the hands of a literal teenager, a partner who’s somehow even jumpier than before, and few leads.

If Agents Smith and Smith showed up now, it would just be the icing on a very headache-inducing cake.

He has the news running in the background as he works, ears peeled for the slightest hint that the media might have gotten wind of the failed sting or, worse, the still-unaccounted-for kryptonite.

So far, no luck. The most interesting thing he’s heard in the past hour is some idiot who’d been arrested in Queens for stealing pets from people’s backyards and trying to sell them to local pet shops.

“…will be facing 16 charges of theft, and multiple additional charges for attempted sale of stolen property— some of which, according to an NYPD spokesman, are unrelated to Johnson’s petnapping spree. Emilia Vorse, whose 3-year-old Lab, Donnie, went missing last Thursday, has stated that while she is glad to know that the culprit has been arrested, she is even more relieved to finally have Donnie brought home safely…”

He tunes out again, both reassured and… disappointed, too.

It’s a good thing, obviously, that no one’s caught the scent. Lets them keep the fragile arrangement that keeps the case on their desks.

But at the same time, with no leads to act on, it also leaves him too much time to brood on the case.

And on Neal.

He can’t quite get it out of his head; it’s that old itch, The Archeologist, that need to dig and dig. To fit every piece to the puzzle.

He’s not in it for the money, but he grew up surrounded by enough wealth to know how those kinds of people think. He has training, a mentor, but he’s starting to strike out on his own. Push the boundaries. He has a mission of some kind, one that only he knows, and he’s not going to stop until he completes it.

Will he get bolder?

That’s what I did.

For all that they’d teased Neal about the similarities between him and their perp, Peter had never really expected Neal to be willing to acknowledge it.

And the rest of it— what did that mean for the rest of it?

He’d asked because—teasing aside—they all knew that Neal had more insight into someone like this than any of them ever could. But this… it felt almost too specific. Personal.

And while Peter would bet his boots that it’s true of their perp, that doesn’t mean he’s the only one it’s true of.

He’s not in it for the money, but he grew up surrounded by enough wealth to know how those kinds of people think.

Peter’s always wondered exactly what kind of background Neal came from.

The prevailing psychology holds that people like Neal, people obsessed with the kind of luxury that Neal surrounds himself with, people who take such care to present themselves as cultured and sophisticated, most of those people came from impoverished or disadvantaged backgrounds. It’s usually an attempt to reinvent themselves, to distance themselves from a past that was painful, or shameful.

But Peter’s never been sure. Painful, he can believe. That Neal is running from something, he has no doubt. 

But there’s always been a part of Neal that is a little too comfortable in the limelight. A part of him that doesn’t just like attention, but expects it.

And the comment about a mentor… Where had that come from? They hadn’t found any hints of an accomplice in the kryptonite thefts, no contacts, nothing.

So where the hell was Neal getting that from?

Once, he might have believed that Mozzie filled that role in Neal’s life, but he knows them both well enough now to know better.

Mozzie might have mentored a young Neal in some aspects of criminality, but more than anything, they are equals. They each have their areas of expertise, complimentary but not identical.

Besides, the things that Neal seems to just know go far beyond what even Mozzie could have taught him.

And so Peter’s always kind of assumed that Neal is self-taught, an autodidact with no compunctions against taking lessons from whoever he might encounter.

But this… the implication that there, at some point, was a mentor figure who taught him, who shaped him— Peter isn’t sure what to think.

He probably shouldn’t think about the scars that Neal refuses to talk about. He shouldn’t think about the fact that they’re faded, old— years old, maybe even decades.

Shouldn’t think about the fact that he knows that by the time Neal was eighteen, he already knew how to crack world-class security and lie better than a politician.

Because when he does, when he thinks about all those things, the picture they make is very…

Well, it’s very Oliver Twist.

It’s not a picture that Peter likes very much.

He picks up the coffee that has long since gone cold, and tries to force himself to focus on bitter taste, the jumble of papers in front of him, the rhythmic patter of the news reporter.

“Police are baffled after the discovery of the body of a 23 year old man in the Bronx. The deceased, who police have identified as Raul Gonzales, was discovered on North Brother Island off the southern edge of the Bronx on Friday. According to a source in the NYPD, the body appeared to have been impaled—”

“Cheerful,” Neal comments from the doorway, and Peter jerks hard enough to send a spray of coffee droplets across the front of his shirt.

“Christ,” he swears, scrabbling uselessly for something to clean it up. Neal produces a handkerchief—an honest-to-god linen handkerchief—from seemingly nowhere and Peter accepts it immediately. “I should put a bell on you.”

“You called?” Neal says innocently.

It doesn’t take long to fill him in on the new information because, quite honestly, there isn’t much; Carlisle’s name is a start, but there’s just not enough for action. It doesn’t matter that Carlisle is a criminal, suspected in multiple jewel thefts— until they have solid evidence linking  him to this theft, there’s only so much they can do.

Still, he’s grateful enough to have any lead that he almost doesn’t catch Neal’s reaction. Or, rather, his lack of reaction.

Oh, he nods in all the right places, asks all the right questions, and Peter can tell he is genuinely interested. But he’s digging at all the wrong places; it’s like— it’s like he’s not hearing something new, it’s like he’s just confirming details.

Peter would swear—maybe not on El’s life, but on something—that Neal had heard the name Thomas Carlisle even before Peter called him. Maybe even before Peter heard it himself.

There’s very few places Neal could have heard that name in connection with this case.

Neal has the file open in his lap, and Peter can see, clipped to the very top sheet, the single photo of their mysterious young thief as he exits into the alley.

Neal had given chase, he remembers. Stupid thing for him to do— Neal was no fighter, he didn’t even carry handcuffs, what was he expecting to do if he caught him?

But Neal had been right behind him, and the FBI had been further behind them both, and it wasn’t inconceivable that the two of them might have exchanged words. It wasn’t inconceivable that—face-to-face not with an up-and-coming criminal like they’d all expected, but with an actual kid—Neal might have made one of his infamous impulsive decisions.

This is Neal, after all; one of the best and most infuriating things about him is that he genuinely wants to help people. If Neal had looked at their thief and saw a kid in trouble—more importantly, a kid like him in trouble—he wouldn’t have even considered the consequences for himself.

Peter knows better than to ask outright.

“You seem distracted,” Peter says pointedly, watching Neal’s knee jiggle compulsively. Sometimes he wonders if it physically pains him to sit still. “Got somewhere else to be?”

The rhythm of his knee stutters almost imperceptibly. “No,” he says unconvincingly, and then sighs. “It’s just— Sara’s case wrapped up early, so she was going to take the day and since, you know, there’s not really much we can do here for now…”

“You want to take the day, too,” Peter says knowingly. Yes, he’s sure that’s exactly what Neal wants. Plenty of time to make contact with the thief, if he hasn’t already, for him and Mozzie to plot and scheme without Peter checking his anklet every five minutes.

He could shut this down right now, tell Neal no, or even insist on following him back to his apartment and see exactly what he finds there.

Or…

He could let this play out.

“Neal,” he says, making his voice firm. “I like the two of you together. She’s a good influence on you.”

“You think so?” Neal asks, and there’s something curious in his voice that Peter tries not to imagine is hope.

“Yeah,” he says. “Don’t be a bad influence on her.”

Something complicated flashes over Neal’s face and then his eyes suddenly flick away, to something behind Peter.

Peter half-turns before he realizes it’s the news that’s caught his attention again. There’s a Breaking News banner across the bottom of the screen, but the anchor looks far too calm for anything urgent.

“—sighted in New York? We go now to Jenny Gibson on the scene.”

“Thanks, Rashmi. As of half an hour ago, we have confirmed reports that Robin the Boy Wonder and the Superboy have been sighted right here in New York. This sighting—coming so soon after the Boy of Steel was spotted with the teen speedster Impulse in Metropolis—has sparked rumors that this might be the start of a new attempt to create a super-team for sidekicks.

“Superheroes have always been controversial figures— their often-underage sidekicks, even more so. Parent groups and child advocates have long decried what they see as child endangerment and even, some have gone so far as to say, the creation of child soldiers. While no League-affiliated hero has ever expressly condemned the practice, most Leaguers—even a few who are mentors themselves—avoid actively endorsing underage superheroes.”

“The first known attempt at a Sidekicks’ League was back in 2000. After an incident in the small town of Hatton Corners, prominent sidekicks including Wonder Girl, Kid Flash, and Aqualad announced their intention to form a new teen crime-fighting team, independent of the Justice League and their individual mentors. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on your opinion on underage vigilanteism—their aspiration lasted only a handful of weeks before the new Young Justice League apparently disbanded for good.

“In the years since, there have been several attempts at teenage team-ups, but none have lasted more than a few weeks.

“None of the sidekicks involved have ever commented on why the Junior League failed, but many commentators have noticed that the formation—and dissolution— of the new Junior League overlapped with a period of sudden rollbacks for sidekicks in America. Over the course of six months or so, over half of all sidekicks disappeared at least temporarily from public view.

“Kid Flash and Speedy—the Green Arrow’s protégé—were among those who vanished shortly after the failure of the Junior League, only to reappear on the streets a few months later. Kid Flash discussed this period only once, speaking at an interview in his native Central City a few years ago.”

A picture flashed on the screen of a— well, he was a kid. Couldn’t be older than 20, wearing goggles and a yellow leather half-cowl that does nothing to hide the bob of his prominent Adam’s apple.

“Yeah, uh, I can’t really talk about that too much,” he says, looking incredibly uncomfortable. There’s something slightly blurred about his image, like maybe he was fidgeting just slightly too fast for the news camera’s frame-rate to handle. “All I can say is that things were pretty… tough, for a while there. Flash, he— they all just wanted to keep us safe. I’m not gonna say they went about it the right way, but, like… I can understand where they were coming from? But I think all of us—the, you know, sidekicks—we’ve proven that we’ve earned the right to be here. We’ve earned the right to decide for ourselves and do what we think is right. For ourselves, and for the people that we’ve lost. And the adults figured that out after a couple months.”

The image flicks back to the reporter, her expression calm and professional.

“Senator Demetria Greenberg of New York addressed the issue of underage vigilantes at a fundraising event last week.”

This time, no video; just the soundbite and the transcript flashing up on the screen.

“If this was the Sudan, we’d call them child soldiers. If this was Syria, we’d be calling the Hague. But this is America, and we let these children walk into situations where they have to make terrible, unimaginable decisions. The kinds of decisions that haunt grown men and women for the rest of their lives. These are kids. It’s our duty to protect them, not the other way around. They should be going to school, hanging out with their friends, making the kinds of mistakes that don’t have lives on the line. They should be safe, and loved, and protected. There are enough kids that don’t have that as it is, how can we watch this happen to good kids and do nothing? These are kids. They should get to be kids.”

Peter’s finger finds the power button and the picture compresses to black and silence.

Neal is being uncharacteristically quiet. When Peter glances at him, his gaze is still fixed on the blank TV screen, his expression drawn, though not in a tense way. If anything, he looks almost… sad. Maybe even a little guilty, which is not an emotion many people would be able to identify on Neal Caffrey’s face.

After a moment, his gaze drops to his lap. The picture of the young thief is still clipped to the top, and Neal traces the edge with a single finger.

Peter can guess what he’s thinking.

“What do you think of him?” he asks softly, nodding at the picture when Neal glances up at him.

Neal’s eyes flick back to the picture, and the very edge of his lips quirks up in a bitter smile.

“He's a kid having the time of his life. He's intelligent, arrogant, and has no idea how deeply in over his head he is.” Luckily, Peter doesn’t even have to say anything, Neal meets his eyes and says, more wry than reluctant, “Okay, fine. He bears a cursory resemblance to me.”

Peter lets that pass. Grudging self-awareness is better than nothing. Besides, he has bigger concerns.

“He’s just a kid,” he says, saddened himself by the truth of it. “How’d he even get into this? How does anyone get into this so young?”

It’s not—

He’s asking about Alvin. That’s all.

He’s not prying.

Neal shrugs. “How does anyone? Life doesn’t care how old you are. You fall down enough, one day you figure out you can push back.” Neal smiles, but his lips are twisted a little at the edges. “Besides. Everyone always underestimates a kid.”

Of the two of them, Peter’s not the liar; he can only tell himself that this is about Alvin Draper for so long.

Kids should be kids.

“I wonder what would've happened if I'd have caught you earlier,” he says softly.

There must have been a point where Neal still could’ve walked away. Where he hadn’t committed to this life. Where he could’ve just been a kid.

He still is a kid, in so many ways.

But not in the most important ones. His eyes are very old and very clear when he speaks. “I’ve been doing this for a long time, Peter,” he says. “And even if you did catch me early enough, it wouldn't have made a difference.” 

It’s so matter-of-fact that Peter feels his eyes widening as Neal continues, his gaze still just a touch too sharp and knowing.

“This life is a rush. It's an addiction. And you need to hit rock bottom before you can get out.”

Peter can’t stop himself from digging.

“When did you hit bottom?”

Neal Caffrey is a puzzle that Peter may never fully solve, but by now he likes to think that he’s at least glimpsed most of the important pieces. It’s fitting them together that’s the problem.

Was it prison? Kate? Fowler? Adler?

For just a second, Neal meets his eyes and Peter, for all the facts and tics and tidbits he’s put together on one Neal George Caffrey, can’t even begin to decode what he finds there.

“You know,” Neal says softly, “I really thought I knew.” His finger flicks once at the edge of the photo before he closes the folder resolutely and gives Peter a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I guess maybe I’m not as far out of it all as I thought.”

Peter thinks of forged bonds and birthday cards, of kids who never got to be kids and Nazi submarines. Thinks of cons and stings and gray areas. Thinks of addictions and obsessions. 

Of old habits and how hard it is to let them go.

Neal isn’t a kid. 

He’s a grown man who makes his own decisions, no matter how much they make Peter want to pull his hair out.

Sometimes all there is to do is let Neal dig himself into a hole— and hope that he doesn’t go so far that Peter can’t help him dig himself back out.

Chapter Text

So it starts like this:

Two conmen, an insurance investigator, and a teenage vigilante walk into an unwitting-but-still-criminal kryptonite dealer’s heavily secured building.

Neal’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know the punchline.

“What about the security footage,” Tim says without so much as a twitch at the lips. A useful skill for any would-be vigilante, but especially for anyone who has to deal with Vicki Vale.

“Not a problem,” Neal says confidently, not bothering with the same subterfuge.

After all, which is more suspicious, a man and a teenager loitering silently in the lobby of a fancy office building, or a handsome, well-dressed young man and his younger brother stepping in out of the rain for a moment?

(It’s the most logical cover story; what else should people assume, seeing the two of them together?)

The tip of his umbrella tap-taps against the gleaming granite like a cane as they carefully skirt the atrium, aiming for the discreet steel door tucked just out of view of the security desk.

Sara isn’t with them; a smaller group is less suspicious. She’ll make her own way in later— and besides, she has another task to attend to first.

(“The plan could work,” Mozzie says, not sounding in the least convinced. “Assuming the Justice League doesn’t sick their assassins on us first.”

Alright, so maybe he hasn’t entirely lost his fear of the Justice League.

Sara’s eyebrows jump up and she looks sharply at him. “I’m sorry, what now?”

“Wrong League, Moz,” Neal sighs.

Mozzie points a salt shaker at him. “That’s what they want you to think.”

“I’m sorry, wait,” Sara butts in, “assassins? The Justice League sent assassins after you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tim says, “the Justice League doesn’t have assassins. The League of Assassins sent assassins after me.”

Sara leans forward in that especially dangerous way of hers and Neal says hastily, “So the important part is that we have a plan for that too. Alvin?”

Tim’s shoulders straighten. If he wasn’t always halfway faded into the background when he’s in a group, he’d probably actually make a pretty good leader. “Here’s what we’re going to do…”)

They make it all the way back to the security door without challenge and Tim pops his umbrella without so much as breaking step. He slips into position, the umbrella angled up and to the side to block as much of the camera’s view as possible. Annoying that it’s even necessary, but Tim won’t be able to slip into the system and start the loop until he’s physically in Carlisle’s office. Carlisle’s security is top-of-the-line, LexTech. Impossible to hack remotely. Cybernetically impenetrable.

Which is probably why no one had bothered to think outside of the box when it came to the more mundane aspects of security. Like doors.

 Mozzie’s compressed air gun works a charm, punches right through 3/4 inch-thick steel with no more noise than a door closing a little loudly.

Of course, in the near-abandoned lobby, even that will be enough to attract the attention of the lone security guard at the desk, so they work fast.

Neal draws his own umbrella as Tim peeks carefully around the corner. He slips it carefully through the perfectly round hole and presses the button on the handle. It unfurls with a quiet whoosh, and Neal yanks it back towards himself so that the ribs catch the door’s push bar. It sticks for a second then surrenders.

Neal pulls the door open just far enough for Tim to slip a hand in the gap to hold it from closing on them. He doesn’t bother trying to pull the umbrella back through the way it came; instead he just shoves the handle the rest of the way through the hole and quickly reaches up to trade Tim for his umbrella. Tim relinquishes it gratefully and pries the door open just enough to squeeze his skinny frame through the crack and then haul it shut after him.

The instant it clicks shut behind him, Neal swings the umbrella down and makes a show of trying to close it just as the security guard comes around the corner.

“Hey, you can't have that open indoors.” 

He barely glances up at the guard, keeps his focus on the umbrella like the idea that he could be doing something that could get him into trouble hasn’t even crossed his mind.

“Oh, I know. It's bad luck. I've been trying to close it. The catch is stuck.” 

He fumbles at it in demonstration and the guard scowls.

“Out.” 

Neal makes a few more perfunctory protestations and then obligingly outs.

Over the comm, he can hear the controlled huff of Tim’s breath as he jogs up the access stairs. Two flights, Neal remembers from the blueprints, then down a service corridor, through a security door with a simple four-digit keypad, right past the elevator bank, then straight on until he hits the utility closet.

“Alright,” Tim says, “I’m at the junction box. Ms. Ellis, you’re up.”

When he’d made his exit, Neal had chosen the west side of the building, not as easily visible from the lobby, so he almost misses Sara’s entrance.

Luckily, Sara is a woman who is hard to miss.

The under layer she’d chosen was short enough and her perfectly-fitted trenchcoat long enough to obscure the fact that she’d traded in her usual tight pencil skirt for a pair of more practical jogging shorts. All anyone not in the know would notice are her spiky heels and long, long legs disappearing under the tan coat that only barely reaches her mid-thigh. It’s exactly the thing to drive imaginations wild, and Sara Ellis knows it.

Sara has an expression on her face that is intense but not actually murderous, so Neal guesses that Tim’s vague description of angry bald woman, looks like you could literally fry an egg on her head was enough to locate the anachronistically named ‘Prudence’.

And, judging by the lack of visible assassins or stab-wounds, the passphrase and documents Tim had provided had successfully convinced his assassin-groupie that she had a very important mission, direct from the Demon’s Daughter.

Of course, all Ms. Prudence will actually find on her mission is a lengthy wild goose chase to a vault deep within a WayneTech military research laboratory which, most unfortunately, tended to lock behind any unwary visitors. Quite the oversight, to build an impenetrable vault on a six-hour timer.

So inconvenient.

(“Why do you have access to a military research laboratory?”

“Long story.” Tim holds out a blandly professional-looking suitcase. “Remember, the passphrase is Sargon.”

“I still can’t believe she’s going by Talia Head.” Neal grumbles. “I mean, seriously? What, middle name ‘Diabolica’?”

Sara ignores him, taking the case from Tim gingerly. “And what, exactly, is this…Pru…going to find in this vault?” she asks.

Tim scratches the back of his neck. “Like, half a box of twinkies? Bart kept stealing mine, so.” He shrugs self-consciously.

Sara rubs her temple. “Of course that’s what would be in there. Great. Okay, I’m off to send an angry assassin on a snack run. See you on the other side, boys.”)

The security guard looks up as she approaches the desk, frowning slightly. The upside of doing this over the lunch hour is that Carlisle isn’t hanging around; the downside, neither is anyone else. No crowds to blend into. Few distractions that they haven’t provided for themselves.

Not that Sara needs a distraction, of course.

“Hi. I’m here for Mr. Carlisle,” Sara says smoothly, coming to a stop in front of the security desk. One hand delicately flicks a strand of auburn hair out of her face. “Mr. Luthor sent me.”

From his angle, Neal can actually see the guard stand a little bit straighter.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he says, “I don’t think Mr. Carlisle is expecting anyone from Mr. Luthor’s office…”

Sara smiles coquettishly and reaches up to undo a button, allowing just the tiniest hint of lace to peek through.

“I don’t think you understand,” she says sweetly, leaning forward over the desk. “I’m here for Mr. Carlisle.” The guard’s eyes are dragged unwittingly down, and Sara adds coyly, “Mr. Luthor rewards his friends.”

The guard’s throat bobs. “Um, right. I, uh. I’ll have to.” He clears his throat just loud enough that it carries over to Sara’s microphone. “Call his office. Let me just—”

He practically dives for the phone, and Neal suppresses his snort in favor of tapping on his comm.

“Hope you’re ready up there,” he murmurs, and Tim snorts.

“I was born ready— Hello? Yes, this is Mr. Carlisle’s office… Luthor sent her? Yes, send her up immediately. Mr. Carlisle’s been waiting for her…”

He knows Sara well enough to know that she absolutely flashes the guard a killer smile as he buzzes her up the elevator. He doesn’t blame the man for stumbling back to the desk a little too fast to notice the elevator making an unscheduled stop on the second floor.

“Nice to see you again, Ms. Ellis,” Tim says breezily, and there’s a slight echo as Sara’s mic picks up his words as well.

“Same to you, Junior,” and Neal isn’t sure whether to be amused or annoyed that Tim has apparently inherited yet another of his old nicknames (admittedly not one that with nearly as much baggage, but it’s the principle of the thing).

Of course, the indignant little noise Tim makes decides it for him in favor of amused; he wonders if this is what it would have been like if B had picked up his other strays a few years earlier.

Not the time to think about that— they have a mission.

Tim and Sara will have a three minute window to get in and set the video loop before the security guard finishes his round and checks his monitor.

Less than that now, Neal thinks as the elevator doors, presumably, beep open for them.

“Mr. Carlisle certainly has interesting taste in decor,” Sara comments.

“Peter mentioned he was a collector,” Neal agrees, checking his watch again. Two minutes until the security check.

“Some of this stuff is pretty morbid for an art collection,” Tim says. “I’m 90% sure that those doubloons are from the wreck of the Nuestra Señora del Rosario. And that statue—that’s Iraqi, probably looted. And—Jeez, I remember that, that was one of the signs from the No Man’s Land, that’s messed up. No wonder this guy gets along with Lex Luthor—”

“One minute,” Neal says sharply. “Alvin, focus. We need those cameras.”

A pause, then:

“You got it, Boss.”

Tim’s tone is mild, but Neal flinches regardless. He’s not— He doesn’t want to sound like Him. It’s just, he’s so used to being the front man, to being the one taking the risks, that it’s strange being on this end of the coms.

(Old habits— Shut up!)

“Alright,” Tim says, before Neal can fall any further down that rabbit hole. “The feed is looped. As far as anyone’s concerned, we’re not here and we never were.”

“Let’s find this safe,” Sara says, and Neal mutes his comm for a moment to just breathe. Obviously, he knows that Tim is more than qualified, and Sara can definitely look after herself, but… 

Rationally, he knows that as long as he has the anklet, he’s a liability. There’s a record of every movement he makes and while he’s been careful not to give anyone reason to be checking his GPS right now, the closer he is, the more he puts the whole mission at risk.

(He’s pretty sure Tim could’ve had the anklet off in thirty seconds flat, but he hadn’t offered and Neal hadn’t asked. After all, Neal’s a criminal and Tim’s a Bat. He doesn’t need to ask to know where the line is.)

Point is, he’s more use to them out here, keeping an eye out in case Carlisle manages to slip Moz’s surveillance or in case any of Ra’s many minions figure out that they’ve been given the run-around…

If anyone asked, later, he’d say it was pure instinct that made him look up right then.

(That’s one of the many tells for people like them, he knows. Normal people never seem to think to look up.)

Carlisle’s building is a looming mass of steel and tinted glass, utterly indistinguishable from its fellows to the average observer.

Neal isn’t average.

He squints upwards, shading out the sun with the side of his free hand as he tries to figure out what it was that had caught his attention, but all seems normal.

Finally, he catches it; there, at the very edge of his awareness, a flicker of movement, a flash of… orange—?

“Out for a stroll?”

It’s rare that he’s genuinely taken by surprise, but Neal just about jumps out of his skin when a strong grip spins him around by the shoulder and he finds himself face-to-face with a very familiar—and distinctly unamused—scowl.

“Peter!” he gasps.

He’s too off-balance to resist as Peter steals the umbrella right out of his grasp.

“Imagine my surprise,” Peter says, waving the purloined umbrella at him, “when I checked your anklet and found out that you were right outside Carlisle's office.”

Neal blinks rapidly, raising his hands as if that can actually ward away the lingering feeling of whiplash. 

Damage control. That’s what he—what they—need right now.

“I can explain,” he says quickly, before Peter can start building up steam, but, really, it’s already too late for that.

“Starting with the kid. Is he in there?”

Neal purses his lips, wondering if he can unmute his comm without Peter noticing. “I think it’s better if I don’t answer that.”

“Better for you or me?” Peter demands, and something about his tone gets Neal’s back up, just a little.

“For T— For Alvin,” he retorts. “Look, we’ve got a plan.” When Peter scoffs and spins away, one hand rising to cup the back of his neck, Neal plows on, “Part of that plan is contingent on you not knowing what it is.”

He knows Peter, and Peter knows him, well enough to read the implication.

Peter turns back, crowds in on him close enough that their shoulders are almost touching.

“You promised you wouldn’t put me in this position again,” he says, lowly, his bulk blocking the words from any passersby who might happen to overhear.

It takes a moment for Neal to recall.

Hagen. 

“Peter, I didn’t,” he says fervently. “There’s nothing going on in that building that wouldn’t be officially sanctioned.”

By the Justice League and not any civilian authority, admittedly, but that’s a detail he doesn’t need to concern Peter with.

Peter grunts, clearly not believing him. Neal can’t exactly blame him.

“Please, Peter,” he says softly. “Trust me.”

In his ear, he hears Tim say, “Shit,” and he knows he should probably be concerned, but he keeps his focus on Peter, who is watching him back just as intently.

“Alvin can’t be allowed to run around like this, with all that kryptonite,” Peter says. “Somebody’s gonna get hurt, starting with him. I need to bring him in.”

“Hey, um, Neal? We have a bit of a problem.” Tim says over the comm, but Neal ignores him for the moment.

For Peter, he shakes his head. “He won’t let you,” he says flatly. “But the kryptonite— Give me an hour. After that, I think I can get him to turn it in to the FBI.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

So that’s maybe a bit of an exaggeration, but he thinks he has a pretty good grip on Tim’s character.

“Neal? Can you hear me?”

This time, he reaches up to tap his comm on again for just a moment, uncaring of Peter watching. “Give me one sec.”

“We’re kind of working on a deadline here.” Sara, this time.

Neal looks to Peter helplessly. “Look, I have to go.”

Peter doesn’t look happy, but he doesn’t stop him either. “I'll be waiting right here. When you come back, he’d better be ready to hand over the kryptonite.”

“Thank you,” Neal says fervently, and then he ducks into the lobby and opens the comm line again. “I’m on my way.”

It’s easy enough to get through the security door the same way Tim had, and at this point he doesn’t bother worrying about the cameras. Besides, it’s not nearly so much of a problem if he’s caught on film as if Tim is; and if they all get caught in Carlisle’s office anyways, it’s something of a moot point to worry about identifying camera footage.

“Running out of umbrellas,” he says as he steps out of the elevator into Carlisle’s penthouse office. “What's wrong?”

Tim and Sara are standing near the windows, facing the abutting wall with grave expressions.

“Art isn’t the only thing Carlisle likes to collect,” Tim says, mouth twisted like he’s tasted something sour. “Apparently, a LexTech safe didn’t have enough… character for him.”

Neal steps around the corner and gets a good view of the safe, and he immediately understands Tim’s expression.

The safe is about the height of a man, made of dark metal that is pitted and scarred by what Neal strongly suspects is acid. But that’s not the worst bit; no, the worst bit is is the two words carved across the door in a chaotic scrawl,  but still so nastily legible.

HA HA !!!

A minute ago, this was all about getting the kryptonite off the street and catching the original thief, but now Neal is really looking forward to seeing Carlisle behind bars.

“You think it’s really him?” Sara asks, (thankfully, for the sake of Neal’s sanity) standing a good distance back from the safe. “That psycho from Gotham? You don’t think Carlisle’s working with him, do you?”

“Doubt it,” Tim says before Neal can say a word. “This thing is old. Like, ancient. Like, I was in preschool ancient. What I’m trying to say here is that it’s just a little before my time.”

Neal scowls, because Tim’s not even trying to be subtle.

“Alright,” he says. “I’ve seen this model before. Six cylinders, two false gates. I think we can assume there’ll be booby traps. Sara...” He hesitates. If he could, he’d send her put of the building entirely, but he already knows just how well even suggesting it will go over.

Besides, he can’t think of an excuse for sending the woman but not the sixteen-year-old to safety that won’t get his ass kicked.

“Just… give us some space,” he finishes after a moment, “Kid, you’re with me.”

Sara frowns a little, but steps back. Not nearly as far as he would have liked, but he’ll take it.

He steps forward, lays his fingers against the pitted metal and focuses very hard on not throwing up all over his very expensive shoes. Of all the things that he might be willing to admit (after more than a few drinks) that he misses about his old life, the Joker is not one of them.

This particular safe, he doesn’t remember, but he does remember half a dozen others, all uniquely sadistic and unhinged. That was the most dangerous thing about the Joker; while other psychopaths had a— well, logic is the wrong word, but a pattern, perhaps, to their psychoses—the Joker is an agent of true chaos.

Luckily, however, even the Joker needs a good safe-maker. And ten years ago, there was exactly one guy in Gotham that any self-respecting super-villain would go to for a custom job. Old Buck had been an artist when it came to pins and gates and tripwires, and more than that, he was sane. Once you saw enough of his work, you started to see the patterns.

He turns the dial experimentally, feeling the soft click-click vibrating through his fingers.

“I’ll go by touch,” he says to Tim. “You go by sound. Keep an ear out for anything… off.”

“Yeah,” Tim says, a hint sardonic. “Sounds like a plan.”

Neal bites his tongue to keep from reacting. It’s been a long time since his own punning days.

He does appreciate that Tim takes a moment to feel out the surface of the safe for pressure plates or spikes or acid before pressing his ear against it.

Neal turns the wheel with a light touch, easing through the ratchets, letting the safe’s own mechanisms do most of the work. A little farther and something in the mechanism catches and holds.

“Drop one,” he says and Tim makes an agreeing grunt.

Turning the other way, still the light touch, his senses narrowed down to the subtle shudders of the metal under his fingertips.

Still, this time it’s Tim who catches it. “Drop two,” he says clearly.

“Good ear,” Neal murmurs, and even with almost all his concentration focused on the safe, he can feel the kid smirk.

It’s only years of practice that keeps him from jerking and ruining all their work when the door to Carlisle’s office suddenly shoots open.

“We’ve got a problem,” Mozzie gasps, flushed like he’s been running, his glasses askew. “Someone tipped Carlisle.”

“What?” Sara snaps. “How? Who?”

“I don’t know! I called and no one picked up, so I came to warn you!”

“Why didn’t you use the comms?” Tim.

“I tried! He must have some kind of jammer!”

Sara again: “We need that safe open, now.”

He tilts his face just enough to give her a raised eyebrow, a silent what do you think I’m doing? and then turns his attention back to the safe. He eases the dial forward a few more marks and feels the catch at the same moment Tim says, “Drop three.”

Back again, and he lightens his touch even further, if possible.

Click, click, click, click... clonk.

“Drop four,” he breathes, and it’s pure instinct that has his hand shooting out to catch Tim’s wrist before he can even move towards the handle.

“Wait,” he says. 

Sure enough, after a moment there’s a faint whirr and a panel pops open near the base of the safe, revealing a second, identical handle.

The covering panel had been so well-designed that the seams had been functionally invisible to the naked eye, but Dick remembers.

(No, Neal remembers. He can’t be Dick right now, not with Sara and Mozzie right there, watching with undisguised fascination.)

“It’s a decoy,” he says aloud. “Anyone who touched it would be laughing their skin off right now, literally.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Tim says, “But I wasn’t actually going to touch it?”

Sure enough, now that he’s thinking with his actual grown-up, pixie-boot-free brain, Neal can recognize that Tim’s wrist never so much as twitched in his grip. That he’s still holding. Right. Neal drops it hastily.

“Right. Yeah. So, I’ll just—” He reaches for the actual handle to cut off his own vomit of awkwardness, running his fingers tentatively across and around the metal in search of any secondary traps.

He’s not especially surprised when he doesn’t find any; it’s one thing to make a septuple-booby-trapped safe when you know that your local vigilante/superhero will be busting in to find the kryptonite (only usually metaphorically speaking) for your latest dastardly scheme, it’s another thing entirely to have to worry about blowing your fingers off every time you need a bit of less-than-legal cash.

And while Carlisle is definitely vainglorious and more than a little psychotic, he’s not a complete idiot. If he has any sense, he’ll have had the rest of the exterior triggers, at least, disarmed.

And given that they’re putting in rather than taking out, he doubts the interior traps will be much of a problem.

Still, he holds his breath as he eases the door open.

Nothing.

He lets out the breath. “We’re in,” he says.

It sounds like someone says “Finally,” under their breath, but he can’t tell who. He ignores it and holds out a hand for the kryptonite. Tim slips him the box—lead-lined, undoubtedly, given who Neal strongly suspects was the ‘friend’ holding on to it for him—and Neal flicks open the lid.

Somehow, the twin panels of kryptonite are even tackier when they aren’t mounted on beer taps. It’s a miracle of bad taste. He slips them onto an empty space on the shelf.

“Let’s see Carlisle worm his way out of that.” Neal says with some satisfaction.

“You mean the evidence that we just planted in his safe?” Tim questions with a hint of sardonicism.

“Returned,” Neal corrects. “It’s practically a good deed. A little… vigilante, maybe. But— well.” He shrugs and smiles a little, the silent so are you hanging in the air between them. 

Though Tim’s mouth twists a little wryly, he doesn’t seem to take it as a jab at him personally.

 It’s not malice. Just a fact.

Besides, Neal’s not one to talk.

“While this is all great,” Sara cuts in, not sounding like great is the word she’s thinking of, “if you boys are done playing Robin Hood, can we get out of here before Carlisle gets here?”

“You know,” Mozzie says testily, “all that nonsense about Robin Hood giving away the products of his hard work was a later fabrication to make a genuine felonious virtuoso and folk hero into an establishment stooge who could be used for their propagandic purposes—”

“Carlisle’s made the lobby,” Tim (thankfully) interrupts, his fingers flying across the keyboard of his phone as he paces towards the far wall. “Your FBI agent is stalling him, but we only have a few minutes.”

Neal swings the safe shut, careful to leave it just barely ajar (that’s all Peter will need) and briskly reaches for Tim’s backpack.

“Time to go, then.”

Tim, bless his little vigilante heart, already has the window open and is holding out his hand for the bag. Neal passes it to him without comment and turns to help Mozzie, then Sara out onto the narrow ledge before hopping up himself.

This high up, the wind snatches at their hair and clothing with greedy, coaxing fingers. Sara has it the worst, with her long trench coat flapping open at the tie. Combined with the heels, Neal doesn’t blame her grip on the building for being distinctly white-knuckled.

Doesn’t blame her, but doesn’t quite share the sentiment. The world stretches out beneath him and for one crazy second he imagines that he feels the flutter of a cape against the back of his thighs.

“Heads up!” Tim calls out, and Neal raises a hand automatically to catch the harness that Tim throws at his face. No— two harnesses. Tim had thrown him Sara’s as well. Probably smart of him, doesn’t seem like Sara’s going to have a hand free any time soon.

He has to practically kneel on the narrow ledge to help her step into it, but if there’s one thing that years without training hasn’t managed to touch, it’s his sense of balance.

He slides it up her legs and tightens it around her waist and legs, double- and triple-checking every strap and buckle. When he’s satisfied it’s secure, he steps back and allows check on the others. 

Tim is having a much more difficult time wrangling Mozzie into his own harness. If Sara is holding on, Mozzie is clinging. His whole back is plastered up against the side of the building, arms braced wide. Very Buster Keaton. Tim is trying to get him to at least lift one foot to step into the harness, but no amount of coaxing will get Moz to move. 

Well, Neal could have warned him about that.

He taps Sara lightly on the shoulder and glances meaningfully past her and she nods in understand and presses closer to the side so that he can squeeze past her on the ledge.

Tim glances up when he gets close and he doesn’t even have to say a word before kid is practically shoving the harness at him.

“All yours!” he says hastily, pushing back into the wall so that Neal can slip past him as well. “Have fun with that.”

Little brat. But years of familiarity with Mozzie’s particular neuroses do give Neal something of an advantage.

As behind him Tim starts the process of anchoring the grapples to the side of the building, Neal drops to a knee by Mozzie’s feet, harness at the ready. Mozzie shifts slightly, mouth opening, when Neal strikes. Quick as a striking snake, his hand shoots out, aimed for the exposed strip between Mozzie’s pant leg and his ratty short sock. His fingers pinch, hard, at the vulnerable fleshy junction behind his bony ankle, and Mozzie squeals. When the foot jerks instinctively upwards, to escape, Neal is waiting with the harness at the ready. He slips it over the first leg and then repeats the process— praying all the while that Peter still has Carlisle safely away from the office and out of earshot.

“Don’t… do that again,” Mozzie pants as Neal finishes pulling straps and checking buckles.

“Don’t do what? Neal teases, yanking the last strap hard enough to make Mozzie yelp.

“…That,” Mozzie says weakly.

Neal chuckles and pats him on the shoulder before turning to the last member of their little troupe, who is just finishing anchoring the second grapple.

“Alright,” he says. “Your turn.”

Tim gives him half a glance, bemused. “I’m all set,” he says, patting his harness.

“Let me see,” Neal orders, stepping into his space to check the fit and feel along the buckles. Tim makes a noise of protest and tries to lean away, but Neal chases after him until he’s satisfied that the harness is correct.

“Great,” he says, dropping his hands. “Now the lines.”

Now Tim is actually frowning, a hint of storm clouds across that otherwise even keel.

“I know how to anchor a line,” he says sharply.

“Great,” Neal repeats, reaching out for the closest line. “I’m just going to check.”

“I know what I’m doing!”

“And I’m going to check!” He forces himself to take a breath. Reins his temper in. “It’s nothing personal, okay? I have to check. It’s— It doesn’t matter how good you are. It can happen to anyone. Trust me on that, ok?”

Something like understanding and maybe…shame, or embarrassment at the very least, spreads across Tim’s face, and Neal looks away, suddenly embarrassed himself.

“Oh,” Tim says. “I’m sorry. You… do what you need to do, man.”

He does, and is glad when no one makes any further comment about it.

He’s checking the second line, hauling on it with his full weight to ensure it’s solidly anchored, when he sees it and sudden bile rises in his throat.

“Tim,” he calls, low enough that the others won’t hear. Tim looks over sharply, and Neal gestures subtly with his chin.

A scant few feet below the narrow ledge they’re standing on is another, narrower ledge; and there, impaled on a twist of wire, is the limp body of what is unmistakably a robin.

Tim doesn’t pale or tense up or give any outward sign that he’s seen the bloody message for what it is, but Neal can see it in the way he starts chivvying the others along with newfound resolution.

Neal doesn’t blame him for that any more than he’d blames Sara for her reaction earlier; as it stands, there’s little enough they can do about the macabre little display, and their time is ticking down faster and faster. Really, it’s a bloody miracle that Peter’s managed to buy them as much time as he has.

Seeing as they only have access to two Justice League-grade grapples (which Sara had taken surprisingly well, all things considering, when they’d inevitably come to that part of the plan. More exasperation than anything, which either meant that she’s simply accepted it as another strange part of dating Neal Caffrey, or he’s going to get an awful lot of very pointed questions as soon as they’re alone), Neal and Tim are the primaries for this next bit. Mozzie and Sara, now securely attached by their harnesses, are just along for the ride.

“Are you sure this is safe?” Sara’s voice is light, but Neal knows her well enough to see the hint of vulnerability hiding behind the question.

“Hey.” He rubs his thumb up her shoulder, one smooth, strong stroke. He tilts his head down a little to look in her eyes and smiles a little. “I won’t let you fall. Okay? I promise.”

She breathes out shakily and bobs her head in a nod. “Okay,” she says.

“Okay,” Neal repeats, grinning like a lovestruck idiot. “Here we go.”

He feels Sara’s muscles tense against him, but he’s already pushing off the building, the line whirring out above their heads as they drop.

It’s not free-fall, of course; the descent is controlled, even. Not quite rappelling, but close.

Still, there’s wind in his hair, that old jump in his stomach. It feels like home.

He hears the faint ding of the elevator opening just as they drop out of sight of Carlisle’s floor, and if he didn’t think the sound would carry, Neal would let out a whoop. Talk about cutting it close— but that’s just like old times too, the thrill of it, the close shaves and the adrenaline.

The world is a whirl of color and wind and god, he missed this, how has he lived without this for so many years?

“Ohgod, Neal!” Sara gasps in his ear, her sharp nails digging daggers into his shoulders even through the double layer of his shirt and jacket.

He opens eyes that he hadn’t even realized he’d closed to see the ground looming larger and larger beneath them.

Were he alone, he would have milked every last second of weightlessness, waited until the last possible moment to pull the brake hard and laughed from the sheer rush of it.

But he wouldn’t do something like that to Sara, so he slows their descent gradually, decelerates by inches, as smooth as he can make it.

Their feet touch the ground as gently as if they were stepping off an escalator and Neal feels a flash of satisfaction that this, at least, he still has.

“If I may,” he says grandly, offering her a hand as he unclips himself from the line. She rolls her eyes but accepts it and steadies herself on her high heels as he does the same for her and then loosens the harness enough for her to slip it off.

Neal hits the button to release and retract the grapple just as Tim and Mozzie join them, the former fully absorbed by something on his phone and the latter pale and weaving slightly.

“All right?” Neal asks him, checking in, but it’s Tim who answers.

“Better than,” he says. “Check it out, I got the feed from Carlisle’s office.”

Neal cranes his neck to see the tiny screen. The resolution’s actually pretty impressive—but then again, he’d be surprised if Tim didn’t have the latest WayneTech prototype—and he can clearly make out the moment when a miniature Peter reaches out and with a single finger swings open the supposedly-impenetrable safe.

“That’s— impossible.” Even through the phone’s speakers, Carlisle’s voice sounds forced, overloud.

By contrast, Peter is as mild as a lion in the sun. “Those look like the stones I was talking about.”

“Those— are mine,” Carlisle says, smile strained, clearly thinking on the spot. “You know what they say, gems are a better investment than cash.”

“Yours,” Peter repeats blandly, generously spooling out the rope for Carlisle to hang himself with. “So then you’re aware that these gems are stolen property.”

“Stolen—” Carlisle’s laugh is forced, eyes darting around desperately. “Those— They’re— I’ve never seen those in my life.”

“You're under arrest, Mr. Carlisle.”

“It’s that masked freak!” Carlisle bursts out. “He’s setting me up, he must be! It’s— Agent, this is all some sort of big misunderstanding, I assure you—”

“Hands up.”

There’s a brief moment of suspense and all Neal’s muscles tense, wondering if he could somehow make it back up there in time, but then Diana is there, backing Peter up like always, and he relaxes. It’s over.

“Looks like our work is done here,” Sara says, her smile rather fixed as she catches a still-wobbly Mozzie as he nearly overbalances into a lamppost. “I’m going to get this one into a cab before he gives himself a concussion. See you at home?”

“Yeah,” Neal replies, grinning like a lovestruck schoolboy. Home. “Thanks, Sara.”

“If he throws up on me, you’re paying the dry cleaning!” she throws over her shoulder, and then they’re gone and it’s just the two of them.

They both seem to realize it at the same time, and then there’s a moment of awkward silence before Tim coughs and says, “So that actually… worked out pretty well.”

“You doubted me?” Neal asks, a little amused despite himself.

Tim shrugs. “Guess not. I should say thank you, though. For everything.”

“My pleasure.” And he means it. For all the… little emotional hang-ups, the kid is (perhaps unsurprisingly) comfortable to work with. Similar styles, and all that. “We’re not done quite yet, though. We still need to deal with the kryptonite.”

Tim nods. “I thought about that, but if it disappears from evidence so soon after the arrest, it could seriously jeopardize the conviction. I’ve got a contact over at A.R.G.U.S., they should be able to get it back without raising too many flags—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Neal says, catching the kid's shoulder and forcing him to turn and look at him. “What are you talking about?”

Tim squints at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you turning all the kryptonite you stole in to the FBI!” Something cold and hot is creeping up the back of his neck and he has a terrible feeling that he knows where this is going.

Sure enough, Tim actually scoffs. “Are you kidding me? You can’t seriously think I’m going to hand 14 kilograms of kryptonite over to the FBI.”

“What, because they can’t handle it?” Neal bites out. “Because the League did such a good job keeping it safe.”

He thinks about Peter’s tirade against vigilantes— not heroes, just vigilantes.

“If you want the authorities to take you seriously, to work with you, then you need to work with them,” he says. “Not every cop’s a Jim Gordon. They can’t just take it on faith. If you want their respect, you have to earn it.”

“We do earn it,” Tim—no, Robin, he’s Robin through and through right now—says stubbornly. “By catching the bad guys. That’s what we do. That’s why I’m here in the first place, not to hand over a load of kryptonite to a bunch of civilians—”

Neal actually barks out a laugh. “Are you serious right now? This is the FBI. You are the civilian here. A very dangerous civilian, but that’s not the point. And if we were just talking about you being in New York, I might actually believe the whole ‘catching the bad guy’ thing. But— here?”

He gestures roughly, encompassing Carlisle’s building, the grapples now tucked back in Robin’s bag, all all the other unspoken things that no one but the two of them could see.

Robin’s still meeting his eyes evenly, but the—defiance, if Neal can call it that, has changed. More guarded. One might almost call it defensive.

“And don’t give me all that stuff about needing help,” Neal continues. “You and I both know that the security was nothing— You didn’t need us to get up there, or to open that stupid safe. Hell, you didn’t need this whole charade in the first place. All that stuff about him not knowing it was kryptonite and his connection to Luthor— If you really just wanted his source, you could have just dangled him off a roof or something until he told you. Don’t pretend like it didn’t cross your mind. It’s been ten years and it’s still the first thing I thought of.” He pauses, breathing hard. “So really, Rob, what are you doing here? Is this some kind of test?”

“No!” Robin denies. His body language is tight and, yes, defensive. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it?” And he’s really asking. “What do you want from me?”

There’s a perfect still moment where Tim is still staring at him and he still can’t read the expression on that too-young face because no matter how much this whole debacle has been a trip down memory lane, he shouldn’t have for one second forgotten that he’s not one of them anymore—

“Neal!”

He can’t help it; it’s become so ingrained, now, hearing that name in that voice, and his attention only flickers to the approaching shape of Peter Burke for an instant, but it’s enough.

By the time he looks back, Robin is gone like he’d never been there at all.

Chapter Text

identification: 

1. the action or process of identifying someone or something ; the fact of being identified
2. documentation or other proof of identity or credential
3. a person's sense of unity (as in spirit, outlook, or principle) with someone or something
4. (psychology) the process by which an individual unconsciously endeavors to pattern himself after another

All children, but one, grow up.

That one dresses up in a cape and a pointy cowl and punches out his insecurities.

The rest of them have to deal with things like consequences, and adult relationships, and now, on top of all that, being a good gosh-darn role model.

Yeah, and that one’s going so great right about now.

Peter’s kind enough to wait until they’re back at the office, waiting on empty report after empty report, to corner him where he’s leaning on the railing outside Peter’s office.

“Any sign of Alvin?” Neal asks, already knowing the answer.

Peter settles next to him at the railing, and though he would have every right to be angry, to be frustrated that Neal let the kryptonite (and, as far as he knows, the thief) slip right through his fingers— well, it’s Peter.

After everything he’s done, in this life and the last, he sometimes wonders what he possibly could have done to deserve a Peter.

And, of course, one of the best things about a Peter is that he doesn’t bother to dance around things. In the Peter Burke Book of Life, truth is truth is truth, and no pretty lies or evasions can ever best that.

For someone who lives so many lies, honesty like that— well, it’s like a breath of fresh air to someone who’s been living on recycled oxygen.

“Nothing,” Peter confirms. “He’s gone completely to ground.”

It’s stupid to feel disappointed. It’s stupid to feel betrayed. He hadn’t expected anything from Ti— from Robin, and Robin had never made him any promises.

“I screwed up,” he admits to the railing.

And because the Peter Burke Book of Truth includes not pulling any punches, Peter doesn’t hesitate to tell him, “Yes, you did. But,” and here his expression stretches, exaggerated, to make his point, “You helped get Carlisle off the streets. That’s a good win.”

He’s not wrong, but that was never the game Neal was playing—not really—and they both know it.

“I actually thought I was getting through to him,” Neal says, still talking to the railing. It’s a very nice railing, and a much easier confessor than Special Agent Peter Burke, who can sniff out all his lies but the most important ones. “I thought… I thought he understood.”

Peter chuckles. “Disappointing, isn’t it? You think they're listening, and then they go off and do the opposite of what you say.”

Neal can’t help but laugh, just a little. He’s self-aware enough to see the irony in this, even if the punchline he knows is different from the one Peter’s seeing.

And maybe it is for the best— Regardless of what Sara might think, of all the role models in a fledgling Robin’s life, the bird who threw himself out of the nest can hardly be counted as one of the good ones, can he?

“Carlisle’s talking,” Peter says after a moment. “But I don’t think we’re going to get much of use. He’s insisting that he doesn’t know who the supplier is, that they only ever met once and the guy was wearing a mask. I’ve got Jones with him, going through the Cape Catalogue, but so far nothing.”

Neal raises a brow at him. “The ‘Cape Catalogue’?” he mimics. “Really?”

Peter shrugs, but the tips of his ears are ruddy. “When the bad guys are actually running around in Halloween masks and footie pajamas, you need some way to keep track of them,” he grumbles. “And it isn’t really a catalogue these days, anyways. More like a database. Not that I think it’ll be much use here— ‘black and orange mask, no logo or symbol’ isn’t much to go on.”

Black and orange… There’s a memory, a flash of color outside Carlisle’s building, but try as he might, even Neal’s well-trained recall can’t pull any useful details.

“So we’ve got nothing,” he summarizes, too tired to even feel bitter. “No supplier, no leads, and the rest of the kryptonite’s probably halfway to the moon by now…” 

Maybe even literally; if terrestrial JL security had been compromised once, what better place to keep a stash of kryptonite safe than in an orbiting Watchtower with 24/7 League presence?

“It really could,” Peter says, and something strange—indefinable—creeps into his voice. “But it’s not.”

Neal looks up.

Somehow, while he’d been absorbed in the railing, he’d completely missed the commotion by the elevators. By now, half the unit is clustered at the glass doors, watching curiously as Diana argues with a bewildered-looking delivery-boy. And there beside them, sitting innocently on the paneled floor, is—

No. Robin wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

If anyone understands the necessity of subtlety, surely it’s Robin.

He wouldn’t have some unwitting delivery-boy parade a load of kryptonite through 26 Federal Plaza in a giant lead box with WARNING: KRYPTONITE printed on the side in six-inch-high letters. Not after all the trouble they’d gone to to keep the thefts out of the media.

Right?

“Holy Gift Horse, Batman,” he breathes, and if Peter gives him an odd look, that is literally the least of his worries right now.

He shoves away from the railing and hurries down the steps. The crowd of agents parts easily—there are some upsides to being, well, him—and Diana breaks off from her barrage of questions to nod at him—at both of them, since Peter is right as his side, as ever.

“The delivery fee was paid with a prepaid credit card—no name—and the driver picked it up from an empty warehouse about an hour ago,” she reports. “They checked the package downstairs, and as far as we can tell, it’s exactly what it looks like.”

“And all of the pieces are there?” Peter says sharply.

“We still have to authenticate them, but…” Diana grins. “Looks like all 18 missing pieces.”

“Hot damn!” someone calls out behind them, and Diana rolls her eyes but her smirk spreads just that much wider.

“‘Course,” she says slyly, “I can’t take credit for this one. It’s not my name on the box.”

“No?” Peter plays along, but his voice is knowingly amused. “Who should we be thanking then?”

Neal ignores their childish teasing and takes that final step forward, close enough to see the container clearly.

Stuck to the lid like an inappropriately cheerful afterthought is a neon green post-it with only a few words in perfect copperplate printing that Neal would bet a Nazi treasure has absolutely zero forensic resemblance to one Timothy Drake-Wayne’s natural handwriting.

C/o NEAL CAFFREY

FBI WHITE COLLAR DIVISION; NEW YORK OFFICE

21ST FLOOR

26 FEDERAL PLAZA

NEW YORK, NY 

10278

For a second he’s not sure what to feel, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder and Peter’s voice at his ear.

“Looks like he was listening after all.”

He’s not entirely sure how he makes it through the rest of the work day, all the paperwork and the bemused questions and the decidedly more pointed questions without breaking character. The cab ride home (he slips out before Peter can offer him a lift—him and Peter, confined space? Not the best idea right now) gives him some room to collect his thoughts, but not nearly enough to be able to deal with Mozzie sitting at his table with an empty bottle of one of Neal’s better vintages and some sort of… device in pieces on a cloth roll in front of him.

Neal doesn’t even pause, just snags the neck of the bottle as he goes by and makes a beeline straight for his eternally-depleting wine rack.

“You know, if you have to drink my wine—my very expensive wine, that I buy for myself—you could at least leave me a bottle or two of the good stuff.”

Mozzie scoffs a little, not looking up from his…project. “Like you actually care,” he says, and Neal stares at him. It’s the kind of little comment that makes him wonder, sometimes. 

Neal Caffrey has a taste for the finer things. No one ever questions that; it’s part of what makes him who he is. It’s built into his character.

But Mozzie has sharp eyes and sharp ears and he knows Neal better than maybe anyone else in the world. Knows his tells, knows his tells for when he’s faking his tells. He knows everything that Neal’s alleged to have done, most of what he really did do, and even a few things that he hadn’t realized he’d done until after the fact. He’s probably one of the only people in the world who could look at Neal Caffrey’s character and see that it’s just that— a character.

Whether he has or not is another question. Moz has a hoarder’s appreciation for secrets that would rival even the KGB. If he knows something and he doesn’t want you to know he knows, you’ll never know.

Neal looks away, down to where he’s still fiddling with the neck of the empty bottle. “I wanted to apologize,” he says, “for earlier. For springing… that on you like that. That wasn’t fair of me. I’m sorry.”

“The Justice League, you mean,” Mozzie says evenly. “You’re sorry… for springing the Justice League on me.”

“It wasn’t actually—” Neal starts and then stops himself. 

This is supposed to be an apology, he reminds himself.

“Yes,” he admits, daring a quick glance up at his friend. Mozzie has leaned back from the table, his hands laced over his stomach, studying him from behind his glasses. “For the Justice League. For not telling you about the kryptonite before getting you involved. I know how much effort you put into staying under the radar, and I was so— caught up in my own stuff, that I didn’t think about how it would affect anyone else. I’m really sorry, Moz.”

He closes his eyes and waits for Mozzie to yell at him, to storm out of the apartment, to tell him that he’s ruined this too.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, when he opens his eyes again, Mozzie’s face is pinched up in something like concern.

“Mon frère,” he says, uncharacteristically solemn, wide eyes only magnified behind his thick lenses. “You need to be careful. You don’t want to go getting involved in mask business. It never ends well.”

Neal blinks. “I’m not— I’m not getting involved in anything,” he protests. “It was a one-time thing. He needed our help, and the kryptonite was dangerous. Nobody wants that on the street.”

“Hmm,” Mozzie says, unconvinced.

“Look, I doubt we’ll see him again anyways,” Neal says. “So that’s the end of it.”

“Are you sure about that?” Mozzie inclines his head, and Neal spins in his seat to find Tim in the open doorway, hand hesitantly raised to knock.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean— I didn’t want to interrupt. I can come back.”

“No,” Mozzie says, rising with wineglass in hand. “I’ll leave you two to… talk. Or whatever it is you do. I’ll bid thee goodnight, mon frère— and your fledgling protégé, of course. Adieu!”

“Um, bye,” Tim says, as Mozzie sweeps dramatically by, only stumbling a little bit on the doorframe. “Is he—”

“—always like that?” finishes Neal. “That was pretty subdued. I think he’s still a little intimidated by you. The whole assassin thing. You know.”

“Oh.” Tim glances back over his shoulder and then seems to let it go. “I really didn’t mean to impose. I just wanted to drop by, you know, and say thanks.”

“It was nothing,” Neal dismisses. He leans back against the wine rack, takes a deep breath, and allows himself to be Dick Grayson. It’s really not as much of a shift as he’d thought it was. “You want something to drink?”

“You know I’m not legal yet.” Tim edges hesitantly into the apartment, like he hadn’t spent nearly an entire afternoon there, planning illegal activities. He lowers himself cautiously into the chair that Mozzie had so recently vacated, peers at the… device in front of him, and then very carefully does not touch it.

“I was thinking water or something,” Dick says, amused. “But if you wanted wine, I’m hardly going to narc.”

“Water’s fine,” Tim says firmly. “Thank you.”

Dick fills a glass from the tap and leaves it in front of him. At some point, he’d finally removed his sunglasses and hooked them over the collar of his t-shirt. 

He has blue eyes, Dick notes. With his eyes, and his hair, he looks like he could be B’s blood son.

And in the same vein, but for a bit of a difference in coloring, it would be easy for someone to look at the two of them together and mistake them for brothers.

“There you go,” he says, forcing a smile. “Let me know if you change your mind on the wine.”

“Sure,” says Tim, glancing up over the rim of his glass in a way that probably means he’s teasing. “You’ll be the first to know.”

Dick takes the opportunity to actually pour himself a glass of wine this time, mostly so that he has an excuse to be half-turned away when he casually comments, “I heard that the rest of the kryptonite was anonymously turned in to the FBI earlier.”

“Was it?” Tim says innocently. “Well, I’m sure they’ll take good care of it. Though I think the Justice League might still offer them some help with disposing of it safely.”

“I’m sure,” Dick agrees, amused in spite of himself. “But I just want you to know— I think you made the right choice. And I appreciate it.”

Tim’s eyes flick to him and away quickly, cheeks tinged faintly pink. He does that a lot, Dick’s noticed.

“It’s… You had some good points,” he says, fiddling with the glasses in his hands. “And it’s your city, anyways.”

That’s part of the vigilante mindset, too, that possessiveness. Territoriality.

But he’s not going to argue Tim’s self-justifications when it achieved exactly the effect he’d barely let himself hope for.

“So, uh.” He changes the subject, admittedly somewhat less than gracefully. “How did you get into all this, anyway? I mean, no offense, but I’d know better than anyone, this job is kind of cursed.”

Tim smiles, a little wry, a little bitter. “I volunteered, actually.”

Dick accepts that politely enough— after all, hadn’t they all? The Bat might be a lot of things, but a slavedriver, he is not. He would never make a kid do this (if anything, the opposite— he’d let them choose it, let them need it, and then tear it away).

But Tim’s still talking; “I lived next door to you guys, actually. You probably don’t remember.”

“Not personally,” Dick admits, “But I did my research. Your folks traveled a lot, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, they did.” 

Dick frowns. There’s some strange energy in the way he’d said it, some subtext Dick’s not quite getting.

“Anyways,” Tim continues. “I was, uh... Well, I was kind of a big fan of you— you guys. Batman and Robin, you know. I was kind of obsessed? Like, I recorded every time you were on TV and watched it over and over again. And then one night I was watching some footage of a fight you had with, like, Freeze, and I saw— something familiar.”

There is absolutely no reason a chill should steal over him, but there’s some things that stick with you even years later. “Did you,” he says evenly. The Secret—which isn’t really even his secret anymore—and ten years later, it’s still like dragging fingernails down a blackboard to think that someone could have rumbled them.

Tim jerks a shoulder a little, looking almost embarrassed. “I’m pretty sure if I’d been any older, I’d have rationalized it away, you know? Convinced myself it was coincidence. But I was pretty little. Still young enough to— well, I don’t think I ever actually believed in Santa, but you know what I mean. I saw it, and it was like I just knew, you know? And as soon as I knew, it was so easy to put everything together.”

“Jesus,” Dick says, leaning back in his chair, trying to imagine an even younger, pointier Tim figuring out The Secret all by himself. “What is it about nine-year-olds that they’re, like, the bane of Batman’s secret identity?”

“Oh, I wasn’t—” Tim cuts himself off, a little red in the face.

“Younger?” Dick says, impressed in spite of himself, shaving even a few more years off his mental picture. If he’d been the original Boy Wonder, he’s not even sure what that makes Tim. “Obviously, you kept your mouth shut.”

“Yeah,” Tim agrees. “Not that it was hard. Who would’ve believed me? But, um, then—”

He hesitates and Dick can fill in the rest of the sentence.

“Then Robin disappeared,” he says so that Tim doesn’t have to.

“Yeah,” Tim agrees. “You both—both of you? Both of the yous? Whatever, you were gone, and everyone was saying different things about what happened to you, and Bru—”

“Don’t,” Dick says sharply and Tim smoothly redirects.

“—and the only guy who knew, well, he wasn’t exactly going to talk about it with anyone. Robin was just gone.”

“And then,” and the hesitance is back, “then all of a sudden, he’s back. Robin. But it wasn’t you.

“I mean, it wasn’t hard to figure out who it was. I don’t know how closely you—”

“I know about Jason Todd,” Dick interrupts before Tim can try and be tactful.

One of the few indulgences he’d allowed himself, in those first few months after, was reading the gossip rags. Even if half of what they printed was trash and speculation, it was still proof that He was alive, that life in Gotham was still ticking on as usual without him. He’d watched the whole saga with the Todd kid unfold with a certain amount of detachment, but not without sympathy; the kid had deserved better than to have to try to step into the fucked-up pixie boots that Dick had left behind, and he certainly deserved better than to end up six feet under for it.

“Yeah, um,” Tim’s looking shifty again, in that way that Dick’s pretty sure means he’s editing something. “So anyways, Br— Batman took it pretty bad when he lost you, but after Jason— Dick, he just broke. He was—brutal. We don’t really talk about it, but I’m pretty sure he was actually, like, suicidal. It was... bad.”

Dick tries to imagine it, but he can’t. A broken Batman, that he can see, because B was already so broken in so many ways, but a Batman who was ready to just... stop fighting? That’s not who he is.

But he doesn’t think Tim’s lying or exaggerating. If anything, he’s downplaying, Dick’s sure of it. Bats is a go-big-or-go-dress-as-a-giant-bat-and-declare-a-one-man-war-on-crime kind of guy, after all.

“That still doesn’t explain how you got wrapped up in all of this,” he says.

Tim looks at him, head canted a little like he doesn’t quite see what’s left to explain. “After you disappeared, he only really started getting better when Jason showed up,” he says slowly. “Having Jason as Robin made him better. And then you were gone and Jason was dead and he was— he was going off the rails, and things were getting bad. Gotham needed Batman. And Batman needed a Robin. So,” and he shrugs a little, “I became Robin.”

Dick frowns. “And what, that’s it? The first two Robins get all kinds of fucked up, and he just turns around and signs up number three?”

“Um,” and this time it’s definitely shifty.

Dick leans back very, very carefully in his seat and looks Tim full in the face. “Um?” He prompts, when Tim doesn’t seem inclined to resume on his own.

“Well.” And Tim pauses again, like he’s going to leave it there.

“Well?”

“He didn’t want another Robin,” Tim says all in a rush. “At all. Ever. Ba— Batgirl tried to convince him, Alfred tried to convince him, but he wouldn’t budge.”

That, on the other hand, is perfectly believable. If there’s one thing Dick knows about the Big Bad Bat, it’s that his superpower is pure, unmitigated stubbornness.

“So how’d you change his mind?” Dick asks, genuinely interested.

Tim traces the rim of his water glass, then all in one motion throws back the last swallow like it’s hard liquor (you know I’m not legal yet his arse. If Tim hasn’t been sneaking the good stuff out of B’s liquor cabinet, then Dick will eat his vintage, beaver-felt trilby).

“Actually,” he says, “I didn’t. It was Jason.”

Oh. That’s—

“Okay,” he says neutrally. Tim’s gaze is fixed outwards, on something only he can see.

“I mean, I tried to convince him for years,” Tim says. “I followed him to crime scenes, helped him in fights, dragged him home a few times when he got hurt too badly to drag himself to the Batmobile— heck, I even broke into the Cave and stole one of Jason’s old suits!”

Dick can’t help the puzzled frown at that one, and for once, Tim seems to notice.

“Okay, maybe that last one didn’t help my case too much,” he admits, “but I was trying! I studied everything I could about criminology and forensics, I trained with Babs and Huntress and Jean-Paul and the Birds of Prey even let me tag along a couple of times! But nothing I did changed his mind. And then… well, everything that happened with the Red Hood… happened.”

Dick lost track of this conversation about three vigilantes ago, so he just makes an encouraging noise and hopes that Tim isn’t expecting any more substantial input on his end.

“I’m still not 100% sure why Jason did it, but he left this message, and— Well, your name came up a couple of times too. I think… No, I know how important Robin was to him, and I used to think it was just the role, you know, being part of it all and being accepted, but now I think maybe there was more to it than that. The whole… legacy thing.” Tim huffs a laugh. “And obviously he also got to piss B off in the process which, when I think about it, was probably the real reason for the whole thing.”

Tim is very confident speaking about a boy that he never, as far as Dick is aware, would have met.

Or maybe he had— they wouldn’t have been that far apart in age. If the Drakes really were high society, had they met at one of those innumerable parties? Hidden out on the balcony, mocking the stuffy rich people? Had they been in school together, maybe? 

Had they been friends? Two Lost Boys together, even if their respective stays in Neverland had little overlap?

“Anyways,” Tim says, refocusing. “That was about… two years ago, now? Two and a half, maybe? Since it was official, anyways. And now I’m here.”

“Now you’re here,” Dick echoes, raising his glass a fraction in a mock toast. “Full circle, huh?”

Tim does this funny little head-duck at that, not quite meeting his eyes, and—

No. 

No, that’s a ridiculous thought.

But there is the blushing, the suspiciously careless secret-identity dropping, the uncharacteristic willingness to trust a convicted criminal…

(unless, just maybe, Tim doesn’t see a criminal when he looks at him)

Tim had said it himself, hadn’t he? He’d been a fan.

Maybe Sara—and yes, Peter too, he supposes—were onto more than he realized with the whole ‘role model’ thing.

Which is both incredibly worrying and, in some strange, unexpected way, almost… endearing?

It’s like that itching need he’d felt, perched on the side of Carlisle’s building, to check and double-check Tim’s line and harness even though, logically, he knew that the kid was more than capable of doing it himself. He’d done the same for Sara and Mozzie, yes, because they were his friends, but more than that, because they were genuinely inexperienced. He never would have dared pull the same thing on Alex. Or, God forbid, Keller, back when they’d worked together.

And Tim was undoubtedly more competent than all of them put together, to have survived such a dangerous life for so long. More competent than Dick himself, in fact, if that’s the metric they’re using.

And still, there’s some part of him that sees this dangerous, underage vigilante and wants—

—well, to mess up that clumsily-gelled hair, for starters. Demand to know if anyone ever thought to take him blind-folded train-surfing. Tie him down and force him to eat something other than the Hot Pockets and energy drinks that he knows teenage boys live off of.

(He knows what it looks like when someone is getting adequate rest and nutrition to maintain the kind of physique that Tim has, and this is not it.)

Whatever this impulse is, it doesn’t seem like something that’s going to help him keep the whole promise of non-involvement that he’d given Moz, so he carefully takes these confusing new feelings and wraps them away, next to all the things that Neal Caffrey can’t afford to think, or feel, or remember.

And it’s good timing too, because in the next second, Tim sets his shoulders back and says, apropos of nothing, “I know about Two-Face.”

Well. 

Never let it be said that B’s latest protege hasn’t inherited his… exceptional sense of tact.

Exceptional in the sense that people quite often take exception to it.

Suddenly all those inexplicable urges to ruffle his hair and give him The Girl Talk—or The Boy Talk, Dick’s openminded—are significantly dampened.

“I know what he did to you,” Tim specifies, and that clarification is enough for anyone with a brain to infer that Tim also knows what he did to Two Face. “I know that Batman fired you, and that you ran away. And…” He hesitates, and then, more quietly: “I know about Vengeance Academy.”

Of course he does. He’s a Bat. Who needs omniscience when you have invasive background research and surveillance and an overall lack of regard for personal boundaries?

Plus, after everything that happened with Two Face, Batman was probably physically incapable of not investigating, so there is no doubt a nice thick case report on Dick Grayson’s great fall from grace sitting snugly in the Batcomputer’s archives.

“Then I guess you already know everything important,” he says, bitterness thick on his tongue and he can’t even blame it on the tannins. “I’m not exactly an act you want to follow.”

The most lost of the Lost Boys, and he’s certainly the last person who will ever forget it.

“That’s not true,” Tim says, but he sounds uncomfortable, on-the-spot, and if there’s anything Dick is looking forward to less than having to listen to the kid list off his many failures, it’s having to listen to the kid try and excuse them out of some sense of… what? Pity? Obligation? Conversational propriety?

Well, probably not that last one.

“Look, just forget it,” Dick says, forcing back a smile. “Ancient history, right? You’re Robin now, and from what I hear, you’re doing a pretty good job. I’m sure your folks would be proud.”

He has no idea, actually, how Tim’s parents would have felt about his extracurriculars, but figures it’s probably a pretty safe bet. After all, they’d died after he’d already been Robin—or had been attempting to be Robin, at least—and surely even the most unobservant of parents must have noticed that, at least? And they’d let him keep at it (which, if he’d had any other kind of upbringing himself, might have cast some aspersions on their parenting, but— glass houses).

Tim’s expression flickers slightly, but before Dick can worry he’s misstepped, it smooths into something wistful. “I hope so. And… I know that yours would be too.”

Dick sucks a breath in, hard, but he doesn’t even have time to respond, because Tim is slipping a hand somewhere inside his voluminous sweatshirt and his instincts, his stupid instincts that still won’t shut up no matter how many years he spends forcibly repressing, tell him move - throw the glass - use the distraction to get inside his reach - disarm - knee to the solar plexus - submission hold-

He doesn’t listen, of course, not least because as soon as he engages his rational, non-vigilante brain, he can see that what Tim has pulled from the depths of his hoodie isn’t a blade or a gun or anything more dangerous than a piece of paper.

Which doesn’t mean it’s not dangerous, but at the very least not in a way that requires immediate assault and battery against a minor.

“What have you got there?” he asks, warily.

Tim ignores him, fingering the already well-worn edges for a moment before placing it carefully on the table and sliding it over.

He sees the red and green, first. And the yellow, too, the edges of the capes fluttering out from behind their bodies, the—in retrospect—ridiculous high collars, the brightly-colored stalls that still manage to half-blur into the background.

He sees the faces second, and it’s a kick in the gut. He’d… forgotten. How beautiful she was. How bright her blue eyes were.

His mother’s eyes. Dick’s eyes.

And his father— God, he looks like his father. When he was a kid, it had felt like a line, like something adults just said because they thought they were supposed to.

But now, he’s probably just lucky that there aren’t many pictures floating around to start people wondering why Neal Caffrey is a dead ringer for some long-dead acrobat named John Grayson. As easy as it’s been to slip back into the skin of Dick Grayson around Tim, it’s not a name he particularly wants floating around. And certainly not where Peter might hear it.

He finally lets his gaze touch on his own childish face—so young, God, had he really been so young?

He knows what day this picture was taken—how could he not? It’s burned into his memory—but until this moment, confronted with photographic proof, he hadn’t really remembered that there had been a picture-taking at all.

The details are coming back to him now, though: the family, the couple with their son, the father asking them for a picture to show the fussing little boy that there was nothing to be afraid of, that the circus was fun. And he’d thought it was the worst crime in the world that any kid could not love the circus, that they couldn’t see that it was the best place in the world.

He’d swung the kid (so tiny, barely more than a toddler) up and around until he was squealing with happiness. He remembers hearing his dad’s booming laugh ringing out, and his mother’s, clear and high like a bell, and something softer and more restrained that must have been the other parents. He remembers the adults—first the boy’s parents, and then his own—coaxing the little boy to look towards the camera. But no matter what they tried, those huge, round, blue eyes had remained fixed on Dick’s face, hot little fingers clutching at the fabric of his collar with surprising strength and determination.

Or maybe, he thinks now, lifting his gaze to met Tim’s pale eyes, not so surprising after all.

“That’s you,” Dick says, no question. “You came to Haly’s. You were there, that night, when they— The night they died.”

“Yeah.” It’s quiet, but honest.

Another memory unfolds:

“I told you I’d do my quadruple just for you,” he recalls.

“Yeah, you did.” Tim grins a little, and it’s artless and almost shy and those inconvenient feelings are back full-force. “Took a few years, but you kept your promise.”

What? “I did?”

“Sure.” Tim’s smirk is positively puckish, now. “How’d you think I figured out Batman and Robin? That’s a pretty signature move, you know. Also, you didn’t really change the outfit much. Wasn’t too hard to connect the dots, once I actually started to think about it.”

…he says, like millions of conspiracy theorists and law enforcement officers and supervillians and intelligence apparatuses hadn’t tried and failed where a grade-schooler had so casually succeeded. And all based off a faded memory from a single brief encounter when he was, what, three? Younger? He’d been so small…

Perhaps Mozzie’s paranoia is correct for once. This skinny teenager could be, objectively, terrifying if he set his mind to it.

But instead he’s sitting in a convicted felon’s apartment, fiddling with that stupid string on his hoodie and smiling like it’s a place he actually wants to be.

What a little weirdo.

“It meant a lot to me, you know,” Tim says, playing with his empty water glass, tipping it up on the edge so that it’s only the balancing force of his finger on the rim that keeps it from tipping over onto its side. “I never forgot. You were my hero even before you became Robin.” He coughs a little and lets the glass thunk back upright. “Anyways. I should probably get back to Gotham before people start worrying.”

By people he clearly means Batman and by worrying he undoubtedly means tracking my every movement and probably pulling satellite surveillance, but Dick can appreciate the deflection.

“Right now?” he asks, although to be honest he’s just about hit his limit for today. For this decade, maybe.

“Might as well make an early start,” Tim says, which would sound incredibly stupid coming from any other sixteen-year-old at eight o’clock in the evening if Dick didn’t already know the schedule he keeps isn’t exactly diurnal. 

Somehow, Tim’s sunglasses have magically reappeared on his face which, again, in any other context would have been pretty stupid in the middle of the night, but— yeah. Still more subtle than the red-and-black.

“What about,” Dick begins, offering back the photograph, but Tim shakes his head.

“Keep it,” he says. “I have others. And I’m guessing you don’t have many of them.”

Dick curls his fingers more tightly around the edges of the photo. He doesn’t have any, in truth, and he suspects Tim knows that.

“Thanks,” he makes himself say. “And, um, I know you said— But you won’t—”

“I won’t say anything,” Tim promises. “You have my word on that. And,” he reaches into his abyss of a sweatshirt again and this time manages to produce a pen and one of those full-size day planners, in true Mary Poppins style. “Here.” He scrawls out a sloppy string of numbers and rips off the corner of the page. “I know you’re trying to stay away from… you know, the Mission and all that. But your friend is right. Even just being connected to this stuff is dangerous, even years after the fact. Just look at Sue Dibny.”

That catches his attention. “Sue Dibny? What happened to Sue Dibny? No, wait— I don’t want to know.” He remembers her vaguely but fondly, and he really, really doesn’t have the energy for another painful revelation right now.

“Right,” Tim says awkwardly. “Anyways, if you ever get into… more trouble than usual, I already can guess you won’t call him, but you could always call me. If, you know, you want.”

“Thanks,” Dick says again. “And… same for you. If you ever need… help.” He winces at how lame it comes out. Tim has a literal Justice League’s worth of support if he needs it, plus all of the legitimate WayneTech resources. What could Neal-Caffrey-slash-Dick-Grayson possibly offer him?

But to his surprise, Tim actually nods seriously. “Thank you, Dick. That means a lot.”

Great. He’s not sure how he’d ever explain that one to Peter if it came to it, but— he’d made the offer, hadn’t he? He can’t exactly leave the kid high and dry now, can he? Not that it would ever come to that. He’s a teenage superhero. He can handle himself.

“I’ll see you around, then?” he says, awkwardly as Tim pauses in the doorway to double-check his civilian get-up.

Tim adjusts his glasses one last time and smirks at him. “Not if I see you first.”

Scratch that. Mozzie’s paranoia is definitely right this time.

Trouble is quite literally the least of what Timothy Jackson Drake is.

Chapter Text

Trouble trumps trouble.

If there was one upside to the stress and second-guessing and paranoia of Tim’s untimely arrival, it was that the dreams that had plagued him since the whole Fowler mess and then the fear gas attack had finally taken a backseat to this most recent drama of his life.

Of course, that just means that as soon as it’s all resolved, as soon as he starts feeling something approaching good about the whole thing, they come rushing back. 

With a Vengeance.

He’s sitting in a warehouse.

It’s not a very... nice warehouse, if such a thing exists among run-down, abandoned warehouses. The concrete floor is more pitted and cracked than an active minefield, a few of the so-called ‘support’ beams have cracked free from their housings and slump carelessly to the ground, the corrugated roll-up doors are jammed half-open. It is, in fact, exactly the kind of place that anyone living in a city less criminally theatrical than Gotham would consider a perfect hideout for a dangerous criminal.

And as such, this being Gotham, it’s therefore genuinely abandoned and of little interest to the more serious criminal element.

The grungy aesthetic is all well and good, but rather a headache if your hideout legitimately collapses before the local vigilante can stumble into your diabolical trap.

Besides, it’s Gotham. There are plenty more abandoned banks, slaughterhouses, amusement parks, and novelty-good factories free for the taking, and plenty of shady brokers not only willing but eager to help you find a lair that is much more on theme. Whatever your specific theme may be.

And so, places like this tend to serve as temporary boltholes for low level scum and gangbangers, or—more often—a somewhat dubious refuge for the city’s endless unfortunates.

He wasn’t there when the others found this particular cesspool, but he can’t help but notice that Boone’s knuckles are bloody again after they’d finally closed up earlier, and his grin has that particular curl of smugness that he gets whenever he gets to humiliate someone less skilled than him.

Dick hopes he just beat the shit out of some drug runners or something, but for all that they’ve lived and trained together for almost a month now, he doesn’t know the other boy well enough to have figured out where he draws the line. 

If he has a line.

But that’s a necessary sacrifice; he doesn’t know them, and they... don’t know him.

It’s safer that way. For everyone involved.

Someone passes him a bottle and he takes a swig without daring to so much as hesitate.

It’s lucky that he’s been sneaking sips of Alfie’s ‘medicinal’ whiskey for years, or he’d be choking crappy tequila up all over the filthy warehouse and the four other juvenile delinquents therein.

(It’s also pretty lucky that Alfie picked up truly crap taste in whiskey during his army days. The occasional tumbler of B’s million-dollar scotch probably wouldn’t have had the same desensitizing effect.)

He can’t, however, quite manage to keep a straight face as he forces himself to swallow, and there’s an explosion of sound as the other boys burst into loud guffaws. Someone slaps him hard enough on the back that all that hard work at not spewing nearly goes to waste.

“Look at his face!” someone snickers, and someone else mocks, not quite good-naturedly, “Whassamatter, Fredrick? Too much for you?”

Dick forces his throat to swallow and gasps out his most scathing, “Screw you, Salvatore.”

“Fuck you, man, I told you, it’s Vader.”

“Yeah, and I told you— it’s Freddy.”

“Whatever, man.”

It’s hard to remember, sometimes, that these boys—who laugh and swear and dare each other with swigs of stolen tequila and call themselves after sci-fi villains—are killers all.

That’s why Shrike chose them, after all. Because they’re clever, yes, and desperate, and young enough to still be malleable, but also because they’re dangerous. All of them.

One of them—Lo, maybe, or Raul—hoists the bottle up in the air.

“To Vengeance fucking Academy!” and it’s sloppy and too-loud and aggressive and he knows better than to stay quiet when the others howl like the civilized savages that they are.

The five of them: Vader and Lo and Raul and Boone and Freddy who is Dick and was Robin and is still ten years away from being Neal.

Dick looks straight up and meets the eyes watching him from across the ragged little circle, who’s watching him (always watching him, always waiting for that sign of weakness, the sign that shows he’s not Good Enough).

Boone winks at him and smirks and doesn’t even seem to notice the blood dripping off his unblemished knuckles—

Neal jerks awake in his own bed. The light t-shirt he’d worn to bed sticks to his sweaty skin as his chest heaves. Sara hardly stirs, just mumbles a bit and cuddles deeper into her pillow, as he carefully eases out of bed.

In all this time, his stretching routine is one thing that has never changed; he still does the same sets in the same sequences just like his dad taught him, just like his dad’s dad had taught him, and presumably just like his dad’s dad’s dad had taught him, a line stretching back through generations of Graysons. It’s a comforting continuity.

Plus, the physical exertion helps, after a dream like that. Like yoga; he focuses on the burn in his muscles, and he can almost forget the scent of meat and old pennies that lingers on his tongue.

Almost.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Sara says from behind him, and if he weren’t wrapped in on himself like a pretzel, he probably would have jumped out of his skin. “I had no idea you were so flexible.”

Her voice is sleepily amused, but there’s a hint of genuine curiosity there too. They’ve been dating almost five months now, and they’re each aware of how carefully compartmentalized their relationship is; they talk about work, about past adventures (legal and not), about art and music and food and the places they want to visit. They don’t talk about the way that Neal will catch himself halfway through a lie— never for a reason, just because it’s habit. They don’t talk about how Sara carefully packs away anything that even smacks of vulnerability. Since that night in the library, they don’t talk about families, or pasts, or the ghosts that linger. 

He can tell, sometimes, when he displays some previously unknown skill, that she’d like to ask, but she doesn’t. Neither of them wants to disturb the comfortable equilibrium.

And it is comfortable; it’s comfortable and fun and exciting and playful and deep and caring all at once.

“This is the third night in a row,” Sara says, and maybe her tone is a little blunt, not the doting, well-intentioned concern that someone like Elizabeth Burke would show, but then again, Sara is most certainly not Elizabeth

Burke. Her edges are sharper, her independence more fiercely guarded. Not that El isn’t independent, but she doesn’t have to constantly defend her right to it the way that Sara, as one of the few women in a high-stakes, male-dominated field, does.

Living in that kind of headspace 24/7 changes your views on certain things—as a certain ground-breaking, bird-themed child vigilante could certainly attest—and really, Neal appreciates that Sara clearly doesn’t think he needs coddling.

 Because he doesn’t.

“Just a little stressed,” he says, shrugging enough that her hand slips from his shoulder, but not so much that she thinks he’s shrugging her off. “Work stuff, you know.”

Much like Peter—and Kate, for that matter—Sara seems to have a built-in Neal Caffrey Bullshit-Detector.

“Nice try,” she says, “But you literally just told me last night that the only case on your docket right now is mail fraud. So what’s really on your mind?”

Neal hesitates, just for a second, but she notices and backtracks immediately.

“I mean, you don’t have to tell me. I just— You’re ruining my beauty sleep here, Caffrey, and I thought maybe you might want to... talk about it.”

The awkwardness of the offer makes it even more endearing, somehow. And... he doesn’t want to lie to her. Especially not after everything she did help him, them, with Tim’s little green problem. And all with the apparently resigned understanding that she wasn’t going to get a real explanation anytime soon.

But that also means that she wouldn’t really understand what haunts his dreams and he still can’t tell her. Even if maybe he’d like to. Just once.

So he falls back on an old stand-by; sharing a tiny part of the truth that is 100% accurate but only tangentially relevant to the matter under scrutiny.

“The FBI closed the case on the gas attack,” he says, and the words are genuinely bitter on his tongue. 

“You mean the fear gas thing? I thought they were still looking for suspects.” 

The attack had come up somehow during the search for Adler, the long evenings of searching and frustration and sexual tension that had bloomed into something more... but they hadn’t been together, then, and they haven’t revisited the subject since, to Neal’s recollection, so he’s mildly surprised she knows even that much.

“Like they actually spent any time looking for suspects,” Neal scoffs. “The ‘experts’ investigating decided from the start that obviously Scarecrow is the only criminal in the world who could get his hands on fear gas, so why bother investigating further? I’m surprised they stretched it out this long.”

“But you think the real culprit’s still out there,” Sara deduces. “And now you’re having nightmares every night. Do you think he might come after you again?”

“No.” Neal dismisses that easily. “Don’t worry about that. If there was someone after me, they would have struck again by now. It’s just—”

—a travesty of justice. 

—a disgrace to all those who consider themselves investigators. 

—really damn annoying.

“Hard?” Sara tries, and it’s as good a word as any, so he agrees and somehow they manage to leave it at that.

Besides— now that she’s brought up his flexibilty, it’s only fair he gives her a more... thorough demonstration.

It’s his professional pride at stake, after all.

It takes a very special kind of woman to juggle a high-stakes career and a relationship with a man whose mask is more real than his face.

Especially when that career is as a white collar bounty hunter—that is, insurance recovery specialist and that man is the thief who stole the piece you were supposed to have recovered in the first place.

Sara Ellis, though, manages to pull it off with style.

Until she can’t anymore.

(Neal, you live in the clouds... And I live on West 69th.)

He doesn’t blame her—he could never blame her, not for this, not when it was his choices, his cowardice that made their careful balance… untenable.

(I guess you figured out everything I have to offer.)

Maybe the treasure really is cursed.

(Caffrey… Please take care of yourself.)

He doesn’t even care about the treasure, not really. He’s given up greater fortunes before, and it’s never really been about the money. But when Peter had come storming up to him, accusing him of something that he genuinely had not been involved in, while another man’s blood was still cooling on the wharf (your fault, whispered that little voice, how many skeletons is that in your closet now, killer?)— he’d drawn the line.

For all that talk about partners, about how he knows that Neal is a good person, still the only thing that Peter sees when he looks at him is a criminal.

Well, who is Neal to disappoint?

So when he found out that Mozzie had taken the art, right out from under everyone’s noses, it felt like poetic justice.

He’d meant it when he’d told Mozzie to ready a plane. What was there, really, tying him to New York? 

The people, he’d thought, but— Clearly, he’d been wrong.

In the end, Neal Caffrey was just another mask to be left behind.

And if it had been a little bit of a relief to sacrifice their escape for Jones’ life and then to have the excuse of the manifest, well… even the best performers got attached to roles. Old routines and all that.

And—he’ll admit—he might’ve let himself get a little bit carried away in his anger. Peter is a complicated person, but he’s not a liar and he’s not a performer. If he says something, it’s because he means it. There’s at least some part of Peter that truly does see Neal as a partner and a friend and a good man.

But now he’s got himself stuck on the fence between the two roles he’s written himself, unable to fully abandon either. How can he let Peter down, after all he’s done for him, all the times he’s stuck his neck out? But at the same time, how can he stay, knowing that Peter, on the flimsiest evidence, will turn on him? He’s always played Neal Caffrey as the thief with a heart of gold, but after all these years, which is stronger? The heart? Or the gold?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he wants. He’s not sure he knows who he is.

But that’s a question he’s been struggling with his whole life.

There was a time when the answer had seemed easy— he was a Flying Grayson, his father’s son, his mother’s Robin.

And then he wasn’t anymore. And suddenly all the things that he’d thought he was suddenly weren’t so simple anymore.

He’d been too young to think to ask questions and then all he had was questions and no answers and no one left to ask, only the assumptions that other people made.

Growing up, he spoke English and German and Slovak and Russian and even a little Bashkir that he picked up from old Räsimä the fortune teller. The circus was like just that, all the colors of the world swirled together until you forgot that the world outside gave a shit about all those little lines and divisions.

His parents spoke English to him. When it was just the two of them and his father wasn’t around to feel excluded, his mother spoke French.

(And if sometimes, when she spoke to herself, the sounds were strange, unfamiliar— she never taught him those words and he never thought to ask until it was already too late.)

After Bruce took him in, some well-meaning socialite who did missionary work in Zambia or somewhere had had to teach him that he should be offended when people called him a gypsy. He hadn’t known. It had been the only English word he’d ever learned for what he was. 

He’s never felt a really strong connection to his ‘heritage’ and had pretty much abandoned it altogether when he became Neal Caffrey, but… the treasure makes him feel weird, sometimes, in a way he can’t quite explain. He knows that his father was born in Haly’s Circus, was half-blooded Rom at most, but his mom… His mom had been born somewhere in France, but he thinks her family came from further east. 

It wasn’t only the Jews that the Nazis targeted.

It might not be his great-grandparents’ gold or jewels or art that is hidden in a warehouse on Gansevoort street, but it might just be their blood. It’s an uncomfortable thought, so he tries not to think about it.

There are a lot of things he tries not to think about these days. The treasure, of course, and the fact that he’s 97.9% sure that Sara knows, and whether or not she would tell, and what she would think if he just disappeared one day, and what Peter would think if he just disappeared on day, and what Mozzie would think if he didn’t.

It’s all just one great big mess and the time is coming where he will have to make a decision and he honestly doesn’t know what decision he’ll make. The deadline has been creeping up on him for months, and Peter keeps pushing it forward, chasing every lead, any hint that might lead back to the U-boat treasure and Neal.

And then Peter calls in the big guns.

Neal walks into the office and the—to use Mozzie’s words—grand-père of the FBI’s DC Art Crimes is standing casually at his desk, greeting him like they’re old friends, smiling like they’re both in on some private joke.

It’s an act meant to unnerve him, he knows, but it works; he is unnerved. Off-balance. Phillip Kramer is a name that people in his line of business conjure with, the ultimate white collar boogeyman. He’s the man whose personal attention all cons dread, not even necessarily because he himself is especially dangerous, but because it means that you have passed the point of notoriety and become a priority. Agent Kramer has a grandfatherly smile, a long reach, and the full weight of the federal government behind him.

And—most dangerously of all—he’s driven. Perhaps not in the same way as other Justice-seeking individuals Neal has known, but driven nonetheless.

For B, it was a mission. For Peter, it’s the job. For Kramer, it’s a career.

And while that doesn’t make him a bad person, or even a bad agent, it does mean his priorities are somewhat less… flexible than Neal is used to accommodating. Part of the reason he and Peter work so well together is because Peter cares more about justice and protecting the innocent than he does coloring inside the lines

Kramer— well, he clearly cares about justice as well, but he also cares about the methods used to get there and whether they’re in line with accepted procedure.

Or, at least, that had been Neal’s original impression. But the more time he spends in the same room as Kramer and that indulgent-edging-on-evaluating smile of his, the more off-balance he feels.

Which, seeing as Peter brought him to New York specifically to prove that Neal stole the treasure, might be the point.

(If there’s one thing Neal has learned throughout his many lives, it’s to trust his instincts. He doesn’t like the way Kramer watches him. He especially doesn’t like the way Kramer watches him when he and Peter are together. Like it’s some sort of…audition…that Neal doesn’t ever remember signing up for.)

Neither Peter nor Kramer are at all subtle about the scent that they’ve caught. If anything, they’re flaunting it, daring him to try something so that they can catch him red-handed.

And how can he pass up a challenge like that?

Of course, it would be significantly less stressful if he didn’t also have to worry about the fact that his psychopathic ex-partner/rival is back in town and determined to get his oily hands on the treasure.

Maybe it’s not a surprise that he’s been dreaming of Vengeance Fucking Academy again; if there’s anyone who would have fit in among those killers and lowlifes, it was Matthew Keller.

And now he’s hanging around New York, misleading Sara and threatening Mozzie, plotting something just as Neal is trying to pull off the most delicate heist of his entire life.

Of course, it’s a heist made significantly easier by the fact that Tim never actually asked for his grapple back after the whole Kryptonite thing. Peter is reassuringly predictable and never even realizes he’d snuck out of the holding room that Neal had been locked in to ‘keep him out of trouble’.

Peter waits until they’ve made it safely back to the FBI to actually open the package—he hasn’t forgotten the fear gas attack, even if the rest of the FBI seems content to sweep it under the rug—but his air of smug victory is practically tangible.

It’s only when Degas’ Entrance of the Masked Dancers is spread out on the conference room table and Kramer is bent over it with loupe in hand that Peter betrays the slightest hint of hesitation, and Neal wonders if he’s really thought through what would happen if he ever managed to prove that Neal stole the treasure.

Be careful what you wish for, Neal thinks bitingly, but of course, it never actually comes to that. Neal’s far too good at what he does.

Almost too too good; for a second he thinks he might end up in the position of having to actually prove that the forgery that he whipped up in 14 hours in his loft is not an actual, genuine Degas. Curse his inconvenient sense of perfectionism.

But—luckily—Kramer actually is as good as his reputation suggests and when he confirms that it is, undeniably, a forgery, Neal (metaphorically) breathes a sigh of relief.

They’ve succeeded; the immediate threat has been defused, the status quo restored. Neal Caffrey’s life here, he thinks, with a surprisingly fierce rush of satisfaction, is safe once more.

And, he realizes, that big decision that he was so afraid of? At some point he hadn’t even noticed,  it’s been made. He knows where he belongs and it’s here, in New York, helping people. With Peter and Jones and Diana and El and June and (maybe again someday, he hopes) Sara.

If Mozzie doesn’t feel like that’s a life that he wants to be part of, then— that’s his choice.

If a plant cannot live according to its nature, it dies; and so a man. 

Thoreau.

One of the first quotes that Mozzie had ever taught him when he took an inexperienced young criminal under his wing.

He can’t choose for Mozzie anymore than Mozzie should have ever tried to choose for him.

It’s for the best, he tells himself, watching his oldest friend walk out the door. The treasure will go with him and without Damocles’ sword hanging over his head, his life here in New York can go back to they way it’s supposed to be. No more running.

The stress of the day catches up to him and he allows himself the indulgence of retiring early.

Sleep finds him quickly, but it is anything but restful.

He’s in a warehouse, again.

Not the dirty, crumbling one where he and the other students snuck away to drink crappy tequila, but the bland, shadowy hangar that not one among them is stupid enough to think of as home.

This is the place where they train to be better killers, nothing more.

Anyone naive enough to forget that doesn’t last long in the Vengeance Academy.

They’re doing 2-on-1 today, Vader and Raul against Lo, who’s already bleeding from multiple points, one shoulder hanging awkwardly out of socket. Sweat is beaded at his hairline and his teeth are clenched tight with pain, but he knows better than to think an attempt at surrender would go well for him. In Vengeance Academy, the fights don’t stop until Shrike says they stop.

Or, in this case, Boone. Who’s leaning forward, almost manically intense as he watches his ‘friends’ beat each other down.

Seriously, what a creep.

Though it’s not like Lo’s completely helpless, even injured. If his own stories are to be believed, he’d been on the streets for almost a year and a half when Shrike found him, having fled his home after beating his abusive mother to death with a hockey stick. Raul and Vader have more than a few injuries of their own. The makeshift ring is streaked with ugly dark smears of blood and other, even less pleasant fluids.

“So you always been this much of a priss, huh, Caffrey?”

Somehow, in the way of dream-logic, it makes perfect sense for it to be Keller, not Boone, sitting next to him with his elbows resting on his knees. The edges of his lips are twisted up in that smug smirk as he watches the fight with every sign of enjoyment. He even has a freaking toothpick that he’s chewing on like this is some sleazy bar and the kids beating the bloody shit out of each other are just some kind of live entertainment. Like a dogfight, maybe. Keller seems like the kind of heartless SOB who’d enjoy watching a dogfight.

As Keller reaches up to dig at a particularly stubborn bit of food stuck between incisors, Neal can’t help but notice that his knuckles are bloody. Unmarked, but bloody.

“You always liked to pretend that your hands are all nice and clean, ain’t that right,” Keller drawls, flicking away some minuscule speck of food. “You always were a helluva liar, Caffrey.”

“Shut up,” Neal snaps.

Keller’s head lolls to face him and he grins nastily. “Hit a sore spot there, Freddy?”

“Shut up,” Neal repeats and Keller laughs.

“Aw, come on, pal, don’t be like that. It’s cute, really, this whole little fantasy you got goin’ here. Playin’ house with Agent Burke and the Missus. They kiss your boo-boos, too? Tuck you in, read you a bedtime story, tell you everything’s gonna be alright?”

“You’re not even real,” Neal tells him, but Keller ignores him.

“And all this time, here you are, keepin’ secrets, runnin’ around with the treasure, right behind Burkie’s back. Not very grateful of you.”

There’s a yelp from the ring, a nasty wet crack of bone.

“Seriously, why are you even here?” Neal demands. “This place has nothing to do with you.”

“I’m here because you’re letting your guard down,” Keller snaps. “Gettin’ sloppy. Lettin’ me get to your girl? Lettin’ Burke get that close to the treasure, to tossin’ you right back in prison? The real you—the you who survived this monkey circus—never woulda let that happen.”

“Hey,” Neal said, vaguely offended on behalf of circuses everywhere. “That’s not—”

“That’s not even gettin’ started on the whole mess with that kid,” Keller smoothly hijacks his sentence. “And, Christ, the gas— what’s it gonna take, Caffrey? What’s it gonna take for you to see it?”

Dream-Keller is somehow even more intense than Real-Keller. Even with the hazy knowledge that this is all a dream, Neal feels off-kilter. “See what?”

“That you’re just like me,” Keller purrs, and maybe he’s Keller and maybe he’s Boone, Neal can’t even tell anymore. “That you’re a killer. You think you can just run away from that, Caffrey?”

“Seems to have worked pretty well all these years,” Neal retorts, and Boone sneers at him, perpetually sixteen years old in his memory.

“Sure it did, Freddy,” and the accent is all Gotham, but it’s Bronx, too, fuck. “And whaddya think is going to happen now that you’ve stopped, huh? You think you can just leave it in the past? Oslo. Copenhagen. Madrid. Gotham. You think it’s not gonna all come back at you? ‘Cause it is, Robin. It’s all gonna come back at you and Burke and his missus and your little sidekick and that spicy little redhead of yours, and what’re you gonna do about it? Huh, Dick? What’re you gonna do?”

“What’re you gonna do?”

“Dick?”

“Dick!”

Somewhere in the real world, his phone starts blaring Vissi d’Arte and Neal jerks awake so violently that before he knows what’s happening he’s hitting the floor, hip and elbow first, hard enough that he instantly knows there will be bruises tomorrow.

The opera falls silent as the call goes to voicemail but then, before he can even pick himself up off the wooden floor, it starts up again.

He lifts himself up high enough to see the clock and frowns. It’s not even 11:00 yet— he can’t have been asleep for more than two, three hours. What could possibly have happened in so short a time that someone feels the need to call him— three times in a row, now, Montserrat Caballe belting her heart out as he fumbles for the cell.

“Hello?”

He’s not really sure what he’s expecting—Peter, probably, with some new treasure-related accusation—but it’s not the low and urgent, “Get to Peter’s, now.”

“Diana?” he says, puzzlement growing. If they’d found some new clue on the treasure, he would have thought Peter would call himself.

Or, no— if that was what this was, then they’d be coming to him, wouldn’t they, not the other way around. And they wouldn’t risk warning him like this. Unless it’s some sort of trap? Some sort of big confronted-with-your-own-lies pseudo-intervention?

No, no, he’s being paranoid; the treasure is gone, the trail of evidence evaporated. It’s over. Dream-Keller is wrong, it can’t touch him anymore.

(At this point, it shouldn’t be a surprise anymore just how wrong he can be.)

“It’s Matthew Keller,” Diana says. “He’s back.”

.

.

.

“Neal, he took Elizabeth.”

Chapter Text

Polished ivory under his fingers. The sharp click-clack of ice swirled in a brandy glass.

He draws it out as long as he reasonably can before he sets the piece—a bishop, gleaming white in the firelight—delicately on a black square.

A low, rusty chuckle.

“Are you sure that’s what you want to do there?”

Not in the least, but— it’s all about confidence, isn’t it? So he settles for an enigmatic smile, the kind that says that he knows something you don’t, the kind that says he’s five moves ahead and just can’t wait until you see the punchline.

It’s wiped clean off his face when his opponent hauls himself forward with a little grunt and slides a knight forward. “Checkmate.”

He sits back on his haunches, glaring at the board with its pristine spires of ivory and ebony. “You cheated.”

“I didn’t.” A rattle as the brandy is tipped back. “You let yourself get too tightly focused. Neglected the big picture.”

It’s true. He chews his lip absently as he studies the battlefield. There are plenty of mistakes. It’s not good enough. Not yet.

“I’ll do better next time,” he vows, already moving to reset the board.

He doesn’t need to look up to see the flicker of a smile hiding behind the edge of the empty snifter.

“I believe you, chum.”

Crime scenes don’t bother him much anymore; it’s a little strange, yes, to walk into the midst of the swarming agents and officers and techies with hardly a challenge and his face as bare and open as the day he was born— but the actual crime scene? It’s just a still-life strung with yellow police tape, a puzzle disassembled, waiting for him to put it together.

This time is different. This time it’s the Burke’s house, where he and Peter had pored together over case files. Where he’d shown up uninvited on Saturday mornings and Peter had sputtered and El had offered to pour him coffee. Whee he’d jokingly tried to teach Satchmo to ‘fetch’ Peter’s wallet out of his pocket while Elizabeth tried to stifle her giggles. Where he’d— where he’d felt—

The Burke’s house was supposed to be safe.

He hears Diana, still so grim and professional, and follows the sound of her voice deeper in to the kitchen.

If he’s thought the house was bad, the sight of Peter’s face genuinely guts him.

“Peter,” he says, the word slipping past his lips like a plea. 

Peter’s face is bloodless, eyes fevered and Neal can’t help but recall his confession in that hospital room, after the fear gas. “He took. My wife.”

“Peter,” he tries again but Diana and Jones are there and they’re speaking, they’re talking about HRT and checkpoints and doing all the things that he should be doing to get El back because this is all his fault and he should have known better, he never should have allowed a civilian to be put in danger, especially not El.

(“In any kidnapping, the critical period is—”

“The first 48 hours, I know.”

“And after that…?”

“Probability of recovery drops to 27%. C’mon, B, we’ve done this, like, a bajillion times!”

“Incorrect.”

“Inco— What’s that supposed to—?”

“Twenty-seven percent is not the probability of recovery. It’s the probability of recovery alive.”

“…Oh.”

“This isn’t a game, Robin. Never forget that.”)

“Do we know what Keller wants?” someone asks, and he meets Peter’s eyes.

(“I know it’s not a game. I do.”)

Peter’s expression has closed down completely, not a trace of his earlier fear. “Neal,” he says sharply, almost coldly, and there’s nothing to do but follow him out to the back porch.

Neal lets himself be slammed up against the bricks, though he could have broken Peter’s grip easily enough.

Could have broken a lot of things.

Maybe he already has.

(“Then prove it.”)

“You have the treasure,” Peter snarls in his face, and he doesn’t— he’s not trying to deny it, just to explain, when he says, “I didn’t steal it, okay—”

Peter shakes him viciously. “You son of a bitch! I don’t care, you have it. Keller knows. You’re going to give it to him so I can get my wife back.”

(“How?”)

“Whatever you need,” he promises. “I’ll— We’ll get her back. Whatever it takes. Okay? Whatever it takes.”

(“You know how, Robin.”)

Because this is his fault.

Because he made a choice.

Because he broke the rules, but more importantly, he broke the Rules.

(“Put the Mission first.”)

“Peter,” he says, “I need to tell you something.”

And Peter’s looking at him, face still tight with fear and anger, but he’s listening and maybe this was inevitable since the moment that Tim had shown up and set his past and present on a collision course, and maybe it was inevitable even before that, since the moment a young FBI agent had matched wits with an even younger conman and they’d each discovered an equal in the other.

Maybe it’s his own damn fault that it took this long to get here at all.

Neal looks his partner—his friend—in the eye, and tries his best to find a smile, just this one last time. Peter’s still watching him, and if he wasn’t so angry, Neal thinks he might almost look… concerned.

“Peter,” he says again, and takes a deep breath. “I’m— I was—”

Tinny music blares suddenly, loud enough to make them both jump.

“It’s Keller,” Peter says, diving for his pocket, all potentially earth-shattering confessions forgotten.

It would be unspeakably selfish of him to be put out that Peter is prioritizing his kidnapped wife’s ransom call, but Neal figures no one would blame him for sending more than a few uncharitable thoughts Keller’s way.

(As a certain British gentleman of his acquaintance would say, bloody inconsiderate timing is the least of his sins.)

The ransom call is painful. Neal can only hear Peter’s half, but he knows Keller well enough to know exactly what kinds of taunts he’s flinging. It’s not like they don’t know exactly what he wants already— the call is just to twist the knife, to torture Peter until he’ll do anything that Keller says. Neal’s sure that Keller’s thoroughly enjoying himself in whatever hole he’s hidden himself away in.

But by the time the call ends, with only a sliver more hope (brave, brilliant Elizabeth— really, the FBI ought to deputize her and Satchmo both; he can’t think of many hardened agents who would have kept their cool and fought back so effectively), the moment for truth has passed. Every single part of Peter is focused on one thing, and one thing only— getting the treasure and getting his wife home safely. So Neal does the only thing he can:

He takes Peter to the treasure.

“I drive past this building every morning,” Peter says, somewhere between wondering and bitter.

Neal pauses for just a second where he’s unlocking the padlock. This is important to say, he feels.

“I didn’t ask for it.”

Didn’t ask for a lot of things, really. 

“You could have walked away,” Peter points out, watching him closely.

“Yeah,” he says simply, “I could have.”

(That was the whole point. That was why he needed the treasure, so that he could walk away, walk out of their lives.) 

He really shouldn’t be surprised when the door opens and the treasure’s not there— but he is. Because apparently he still hasn’t learned his lesson; he’d been so tightly focused on Keller, on the threat he posed, that he’d let himself underestimate the other pieces in play.

Mozzie’s always been too smart too hang around when things start to go south. Most likely he’d had people in place to start moving the treasure as soon as Neal gave his decision. Hell, even before, probably. Why not? Of the two of them, Mozzie’s never been the one who has a hard time cutting ties.

Back in the safety of Neal’s apartment, with no leads on Keller or Mozzie, Peter asks the question.

“What were you two arguing about?”

Neal chews at the inside of his cheek. “Mozzie wanted to leave New York,” he says slowly, knowing that Peter will understand the subtext better than anyone. “I didn’t.”

Which must be fairly obvious, given that Neal is still here and not plastered across the seven o’clock news, but Peter still gives him a shrewd look. “Why not?”

Neal blows out through his nose and considers how to answer. “You,” he says finally, and smiles a little at Peter’s obvious surprise. “Elizabeth. Sara.” He gestures out towards the balcony. “The view out that window. Stepping off the elevator Monday morning. Making a difference. All of it.”

He tilts back in his seat, looks up at the ceiling so he doesn’t have to look Peter in the eyes. “I spent so much of my life running and hiding and lying… and I don’t think I want to do that anymore. I have a life here.”

Even Tim—even if some part of him still thinks that no matter how smart the kid is, he won’t be able to keep the secret from Batman forever, Neal can’t really say he regrets the chance to meet the latest Robin. He’s a valuable ally and, more importantly, a good kid. If a little weird.

Peter seems to be following a different train of thought. His brow is creased in the way that says he’s thinking very hard, and there’s an odd tone to his voice when he says, “What about Mozzie?”

Neal turns toward him, curious. “Well, he didn’t like to admit it, but, yeah… This is his home.” Maybe the first one Mozzie, the inveterate drifter, has ever really had.

Oh. Oh.

“I ran every alias you gave me,” Peter says, and there’s a spark in his eye again. “He hasn’t boarded a plane or a boat.”

“That means he’s thinking it over.” Means he may still be in reach.

Means maybe he’s not actually as good at cutting ties as he’d like people to think.

“Where?” Peter presses, intent, and Neal’s mind churns, turning over everything he knows about his oldest friend. Who, coincidentally, has just lost his oldest friend, as far as he knows.

“He wants seclusion,” Neal realizes.

“There’s got to be a way to reach him,” Peter says, and for the first time since Diana’s call, Neal can smile at him and mean it.

“There is.”

Once the message has been sent (bless Estelle’s feathery little heart, queen among carrier pigeons!), Peter finally seems to decide that Neal won’t cut anklet and flee the moment he takes his eyes off him, and leaves him at the apartment while he goes to check in with Diana and Jones.

It’s the opportunity he’s been waiting for all day, and he tries not to resent it bitterly.

They may have a lead towards finding Mozzie and, with him, the treasure, but Neal knows better than anyone that won’t guarantee El’s safety for long. Keller is absolutely the sort of man to receive the ransom and then kill his hostage and any other potential witnesses anyway.

The only way to bring Elizabeth home safe is to find her before Keller’s deadline.

And isn’t it just serendipity that Neal knows exactly how to contact the one man in the world with the best chance of doing so.

The phone is in his hand, clenched so tightly that the tendons stand out white with strain.

He knows the number— it’s not like the landline has changed in the last fifty years.

(Of course, there’s always that other number, if he’s feeling up to a little child endangerment. Which he’s absolutely not. Really, he’d only memorized it out of habit.)

All he has to do is make one little call. One little call, and all the considerable resources of the World’s Greatest (and most well-funded) Detective will be focused on finding one Elizabeth Burke.

(One little call, and he could also have all those resources, as Mozzie would say, sans Detective.)

But he can’t make his fingers move to make it.

Part if him wonders, is he really so goddamn selfish that he’ll risk Elizabeth’s life for the sake of his— what, his pride? His cowardice?

If he calls— 

If he calls he knows what will happen.

(“No one is above the law, Robin. A killer is a killer, no matter who they are.”)

He already knows he’ll most likely be heading back to prison when this is all over, and really, he’ll never be able to blame Peter for that. 

He’s more than earned it.

Somehow, the thought of facing prison is less frightening than the thought of facing him.

(“We’ll get her back. Whatever it takes.”)

His finger hovers over the number—

(“I have a life here.”)

(“If you ever get into… more trouble than usual, I already can guess you won’t call him, but you could always call me. If, you know, you want.”)

—and swerves at the last moment, because he’s a coward and selfish and a terrible friend and a 110% worse role-model-slash-name-sake.

He really, really hopes that offer wasn’t just out of politeness.

Tim answers on the third ring, and Neal barely manages to wait for his distracted “Hello?” before he’s launching straight into the problem.

“I need you to trace a number,” he says clearly, not bothering with pleasantries. “All tower pings within the last 24 hours— make it 48, to be safe. Do you have a pen?”

“I— What? Wait, Di— Neal?”

Ok, so maybe some pleasantries might have been a good idea. “Yeah, it’s me. Sorry. It’s just— a friend of mine is in trouble, and I... need your help. You said I could call.” The last bit he adds defensively and regrets the moment it’s out of his mouth.

“Oh, yeah, hey!” Tim says, far too brightly. “The math homework? Yeah, sure, no problem! Um, hey, Dad, I’ll be right back, I think I left my notebook in my bag.”

There’s a series of muffled static, like the receiver is being clumsily pressed into, say, a shoulder, then Tim hisses into the phone at a low whisper, “Okay, we’re good.”

“Sorry,” Neal says, the apology coming automatically. “I didn’t realize you were with your family.”

“What? Oh, no, I’m not.” Tim hesitates almost imperceptibly. “The D-word makes B uncomfortable. I think it makes him think of Jason. Figured it might keep him from snooping. Well, for a couple minutes, at least. So we’d better hurry— what’s going on? You said something about your friend— is Mozzie okay?”

“Mozzie’s fine,” Neal says quickly. “This is a different friend.”

Tim coughs. “Your, um, handler?”

“His wife,” Neal says. “Elizabeth. She’s been kidnapped. Keller—the man who took her—he called Peter, but hung up before we could even try to start a trace. He said if we tell the FBI about the call, he’ll kill her, and I believe him. He’s smart, and dangerous. But there’s no way he could anticipate— well, you.”

“Dick—” Tim starts to say, but Neal barrels on, “If I give you the number, you can run it through the  computer, He doesn’t even have to know—”

“Dick!” Tim’s ‘shout’ is hardly louder than his regular speaking volume, but both of them hold their breath for a moment regardless; luckily, contrary to certain urban legends, Batman does not, in fact, have the hearing range of his namesake and Tim’s end of the line remains reassuringly quiet.

“...Sorry,” Tim says, quietly. “Sorry. Neal, there was a Priority 2 callout about two hours ago. Half the JL’s on their way to Santa Prisca right now. I, uh, I’ve only got like twenty minutes until we’re over the drop-zone.”

He hears the words, but they don’t quite compute— Santa Prisca? Drop-zone?

“You’re not in Gotham?” he says slowly.

“No. I’m pretty sure we’re somewhere over the Pacific right now. But, Dick, I can still—”

Of course he’s not in Gotham. When has anything gone his way in the past 48 hours? Lady Luck either loves him or hates him.

“You’re busy,” he says, speaking over Tim. “Sorry, I didn’t think. You need to focus on your mission. I shouldn’t distract you.”

“No, that’s not—“

“Be careful, okay? Watch your six. And your twelve. And check your equipment before you jump, even if you don’t think you’ll need it.”

“Oh my god, you’re worse than Bruce,” Tim bursts out suddenly and Neal’s breath catches in his throat.

When was the last time he spoke that name? Or even heard it?

“Shit,” Tim says. “Sorry, I forgot you don’t... Um. Look, I’ll be fine. I’ve literally got half of the Justice League watching my back. And after you and Jason— well, they’re kind of really protective. I’m more worried about you and your friend— and I want to help. I meant what I said when I gave you my number. So I’m going to put you in touch with someone who can help you trace your number.”

Oh. Tim’s confidence lifts a weight Neal hadn’t even realized was there— There was some part of him, even before Tim had delivered the bad news, that hadn’t really believed he would help, even if he could. Calling at all had been his Hail Mary, his pis-aller.

(Boy Wonder, indeed.)

“She probably won’t trust you at first,” Tim is saying, “but tell her ‘hacktitude’ and she’ll hear you out. And she’ll definitely want to help when she hears about your friend. Plus, Oracle’s, like, ten times better than me at this kind of stuff. She’ll totally be able to find this guy.”

“Hackti…?” Neal starts to repeat and then decides he really doesn’t want to know. “Hacktitude. Oracle. Okay. And she doesn’t know…?”

“No,” Tim says quickly. “Nobody knows. But… if there’s anyone who knows that sometimes B needs to be kept in the dark for his own good, it’s Oracle.” There’s some emotion there, but without being able to see body language, Neal has even less of a guess than usual.

“Okay,” he says again. “Tim— thank you. And seriously, take care of yourself.”

“I will.” A voice in the background, incomprehensible. “Hey, Neal, I gotta go. Uh… see you in class!”

“Uh-huh,” Neal says, amused. And then, out of some puckish whim, he adds cheekily, “Give Dad a kiss for me,” and hangs up before he can hear Tim start to splutter.

The text comes not even a minute later:

not cool dude

followed by— a URL? He’d been expecting a phone number, but that works too.

He reaches for his laptop, but some remnant of Mozzie’s general paranoia makes him hesitate. He trusts Tim, but this ‘Oracle’… they—no, Tim had said ‘she’— is an unknown quantity.

Better safe than sorry.

He bypasses his laptop and heads for the refrigerator. It takes some feeling around on the back of the unit before he finds the correct panel to thump, and then it’s just a matter of hauling the fridge far enough forward that he has room to worm the double plastic-wrapped package out from its crevice amid the refrigerator’s inner workings.

Then just tear off the plastic, and he has a brand-new, Mozzie-approved untraceable computer for all his clandestine networking needs.

To his— well, he wishes he could say it’s to his surprise, but at this point, a URL that leads to a dark web proxy that leads to some sort of avatar-based chat room that looks like it hasn’t been updated since the late 90s is kind of par for the course.

He’ll be the first to admit it’s a little nostalgic, and he tools around for a bit before there’s a little ding and another avatar spawns in the same room he’d appeared in.

The resolution isn’t fantastic, but the avatar is simple enough— some kind of green mask with pixellated features.

0RACL3 is typing…

0RACL3: not many ppl kno abt this room

0RACL3: who r u

0RACL3: ?

e9&mW is typing…

e9&mW: little brdie told me

e9&mW: thought u could help my freind

e9&mW: hi, btw

0RACL3: wat kind of birdie?

0RACL3: hi

e9&mW: the red breasted kind

e9&mW: that really needs to lay off the caffiene

e9&mW: and the vigilanteism

e9&mW: but thats none of my budisness

e9&mW: busines*

e9&mW: BUSINESS**

0RACL3: sounds like a very clever little bird

0RACL3: and wat kind of help did this bird think i could give ur friend?

e9&mW: easier to explian on the phone. u got a  #??

0RACL3: sorry, i don’t give my numb#r to strange men

e9&mW: rude

e9&mW: but fair point

e9&mW: T said to tell u *hacktitude*??

0RACL3 is typing…

e9&mW is typing…

e9&mW: u still there?

0RACL3 is typing…

0RACL3: wat do u mean *T* said?

e9&mW: u kno wat I mean

0RACL3: give me ur #. i’ll call u

Oracle must be one hell of a fast typer, because the burner phone starts ringing in quite literally the same breath that he presses enter on the phone number.

He gives himself exactly one ring to take a deep breath and compose himself before he hits accept.

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end of the phone is clearly being run through some kind of digital distortion software that wipes it of any identifying features, but even the best voice changing tech on the market can’t disguise its no-nonsense fierceness.

“You have exactly two minutes to convince me why I shouldn’t hunt you down and digitally destroy you as a major security leak.”

(…Alright, so it’s still not actually the most hostile way a woman has started a conversation with him. He’s come back from worse.)

“Oracle, I presume?” Unlike some people, he doesn’t bother trying to change his voice.

“One minute and fifty-six seconds,” the voice intones.

Great.

“Look,” Neal says, trying not to let any of his impatience seep into his conciliatory tone. “I’m a friend, okay? I just need some help, and Tim told me you were the best. I need some… tech support.”

“This isn’t the Geek Squad,” Oracle says, and if she’s annoyed, the software smooths it into a computerized evenness.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly. “Just, a friend of mine has been taken— kidnapped. We know who has her, but we don’t know where. I need to trace the kidnapper’s phone, but I don’t have access to the kind of resources that I need. That’s it— just a location, that’s all I need.”

A rush of static that might be a sigh— or a huff, it’s really hard to tell. “If you know who the kidnapper is, why don’t you just tell the NYPD?”

Aaaannnddd, she knows where he’s calling from, that’s just brilliant.

“This guy is dangerous,” he says tightly. “And it’s— personal.”

“That’s usually when it’s best to leave it to the professionals.”

“This isn’t my first rodeo,” he snaps unthinkingly. “I know what I’m doing.”

A moment of silence. Then:

“How do you know Tim, exactly?”

Great. Just—

Neal digs a hand into his hair and pulls. Pain flares in his scalp, but he holds it for a single deep breath, pressing the burner phone into his forehead.

“I met him a few months ago,” he says, and his voice is perfectly calm, composed, like he’s back at the office with Jones and Diana, spinning some tall tale about his ‘alleged’ exploits. “In New York. I helped him out of a tough spot, he said I could give him a call if I ever needed help. Which I do.”

More silence— if there was ever a doubt that this Oracle is a Bat of one kind or another, this puts it to rest; if there’s one thing that every Bat knows how to weaponize, it’s silence.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he says, his voice rising slightly. “I don’t know how to make you trust me. Yes, I know about Tim. I know about Robin. I know the big Secret. But right now, all I care about is helping my friend. So will you help me, or not?”

He regrets the words instantly, but it’s too late to take them back; they’re out there, in the world, where this Oracle can pick over them and scrutinize them and tease out any other little hints that he’s been leaving all over the place because he’s been so careless lately, first with the gas attack, and then with Superboy, and, christ, Robin…

“…Give me the number.”

At first, he can’t believe his own luck. “What?” he says dumbly.

“The number. The kidnapper’s number.”

He gives it to her.

“Alright… I’ve got twelve pings on that number in the last 48 hours. Last one was about three hours ago— either he ditched the phone, or took out the battery. But, most of the pings while it was active were centered between 110th Street and 116th in Manhattan.”

Neal’s heart sinks. “You can’t narrow it down at all? East side, west side… anything?”

“Sorry,” the computerized voice monotoned. “Looks like your kidnapper took precautions in case he was being watched. I can run a few pattern-recognition programs, but my instinct says that half of these pings are going to be false leads. If I can get a picture, I can patch into the local traffic cameras, but—”

“But if he already thinks he’s being watched, he’s not gonna get caught by a traffic camera,” Neal finishes tiredly, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Shit. Well, it can’t hurt. His name’s Matthew Keller, he escaped from prison about six months ago, you should be able to find a mugshot easily enough.”

“On it,” Oracle says briskly. “If I find anything, can I contact you at this number?”

“Yeah, that works.” Neal allows himself to sag forward until his elbows rest on the tabletop. “Thank you. Oracle.”

“You’re welcome, Random Civilian.”

The fishing isn’t subtle, but for some reason it makes him smile into the wooden surface.

“Neal,” he supplies, hoping this isn’t a terrible idea. “Neal Caffrey.”

“You’re welcome, Neal Caffrey.”

The line went dead.

Alright.

Assess the situation.

1. Elizabeth is still missing. He now has a general location, but it’s broad enough that it could take hours to search door-to-door.
2. Keller’s even more paranoid than he’d expected. Burner phones, yes, but false trails good enough to stymie Bat-level surveillance…? If Neal didn’t know better, he’d say that Keller is expecting someone with much more worrying resources than the FBI. Could the Russians be back on his trail already?
3. There’s no help coming. Not that he’s not used to it by now, but… This is on him. No spandex-clad superhero’s going to show up to save the day. There’s just him and his mess. And Peter. And Jones and Diana. And maybe, if the message gets to him in time and he’s not still too angry, Mozzie. And now this Oracle, as long-distance as the help may be.
4. They have a little over two hours until Keller’s deadline, and no treasure to give him. If Mozzie doesn’t get the message, they—and more importantly, Elizabeth—will be screwed. Unless, of course, they find a way to buy more time…

Neal reaches for his phone and dials a number he knows by heart.

“Peter? It’s me. I’m on my way to the office. I might have a lead on where he’s got Elizabeth…”

Chapter Text

The night that he left the Manor for good, he burned Robin.

It was easier to think of it that way, like some kind of secret agent discarding a compromised identity, than face up to the painful literality of it: Turned out rubberized nano-filament smelled an awful lot like burning tires when you tossed it in a rubbish fire. Who knew.

Being mask-less felt a whole lot more naked than just not wearing a mask.

He had about twelve thousand dollars that he’d taken from one of B’s ridiculously overstocked emergency stashes (he’d’ve felt more guilty about it if he didn’t know that that was literally pocket change for B), a single backpack full of basic supplies, an eighth-grade education (supplemented with world-class training in investigative methodology and all associated forensic sciences, plus his natural acrobatic skills and combat skills unmatched by any nation’s most elite special forces) and, of course, the clothes on his back.

He hadn’t brought a winter coat, which he realized could be a serious problem within a month’s time— but a month felt a very long time away when you were barely fourteen and a runaway.

He wondered if they’d found his note yet. If they’d even noticed he was gone. If B was looking for him, or if he’d decided it wasn’t worth the trouble.

(Gordon was right. You’re just a boy. What the hell was I thinking?)

Well, it didn’t matter either way. B wouldn’t find him. And Dick would… do something. He wasn’t quite sure what. He’d had vague ideas about finding Haly’s Circus, going home, but whenever he tried to imagine it, tried to picture picking up his old life, there were two very conspicuous parent-shaped holes. There were no more Flying Graysons to catch him when he fell, because he was the only Grayson left. Haly would probably take him in, might even agree not to tell Bruce, but nothing would change that fact.

And so Dick found himself wandering the streets of a city that he’d never really belonged to, that had been his and now wasn’t again. His breath was a wispy puff in front of his face, and he buried his hands deeper in his pockets as he ducked out of the alley where he’d burned his mask and utility belt. He passed a couple of hookers shivering on a corner, the dim flicker of a cigarette handed back and forth. He passed a homeless man ranting to his reflection in a shop window while his ratty little terrier chewed at the hem of his jeans, unperturbed. He passed an electronics store, the TVs in the window bathing the street in flickering, green-tinged light, and he would have kept right on walking if a horrifyingly familiar picture hadn’t flashed across all the screens in unison.

He stopped dead in his tracks, staring at that half-rictus, the two-part snarl.

…escaped police custody earlier this evening, he read off the reporter’s lips. 

…Harvey Dent, a.k.a. Two-Face…

…armed and dangerous…

…ask the public to report any information to the GCPD tip-line…

…extreme caution…

“No…” he whispered, fingers pressing to the glass of the window as if the light pressure could support his suddenly-fragile equilibrium. Something deep in his stomach had squeezed tight, and his arm throbbed just above the elbow, though rationally he knew that the bone was more than healed by now.

He was free.

Two-Face was free.

“Bad news there, tough guy?” said an unfamiliar voice behind him, faux-sympathetic and Dick cursed internally for letting his guard down enough to let himself be cornered like this.

“As bad as it gets,” he replied blandly, catching just a hint of dark clothes and lazy menace out of the corner of his eye.

He turned to put the glass wall at his back, because this was Gotham and it was just his luck that some jerk decided this was a perfect time to grab three— no, four friends and jump some random kid stupid enough to be wandering around all alone.

“Look, fellas,” he said, not quite conciliatory but not cowering like they probably expected from their victims either. “I don’t want any trouble. Just let me through and we’ll forget all about each other.”

He probably shouldn’t have been as pleased as he was when their little gang leader rejected his offer of a peaceful resolution, but— well, after his shit-hole of a night, he could really use something to punch right about now.

And if these guys wanted to volunteer, well, who was he to deny them?

Neal has met an awful lot of criminals in his time, and more than a few crooks. He’s met scofflaws and outlaws and felons and hoodlums. He’s met thieves and embezzlers and fences and forgers and more killers than he’s entirely comfortable with. 

Compared to someone like Jonathan Crane or Lex Luthor, Keller is nothing. Low priority. Practically a civilian.

But Keller has one advantage that none of those creeps ever had, back in spandex-and-spirit-gum days.

With Keller, it’s personal.

Not just for him; for Peter, who’s still going just about out of his mind with worry. For Mozzie, who’s willing to abandon his retirement and walk into the FBI and hand over the greatest score he will ever see, all for a chance at saving El’s life.

If Neal’s being completely honest, every single one of them should probably be benched right now. They’re all compromised.

That doesn’t make them any less effective.

“What if we stalled Keller without appearing to stall him?”

Neal sometimes wonders if he should be proud or concerned by how well Peter is learning to think like a criminal. “Well, it'd have to be something out of our control,” he warns. “Keller’s not an easy one to con.”

Mozzie’s head bobs, his brow furrowed deeply as his mind spins with plans and cons and strategies. “Yeah, he'd have to think we were operating in good faith.” There’s a moment where he’s still holding out, reluctant, and then he sighs heavily. “We're gonna have to show him the treasure.”

He sounds about as pleased at the idea as he would to be told that he would be attending the Policeman’s Ball with J. Edgar Hoover himself as his date.

Neal isn’t entirely sure what to say— “Sorry”? “Too bad”? “Cowboy up”?

Luckily, the opportunity is taken out of his hands when Peter speaks up. “I have an idea.” There’s life in him now, where before there was only rage and despair. “We'll need a well-timed call to the police and a criminal we have no concrete ties to— someone you wouldn't mind ratting out.” 

He raises a questioning eyebrow at Neal, but it’s Mozzie who responds— with disturbing glee.

“I know just the rat!”

Oh, no. Neal knows that look— that’s the look of a Mozzie focused on one of his many so-called nemeses.

Quickly, before Moz can start on a rant over whatever slight he’ll be getting his vengeance for, Neal adds in, “And I think I know someone who can give us a little extra anonymity for our tip-off call.”

Peter’s face spasms, like he can’t quite decide on an expression. “This is your… hacker friend?”

“Hacker friend?” Mozzie says sharply, narrowing in on Neal. “What hacker friend?”

“She’s the one who traced Keller’s call,” Neal explains, since Mozzie had missed that part. “I told her about El, and she wants to help.”

“You mean Vulture? You called Vulture?”

“No, I didn’t call Vulture,” Neal responds, rolling his eyes. Apparently, Mozzie still hadn’t gotten over his crush on the guerrilla hacker who’d helped them with a case a couple of months ago. “I do have other friends, you know.”

Moz snorts. “Friends that I don’t know? Un-likely! Who is it? Is it Buzzy Brown?”

Neal makes a face. “I wouldn’t exactly call Buzzy a hacker. And I thought you said she was in prison, anyway?”

“Good point.” Mozzie thinks hard. “Is it the kid?” he asks, but then, before Neal can answer or shoot a warning glance Peter’s way, shakes his head, muttering under his breath, “No, no, you said ‘she’... It’s not one of your exes, is it?”

“No, it’s not,” Neal says, stung. “And even if it was, so what? I have great relationships with my exes!”

“Alex?” Mozzie reminds him, rather unfairly in Neal’s opinion. “Sara? That crazy contortionist girl in Jersey City?”

“Okay, firstly, she was a gymnast and she was in med school,” Neal corrects, annoyed, “and secondly, what do you mean, Sara? I mean, maybe we didn’t… exactly leave things in the best place, but she came to warn us about Keller, didn’t she?”

“Yeah, after she told him about the treasure!” Mozzie practically quivers with indignation.

“Because he tricked her!” Neal defends her. “And you know she’d be here in a second if she knew Elizabeth was in trouble.”

Mozzie humphs a little, but his hackles lower. “Well, if it’s not one of your exes, who is this mystery hacker who’s supposedly better than the Vulture?” He scoffs a little at the end, and comprehension strikes Neal suddenly.

“Are you jealous?” he asks incredulously.

Mozzie splutters. “Don’t be ridiculous!” he declares, his glasses jittering on the end of his nose.”What on Earth would I be jealous of?”

“For Vulture’s sake, then,” Neal amends. “Defending her honor. Are you two still talking? I thought you metaphorically burned her number?”

“It was symbolically, as a matter of fact, and no one’s talking to anyone!” Mozzie is distinctly red around the ears. Neal has to swallow down his grin. “And as if I would let myself get tied down by such— such passé mundanity!”

“What, like a relationship?” Neal says, amused. “Maybe it’s your exes we should be worried about.”

“Stop changing the subject! This hacker of yours, how do we know we can trust her?”

“I told you, she’s a friend.” More a friend of a friend, but there’s no reason to get into semantics.

“A friend that neither I nor the Suit knows?”

Neal has to admit that Mozzie might actually have a point— he has a few contacts that neither Mozzie nor Peter are aware of, but none close enough that he would call them a ‘friend’. 

He’s reminded, suddenly, of a(n extremely drunken) conversation that they’d had many years ago, early in their friendship. Of certain… assumptions that he’d let Moz make. About how old he was when he got into the life, and on which side of the law.

(“First bank robbery.”

“Teller or vault, Moz?”

“Vault, obviously.”

“Eleven. First, uh… first Pigeon Drop?”

“Pfft. Seven years, fourteen weeks.”

“Why do you even remem— Never mind. First—”

“Nonono, it’s my turn! First 402b?”

“…Abandoned refrigerator?”

“What? No! 402b is a museum break-in!”

“No, it’s— that’s not even close.”

“Yes, it is!”

“No, it’s not. B used to… used to make me memorize police codes. Most cities don’t even use’m anymore, you know? But I think Gordie likes ‘em. Classic, n’all that.”)

Looking back now, he wants to slap himself for being so clumsy, so obvious. It isn’t so much a matter of breadcrumbs as loaves.

But if Mozzie had guessed anything, he’d never said. Not a word about “Gordie”. Not a single question about “B”.

…Peter isn’t the only one he’s lied to recently. And he certainly isn’t the only one who deserves a little honesty for once.

“She’s a…” Neal hesitates for a moment before steeling his courage and plunging on: “She’s a friend from Gotham, okay?”

Technically, ‘she’s from Gotham’ should not be an adequate explanation for ‘how do you know a world-class hacker whose existence you have never mentioned before’, but… it’s Gotham. Everyone knows about Gotham.

Or at least, everyone thinks they know just enough about Gotham that no one wants to ask any more questions.

It’s impossible to tell who takes the revelation worse— Peter or Mozzie.

“Gotham?” demands Peter, his voice rising almost comically, “Gotham? Gotham City, Gotham?”

“Is there another?” Neal retorts, eyeing his oldest friend, but Mozzie seems more interested in testing out the swivel of his chair.

“But you hate Gotham!” Peter bursts out. “You won’t have anything to do with it! And the— the villains—”

“Yeah, well,” Neal says uncomfortably, “No one can really hate Gotham until they’ve actually lived there.”

“Lived there—!” Peter looks to Mozzie, openmouthed, but Mozzie has removed his glasses and is now utterly focused on buffing out some invisible smudge on one of the lenses. “And you’ve never mentioned this before?”

“It wasn’t for very long,” Neal says defensively. Only about four years. “And it wasn’t exactly great, so I don’t like to talk about it much. Is this really important right now?”

Peter huffs, apparently deeply offended that Neal had never shared what is one of his most closely-held secrets over cold case files and crappy FBI coffee.

“Fine,” he says, pointing the Agent Burke Finger Of Doom at him, “But don’t think this is over. Gotham, christ. Next you’re going to be telling me you’ve been hanging out with the Catwoman.”

“Pretty sure it’s just Catwoman,” Neal says helpfully. “No ‘the’.”

Peter makes a noise of pure frustration and stomps off.

Neal turns to Mozzie, pulling the first distraction he can think of out of the air. “So, you’ve got some rats in mind, then?” he says, hoping he’s not too transparent. “Are you sure you can get them where we need them?”

Mozzie’s eyes gleam. “Untrustworthy and criminally back-stabbing as he may be, cunning, Rufus is not. I can get him in place. I just need the proper kind of cheese…”

By the time Keller calls for the ransom drop, everything is already set up; the ‘rats’ have been baited, and are on their gleeful way to break into a shipping container full of counterfeit cash— not knowing that only a few containers down lies the greatest lost treasure in 200 years.

Of course, said rats also don’t know that a certain mysterious virtual vigilante is just waiting to tip off the fuzz, so. Six of one, half a dozen of the other, and all that.

The point is, all the pieces are on the board, the anklet is off and out of play, and Neal feels—

Well. He’s not really sure it’s ‘Neal’ he feels like right now.

He’s… angry. Angrier than when he’d first found out that Keller had taken El. Angry like he was the day that he loaded a gun and went after Fowler.

He shouldn’t see Keller right now. He can’t. Because if he has to see that smug, smarmy little knowing smirk, he’s going to put his fist in that face. Again. And again. And again.

Maybe he’ll stop himself after that smirk is a bloody pulp.

Maybe he won’t.

He honestly doesn’t know right now and this is why there are rules.

Of course, rules or not, he isn’t the one that Keller should really be worried about. When Peter gets his hands on the man who touched El, Keller’ll be lucky if Peter only beats him to a fine paste. That would be the merciful end.

In a weird way, that thought centers him again; Peter is hurting right now and he’s angry and Neal knows exactly the kinds of irreversible mistakes that people make when they’re hurting and angry. 

He knows how those mistake change everything.

For all that he’s occasionally dragged Peter into his world of bent rules and grayed shades, there Peter has never really crossed his lines. But if he does this, if Neal lets him take that step into the void— Neal (Dick) knows that there’s no coming back from that. Peter would never be able to be an FBI agent again.

And he’s not so sure that Peter could not be an FBI agent and still be Peter.

“You picturing yourself shooting Keller right now?” Neal asks, keeping his voice light enough that it could be taken for a joke.

“No,” Peter growls. “I don't want to shoot him. I want to smash in his face repeatedly.” 

“I'm currently sticking bamboo under his fingernails,” Mozzie chimes in, clenching his fists.

“You are one for the classics,” Neal mutters, trying not to think about how if it was up to him, he’d go for the old ‘dangle-him-off-the-edge-of-the-roof’ bit.

(He could, too, Tim left one of his grapple lines behind, it wouldn’t even cause permanent damage, so is it even really against the rules…?)

 “You guys talking about me? 'Cause my ears are burning.”

Keller swaggers up like he hasn’t a care in the world, like he’s not a violent, greedy piece of scum who’s currently holding an innocent woman hostage.

Peter lunges forward, his expression murderous. Neal was expecting him to crack, but even he isn’t prepared for the ferocity. Peter’s fist catches Keller solidly across the mouth before Neal and Mozzie can grab him by the shoulders and pull him back.

“My wife better be safe,” Peter growls, straining against the restraining hands.

“I like to see the passion, Burke.” Keller spits out a wad of blood, unconcerned. “It shows me you're motivated. Look, she's fine. As long as I call in every half hour, she'll stay that way.”

An idea sparks in the back of Neal’s mind, but he presses it down; now is not the time. Not with Keller on his guard, knowing he’s steps away from the treasure and alert for any hint of a double-cross.

He can feel Keller watching them—watching him particularly—as he makes them lead the way into the warehouse. Those dark eyes linger heavily on him for just long enough to unsettle. Keller’s always been a bit fixated on him, on their rivalry—and Neal is self-aware enough to admit it’s somewhat mutual—but this feels different.

Like Keller is looking for something.

“Still full of surprises, eh, Neal?” Keller comments as Mozzie leans down to unlock the padlock on the shipping container. “Still plenty of… secrets. How’s it feel, Burkie? Knowing that your boy’s been lying to you?”

“Shut up,” Peter orders and then the door is opening and for the first time, Keller doesn’t seem to have a word to say.

Neal can still remember the first time he saw the treasure, hidden away in the depths of a U-boat that had been lost for 70 years.

He remembers the second time, when it was not just that it was there, but also that it was his.

Apparently, even Keller isn’t completely immune to that sense of awe.

When he picks up an ancient Anubis-headed cane (a relic of Napoleon’s Egypt expedition), his grip is as delicate as if he were holding fine china. 

And then the spell breaks and callous covetousness takes hold and Keller’s grip tightens like a vise.

“Well, it’s mine now,” Matthew declares, and Neal wants to punch him. Neal really, really wants to punch him.

It’s not quite as satisfying to see the look on his face when the cops show up (the rats have played their part admirably, taken the cheese and sprung the trap beautifully) and the four of them have to flee and leave the treasure behind.

No, not quite as satisfying— but it’s close.

Keller’s grip on the Egyptian cane is white-knuckled and his expression a grim contrast to the breeziness of his voice as he declares, “Boys, we’re going to steal back our stolen treasure.”

One bad move, Neal thinks, nullifies forty good ones. 

A master strategist he may be, but even Keller can be tricked by his own greed.

Now, they just have to capitalize on it.

He knows after the apparent coincidence of the cops arriving to arrest to completely unrelated criminals at the same time they were there, Keller will be watching them carefully for any hint of involvement, and so he forces himself to wait. Wait, as they regroup at a safe distance from the police cordon. Wait, as they develop a plan to re-steal the treasure right from under the oblivious noses of the NYPD. Wait, while Keller ensures that he and Peter and Mozzie don’t even have a second alone where they might scheme together.

Until finally, it’s once again time for Keller to make his regular check-in with Elizabeth’s captor, and he’s forced to step outside to make the call.

Neal jumps on the opportunity immediately.

“Moz, eyes,” he says shortly, and Mozzie slips over without question to watch for Keller’s return.

Neal pulls his burner from his pocket and redials the last received call. As the phone rings, he places it on the table and puts it on speaker.

Oracle doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “I see you found your kidnapper,” the synthesized voice intones. “Can I assume from the fact that you’re calling me that you were unable to get the victim’s location?”

Peter draws in a tight breath, but Neal shoots him a quelling look.

“Oracle, I’m here with the victim’s husband, FBI Agent Peter Burke,” he begins, more for Peter’s benefit than hers. “Our… distraction was successful in buying us some time, but Keller isn’t giving us anything on El’s location. It seems like he’s left her with his accomplice, with instructions to kill her if he misses a check-in on the half-hour.”

The staticky clack-clack of a keyboard; “There’s no corresponding activity on the number that you gave me from the ransom call,” Oracle reports. “He must be using a different burner.”

“If I can get you the number, can you trace the calls?” Neal asks.

“Probably,” the toneless voice replies, and it’s not exactly as reassuring as he’d like, but he’ll take it.

“Code Red,” Mozzie hisses from the doorway. “Wrap it up!”

“I’ll call you back when I have it,” Neal says hastily, and hangs up. 

The phone is safely hidden away back in his pocket by the time Keller steps back inside.

He pauses for a moment at the threshold, taking in Neal and Peter leaning in over the table with Mozzie pretty clearly standing watch by the door.

“Am I interrupting something here, gents?” he drawls deliberately, throwing a little extra swagger in his step as he crosses back to the table.

Peter meets Neal’s eye briefly, and looks away.

“Nothing important,” he says stiffly. “Just… planning.”

“Hmm.” The noise Keller makes is ambivalent. He steps in close, ignoring the way Peter stiffens, and scrutinizes him closely.

There’s a moment of suspense, and then Keller must find something in his face, because he smiles and pats Peter’s face patronizingly.

“I’m sure you were,” he croons, as Peter jerks away, disgusted. “You just keep on planning, Agent Burke. Just so long as you get me my treasure.”

He draws back and claps his hands together once. “Now, if you boys are finished gossiping, it’s time to put those clever hands of yours to work. Caffrey, you still know your way around a welding torch?”

The big chess set in the library was so shiny and fancy-looking that at first he was afraid to even touch it.

“You’ve never played before?”

“Nope.” Dick dared to flick at one of the crenellations on a castle with the edge of his nail. He liked that word— crenellations. It sounded so... castle-y. “Debs—our Bearded Lady—she had a checkers set and she’d play with me sometimes. It was a lot of fun, ‘specially ‘cause she lost most of the pieces so we had to use beads and sequins and things and if you forgot which ones were yours and tried to move one of the other person’s, you had to take a penalty point and stand on your head for thirty seconds.” He felt a pang of homesickness at the memory.

“I… see. Not chess, though?”

“No.” His fingers traced carefully down the little horse’s neck. Lifted it. It was heavier than he would have expected.

“Would you like to learn?”

He considered it carefully before agreeing. “Yeah.”

“The first thing you need to know,” carefully lining up the pieces in their little squares, white-black-white-black-white, “is that chess is a game of tactics and, more importantly, strategy.”

“Isn’t that just the same thing twice?”

“No. A very smart man once said, ‘Tactics is to know what to do when there is something to do and strategy is to know what to do when there is nothing to do.’”

.

.

.

“...I’m gonna get my butt kicked, aren’t I?”

“Are you sure you can get the phone?” Peter asks lowly, bent forward over the steel frame on the table so that Keller, across the room, won’t be able to see his lips moving.

“Without Keller noticing?” Neal leans down as if he’s examining the seam he’d just welded. “It won’t be easy, but… yes. We just need to wait until his guard is down. Don’t worry, Peter, I got this.”

Peter grunts and takes hold of the frame, hauling it off the table with a curse. It’s not outrageously heavy (yet), but it is long and unwieldy and Peter struggles with it as he staggers toward the empty truck.

“Put your back into it, sweetheart!” Keller heckles, lolling lazily on the edge of a worktable.

Peter curses some more. Neal is pretty sure he hears a “…lucky I don’t break your back…” in there somewhere, and he smirks to himself.

He’s just reaching for a new roll of soldering wire when his hand brushes something else.

Paper. Just a scrap of it, clearly torn off of something larger. It’s slick under his fingers, the type of paper used for receipts and labels.

Neal glances up cautiously, but Keller is distracted, pestering Peter where he’s trying to work on the truck.

He likely only has a few moments before Keller’s innate paranoia has him breathing down Neal’s neck again. Neal figures he ought to make the most of it.

There’s not much printing left on the scrap; a few strings of numbers and letters, something that might be a zip code, but without context it’s impossible to decipher. Along the ragged, torn edge, only about half of a logo remains—the tip of a wing and a beak and a twist of something that might have been thorns… or, no, barbed wire?

It’s familiar, somehow, but he’s just an inch away from being able to place it. The memory is right there, so close he can almost touch it—

“Working hard or hardly working?” Keller says right in his ear, and it’s only literal instinct that lets him palm the scrap of paper before Keller is right there, peering down at worktable as if expecting to find evidence of... something. 

“Just— catching my breath,” Neal says, easing sideways to regain some personal space. 

Keller lets him, smiling that fake smile that means pain for someone. “You do that,” he says. “Just don’t forget, we’re on a clock. You know. For Missus Burke’s sake.”

Neal bites his tongue and forces himself to nod, reaching for the soldering wire again.

Keller claps him on the back hard enough to knock him into the edge of the table. “Aw, come on, Caffrey, don’t be like that. Smile! It’s just like old times.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing,” Neal mutters, rubbing his hip where it had hit the sharp edge.

“We had some good times,” Keller cajoles. “Hey, you remember that time in Philly, with the Breugel?”

“I remember.” He’d been proud of that job, once. Now it gave him a sick feeling in his stomach.

“Or that time in Amsterdam, with those two sisters? And you—”

“I thought you wanted me to work,” Neal interrupts.

Keller bares his teeth, but it’s not a smile. “I want you to get that stick out of your ass and admit you’re no better than the rest of us,” he hisses. “Always act like you’re so superior, like you ain’t one of us ‘cowardly and superstitious’ criminals. Yeah, that’s right,” he adds when he sees Neal’s instinctive flinch, “You know, you’re a talker when you’re drunk, Caff. That time in Brasília? Couldn’t get you to shut up. Said all sorts of interesting things.”

Neal bites down until he tastes blood. Keller doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t.

“This whole white-hat routine of yours— who do think you’re fooling, Neal? Sweet little Kate’s dead ‘cause of you. I think we both know she wasn’t the first. And now... Whose fault is it gonna be if something happens to pretty little Elizabeth? You think your Fed’s gonna care how reformed you are when he’s wipin’ blood out of those pretty little blue eyes— Fuck!”

Neal’s situational awareness is officially shit (B would be so ashamed of him), because even he’s taken completely off-guard by the sudden wall of angry Peter that rushes Keller, bearing him back into the edge of the table.

Bits of scrap metal go flying. Neal himself stumbles back a half-step, less out of a loss of balance (he’s a Flying Grayson, Graysons don’t lose their balance) than honest (hah!) surprise.

“Goddamn bastard—!”

“Whoa, whoa, Peter!” Neal manages to find his voice. Peter has his hands fisted in the lapels of Keller’s jacket, screwed up tight enough that the collar is pulled tight against Keller’s neck. “Peter. Peter, stop!”

“Better listen to your boy,” Keller sneers. If he recognizes the physical threat, his tone gives no sign. “I let you have the first one, Burke, cause I knew you’d be upset. But I thought you understood the status quo here.”

“If you’ve hurt her at all—!”

Keller’s expression shows only condescension. “Keep your shirt on, Burke. Just making a point. No need to get your panties in a bunch.”

He starts to pull away, twisting against the grip on his jacket, but Peter gives him another shove.

“Look at me,” Peter snarls, and it’s angry, but there’s a certain deliberation to the way that he demands Keller’s undivided attention—

Oh.

Suddenly Neal understands exactly what Peter is doing.

Neal forces his way between them, hands coming up to press into their respective chests and hold them apart.

“Look,” he says, channeling his best authoritative tone, “We don’t have time for this. Peter, this isn’t going to bring El home safe. Keller—”

And he shifts his grip, his hand sliding up to the junction of Keller’s shoulder, tight enough to be painful. Tight enough that Keller won’t be able to ignore it.

“—if you want this to work, then let us do our jobs. We’ll get the treasure out.”

Keller looks at him for a moment, and then shrugs the hand off his shoulder so he can step in even closer, close enough that their chests are almost touching. “You mean my treasure,” he says challengingly. “You’ll get me, my treasure. That’s what you meant to say. Ain’t that right, Neal.” 

It’s not a question.

Neal makes himself bite down the retort that rises to his lips. “Right,” he says forcedly. “Your treasure.”

Keller smirks in triumph and finally—finally!—backs off.

As he moves away, Peter catches Neal’s eye and gives him a little look over Keller’s shoulder, as if to say, ‘Well?’

Neal waits until he’s sure Keller is turned away before he gives Peter a wink and taps his jacket pocket.

He’s got the phone.

His first impression had been right; the group of thug-wannabes were completely unprepared for prey that actually fought back. Or maybe they were just unprepared for him— five on one, he had to admit that was a pretty unfair fight. Maybe he should have offered to tie one hand behind his back.

But it felt good to feel the edge of a jaw give way against his sneaker. They’d only managed to land one hit on him early on, a cosh to the back of the head, but even the sharp bloom of pain just made everything clearer. For the first time, he thought he could really, truly understand B, if this was what he felt when he fought.

Two of the thugs go down under the same kick, and then it’s just the leader left, and seeing his lackeys taken out so easily hasn’t made him any less cocky.

Dick’s blood was up now, his knuckles stinging under the thin gloves that lack the padding of his Robin gauntlets. “Just walk away,” he warned, conscious of the picture he must make, with two moaning bodies at his feet and blood on his white trainers. “I’m not in the mood to play anymore.”

The leader smirked. “Who’s playing?”

He’d had some training, that much is clear, but even after watching his little buddies taken out like a bunch of playground bullies, he still wasn’t expecting Dick.

Dick didn’t even have to hit him, his own reckless momentum did all the work for him. He hit the concrete hard and then Dick was on him, hands fisted in his dark jacket—identical to the ones his goons were wearing, which was a heck of a gosh-darn coincidence—when he heard the slow, purposeful clapping echo across the alley.

“Four opponents,” a smooth voice intoned. Male, clearly adult, not like these hooligans with half a dozen chin hairs between them. “A minute, fifty-three seconds.”

Holy Spacial Awareness, Batman, was it Sneak-Up-On-the-Recently-Ex-Robin Day?

“Aikido, Judo, Savate… and a smattering of Capoeira,” the voice noted as Dick shoved away from the boy on the ground and took up a defensive stance once more. “Master Limpopo? Doesn’t matter… I’m impressed nonetheless. Style, grace… and a bit of flamboyance, but without the obtrusiveness and pitfalls of arrogance.”

Wish I could say the same for you, Dick thought but didn’t say. Quips were Robin’s thing, and Robin is done.

The speaker was only half-illuminated, standing as he was on the edges of the shadows, but it was enough to get a general impression. Tall. Well-muscled, under the sharply-cut clothes. Greying hair cut too severely even to qualify as a military cut. Scar on his cheek, deep enough that when the original wound was inflicted, it must have cut all the way down to the muscle. It was probably lucky that he didn’t seem like the kind of guys who spent a lot of time smiling.

The thugs that Dick had put on the ground were starting to get up now, but he didn’t dare turn his back on this new threat to face them fully.

The leader, too; he’d recovered enough to regain his feet and he was brushing himself off like this kind of thing happened every day.

Maybe it did. This was all seeming pretty... rehearsed.

“So, what do you think, Shrike?” The leader had regained his annoying ‘tougher-than-you’ smirk too, and Dick cursed silently. Trap. Totally, 100% a trap—the ambush, the too-easy fight, and now this ‘Shrike’ showing up so dramatically—and he’d walked right into it.

Shrike regarded him, one finger tapping at his bottom lip as though considering him. His dark eyes trailed across Dick’s  bloody knuckles and scuffed sneakers, the single backpack that held all his worldly possessions, and Dick could practically see him putting the pieces together. Probably pretty accurately too, even if he couldn’t possibly guess the, ah, specifics.

Dick scowled harder and Shrike’s thin lips twitched upwards in what was probably the closest his scarred-up face could get to a real smile.

“I don’t usually take on new pupils so late in the semester,” he drawled, and that set off immediate warning bells in Dick’s mind. Pupils? “...but I think I might make an exception for someone with your considerable talents. What’s your name, boy?”

The lie rolled off his tongue instinctively. “Freddy. Freddy Loyd.”

“Well, Mr. Loyd. You may call me Shrike. I believe you’ve already met the inaugural class of the Vengeance Academy.”

Chapter Text

It had been a calculated risk, getting physical with Keller. Maybe not as calculated as Neal seems to assume, judging from the impressed look he sends Peter’s way when Keller’s not looking, but.

The important thing is it worked.

And as an added bonus, Peter has a perfect excuse to duck out of the main workroom for a few minutes, to ‘cool down’.

Neal intercepts him on his way to the door, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze just above the elbow.

He’s damn good, Peter will give him that. Even knowing it’s coming, he can barely feel the hand that slips smoothly into his jacket’s inner pocket. 

“The number’s already entered,” Neal murmurs, low enough not to be overheard. His expression is perfectly crafted, exactly the right mixture of soothing sympathy and guilt. A flawless forgery. Sometimes Peter really does wonder if it wasn’t more luck than skill that he’d ever caught him when he did. “Just press call. Ask for O, give her my name. She’ll be expecting the call. Moz and I’ll keep Keller occupied.”

“Got it,” Peter mumbled back, before yanking his arm away and stomping past Neal and out the door. Only when he was absolutely sure that he was out of sight did he allow himself to relax.

Well. Relax. He hasn’t relaxed since this whole thing began, and he won’t until Elizabeth is safely back in his arms and Keller is languishing in the deepest, darkest hole that the United States Penal system can provide.

But… he can breathe a little easier knowing that Keller is not as in control as he likes to think he is. They’ve got two over on him now, and with any luck, Neal’s ‘friend’ will have a location for El’s captor within the hour.

Assuming she’s as good as Neal claims she is.

Peter eyes the phone for a moment. It’s oddly heavy for such a small lump of cheap plastic.

Hopefully Keller doesn’t check his pockets anytime soon.

As promised, the number is entered and waiting on the call screen, but Peter takes a moment to scroll down the recent call history, to stare at the number that must (it just must, it has to, or all this risk was for nothing) belong to Keller’s henchman.

…he could call Diana.

He could call the FBI right now, his team, and they wouldn’t have to worry about Neal’s unexplained, possibly criminal ‘friend’ from Gotham

(Gotham, for chrissakes, how could he not know that? Seven years chasing the man, how could he have missed that?)

He could call Jones and Diana right now, and they could trace the number themselves and have agents there now.

And if Keller had any sort of eyes at all on Peter’s team, he would know immediately and his accomplice would kill Elizabeth.

Damn it.

Peter hits the call button.

When the voice starts speaking, he thinks at first that it’s some kind of… recorded message. Or one of those automated robocallers.

“Mr. Caffrey,” drones a pleasant, vaguely female voice. “Do you have a number for me?”

There’s an awkward moment of silence before Peter realizes that an answer is expected of him.

“Is this… ‘O’?” he asks carefully.

After almost two years of dealing with Neal’s antics and Mozzie’s… Mozzie-ness, Peter is inured to the eccentricities of those who live on the far side of the law. A voice-changer and a one-letter name are not the most bizarre things he’s encountered. A little V for Vendetta maybe, but…

“Who the hell is this?”

Somehow, the profanity manages to sound more exasperated than actually angry.

“I’m Peter,” he says quickly. “Neal’s… partner.”  

He purposefully avoids the word ‘handler’; even the most benevolent of Neal’s criminal contacts is more likely to balk at helping a Fed. 

Besides, they are partners. Even if it hasn’t felt like it for far too long.

“My wife is the, the victim,” he adds, though it burns to think of El, his El, like that.

“Ah. Agent Burke,” O says. Apparently, Neal had decided to try honesty for once. “Do you have a number for me, then?”

It’s not too late to call Diana. “I do.”

As he reads out the number, he wonders briefly what Phil would think of him now.

There’s a line, Pete, his old mentor used to tell him, between going the distance and going too far. Never lose sight of that line.

Too late for that.

“...So,” Peter says, when the silence drags out a few moments too long to be comfortable, “Neal said you were a friend? From when he lived in Gotham?”

Peter Burke, the Archaeologist. Can’t stop digging even when his wife’s life is on the line.

“Did he.”

Peter can’t help the snort that bubbles up. So much for honesty, then. “Guess I really shouldn’t be surprised at this point. Ah, dammit, Neal.”

“You seem to know him very well,” O comments.

“I should,” Peter sighs. “I spent half my career chasing after him. Pretty sure I still spend half my time chasing after him, only now I’m trying to keep him out of jail rather than throw him in.”

“I did a little research of my own after he contacted me,” O admits. “Your partner seems like a very… interesting individual.”

“You could say that,” Peter says drily.

“But somehow I got the impression that it’s still not the whole story.”

“Not even close,” Peter agrees.

“So… who is Neal Caffrey to you?”

“A pain in my ass,” Peter replies automatically. “And my partner. And— a friend.”

“Sounds complicated,” O observes.

Peter snorts. “You can say that again,” he says. “He’s impulsive. No understanding of consequences. Never met a rule he didn’t want to break. But… he has a good heart. He’d put his own life on the line in a second to protect people, I’ve seen it. Hell, sometimes I almost forget which of us is trained, and which one is the civilian.”

The U-boat, the runaway truck, the Burmese ruby case— the list goes on and on. If Neal were a real agent, by now he’d have earned himself either a medal or a psychiatric evaluation.

O is still listening, and this has been building up for a while now, so he continues.

“I probably know more about Neal Caffrey than anyone else in the world— and I still haven’t even scratched the surface of all his secrets. Somedays, I don’t know if I ever will. I mean, until today, I didn’t even know he was from Gotham,” Peter confesses. “I started chasing him about six, seven years ago, and it’s like he just didn’t exist before that. No records, no clues, nothing. And it’s no help asking him, either.” He chuckles a little. “Last time I tried, he insisted that he was raised in an honest-to-god circus.”

Silence across the line. Peter frowns.

“Hello?” he says warily, wondering if the connection had dropped. “Are you still there?”

“Yes, I— Yes.” O sounds… rattled, if a robotic voice can sound rattled. “A circus?”

Peter rolls his eyes fondly. “Yes. Neal’s always had a flair for the dramatic.”

That’s an understatement if there ever was one. Peter can only imagine what kind of act he’s putting on to keep Keller distracted.

And just like that, the tension—the terror—is back. “How long will the trace take, anyway?” he asks, shooting an agitated look at the door back to the main room. How long before Keller decides to come check on him? How long before he realizes that his phone is missing?

“It’s finished.”

“What?” He couldn’t have misheard. Not that. “You have it? Where is she? God, right, I can— I’ll call my team, they have agents on the ground, all they need is the address—”

“That’s not necessary,” O cuts him off cooly. “I have an agent of my own on it already.”

What? No, what?

“An— No. No, the FBI is ready, they just need an address— This is their job.” Goddammit, this is what he gets for doing it the Caffrey way, he should have called Diana from the very beginning—

“Don’t worry, Agent Burke. Everything is under control.” The computerized voice might just be meant to sound reassuring. “Keep an eye on Mr. Keller. We’ll be in touch.”

That sounds suspiciously like a parting line. “Wait, don’t—”

She hung up on him.

She hung up on him.

Fucking goddamn son-of-a—

He jams his finger into the redial button and tries not to grind his teeth while the phone rings. 

And rings. 

And rings.

It had been a snap decision, slipping Peter the phone. Neal could have held on to it, could have found an excuse to slip away for a few moments of privacy himself— but Peter had set things up so perfectly that it seemed stupid to risk wasting the opportunity.

Now, though, he’s starting to get anxious. It shouldn’t be taking so long, should it? It’s just a trace. It had only taken Oracle a few minutes to trace Keller’s phone, so what was taking so long?

They were probably talking. What had he been thinking, letting them talk? What if they figured it out? Either of them—both of them—it’ll be a disaster, what was he thinking—

Peter shoves his way back into the workshop, and this time, he’s not acting. He’s furious.

Shit. Maybe… maybe Oracle hadn’t been able to trace it after all? Or maybe Keller had anticipated them, maybe it was all a big runaround to keep them distracted? Maybe the number was a red herring. A dead end.

(Or maybe it’s nothing to do with Elizabeth, maybe it’s you, maybe Peter KNOWS, knows that you lied, knows EVERYTHING.)

(Maybe Mozzie was right. Maybe he should have just taken the treasure and run.)

He can’t exactly ask Peter what’s happened, not with Keller there breathing down their necks, so he forces himself to focus on the work. They’re nearly done; another hour or so, and the trucks will be ready to smuggle them inside the police cordon. From there, all they have to do is load up the treasure and drive it right out. 

Simple.

Except for the fact that as soon as the treasure is in Keller’s grasp, Elizabeth is expendable.

If Oracle couldn’t help (and Neal still isn’t 100% sure on that count) their only backup plan is to hope that Jones and Diana’s door-to-door search will find her before they have to hand the treasure over to Keller.

He wants to talk to Peter, but Keller is being even more suspiciously watchful than before, and there’s no way to pass a message without him noticing.

They’re just putting in the last of the false panels when Peter’s phone rings.

“That’s mine,” Peter says automatically, pulling his (not Keller’s, thank goodness for small miracles) phone from his pocket.

“Who is it?” Keller demands.

Peter checks the caller ID. “It’s NYPD— I put in a call about the trucks earlier, looks like they’re finally getting back to me. You want to take it?” He extends the phone challengingly, but Keller just waves him off, disgruntled.

A hint of a smirk crosses Peter’s lips before he wipes it off and answers the call. “This is Agent Burke.”

Neal’s already watching him, and that’s the only reason he sees it when Peter’s expression changes.

“El?”

Keller whips around. Mozzie drops the wrench he’d been holding with an ear-splitting clatter.

Peter doesn’t even seem to notice.

“Oh god, El.” His face is splitting into a beaming grin.

“She’s okay?” Mozzie asks, stepping forward.

And Peter— Peter reaches out, clasping him by the shoulder, practically hugging him. “She’s okay!”

“She’s okay!”

Mozzie and Peter are falling over each other with relief, laughing the kind of laughter that’s one half-step from tears. In any other circumstance, it would be both adorable and blackmail-worthy. But Neal has other concerns right now.

Keller, where’s—?

The backdoor is swinging on its hinges.

The smart move now would be to call the FBI, to set up a perimeter and roadblocks and bring down the full force of the federal government on Keller’s head. Or even worse, the full force of a severely pissed-off Peter Burke with nothing holding him at bay.

But this one is personal.

Neither Mozzie nor Peter notices when Neal slips through the still-swinging door.

Keller works fast, Neal will give him that much. By the time Neal catches up to him, he’s made it three blocks and is halfway through hot-wiring a nondescript silver sedan— in other words, a perfect getaway car.

Well, that just won’t do.

“KELLER!” Neal shouts as soon as he’s within earshot, and Holy Hair Trigger, Batman, it’s a bad idea because of course Keller has a gun on him. The first two shots ping off concrete as Neal takes hasty cover behind the corner of a metal construction dumpster.

“This is reckless, even for you, Caffrey,” Keller calls over the distance. There’s a faint crunch of glass as Keller moves away from his soon-to-be escape vehicle, which is— probably what Neal would have hoped to accomplish if he’d thought beyond his own burning anger.

Never get emotionally invested, chastises the ghost of his training. That’s how you make mistakes, and mistakes get people killed.

“You’re not going to get away with it!” Neal shouts back, already cringing at the cheesiness of it— but some things are cliché for a reason. Besides, if Keller’s bantering with him, he isn’t escaping in his getaway vehicle.

“Maybe,” Keller drawls, and his voice is moving closer slowly. Neal doesn’t need to see him to imagine the picture he makes, prowling closer to his trapped prey, leading with the gun. “Maybe not. Either way, I think you’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

And here he’d thought that one of the advantages of getting out of his old line of work was that he wouldn’t have to sit through as many evil monologues.

“You must’ve really pissed someone off, Caffrey,” Keller says, and Neal can hear the sharp scrape of gravel as Keller reaches the edge of the dumpster but it’s okay, Neal’s already safely out of sight around the opposite corner. Still, circling the dumpster like some giant game of hide-and-seek will only work for so long. 

Neal eyes the car that was so close to being a getaway vehicle. He can probably make it without getting shot. Probably.

But then what?

“You know,” Keller continues, “when that masked freak tipped me about the treasure, I figured it was some kind of personal beef. You know what I’m talking about, someone else you screwed over. And the bonus he offered me for delivering you ‘alive and unharmed’— well, it’s no Nazi treasure, but it’s more than enough to set me straight with the Russians.”

That’s… worrying. Masked? And they want him alive? Could someone know—?

No. No time for that now. Neal’s hand curls around a fist-sized chunk of concrete. He edges as close as he can to the far corner, placing his feet silently amid all the scraps of rubbish and shards of broken glass.

When Keller speaks again, the tone is unchanged, but Neal can practically hear the smirk, “Nothing personal, Neal. Just business.”

Neal’s hand flashes out and the chunk of concrete goes skittering noisily across the asphalt. Keller swings around the corner, already firing. He’d clearly been expecting Neal to make a break for it. He hadn’t been expecting Neal to charge around the corner like a linebacker. Neal sees his eyes just start to go wide before Neal’s shoulder catches him right in the solar plexus.

It’s a good hit; Keller goes flying in one direction, the gun in another. The ideal move now would be to secure the gun, but Keller knows that too and Neal barely makes it two steps before he’s tackled hard at the knees.

If this were a comic book, all his long-ago fighting skills would just come back to him in a burst of adrenaline. Muscle memory, or something like that.

This isn’t a comic book.

It’s been ten years since he’s exercised those particular skills. And honestly, he does have the muscle memories still, but he doesn’t quite have the muscles to go with. The physique needed for advanced acrobatics and mixed martial arts is just a little different from the physique required for slipping through air vents and painting forgeries. His body knows how to move, but it doesn’t have the strength or the speed to follow through.

Neal throws a punch but Keller ducks it, kicking out at Neal’s ankles just as he’s getting his feet under him and Neal hits the ground again hard enough to rattle his teeth. He comes back to himself fast enough to roll out of the way before Keller can stomp his head in, though, which is something.

His heart is just about pounding out of his chest as he forces himself to his feet, which is ridiculous. It’s not like he’s never been in a fight before.

Keller has something in his hands, held out like a sword, and Neal’s first thought is that he’d found a piece of rebar or something in the dumpster, but then he gets a good look at it and it’s that fucking Anubis-headed cane, the one piece of the treasure that Keller had managed to hang on to when they’d been forced to abandon the shipping container. And now he’s going to beat Neal’s skull in with it.

And that’s the thing about Keller, isn’t it? As clever as he is, as sophisticated as he likes to present himself as, Keller—at his core—is a thug. 

He has no training, no finesse. He’s dangerous, yes, in the vicious, unpredictable way that a wild animal is dangerous; he’ll claw you apart if he thinks he can get away with it, and you never want to turn your back on him for a second. You can reason with him all you want, but in the end, if he decides that you’re of more use to him dead than alive, that’s it.

In spite of all his talk about the ‘masked freak’ and clearing his debt with the Russians, there’s a glint in Keller’s eye that says losing that last payday would be worth it to have Neal out of his way for good.

Neal dodges the first blow of the cane, catches the second on his forearm, which— shit, he’d forgotten how much that hurts. The impact resonates across the length of his body, rattling through his teeth. That one’ll bruise to the bone.

He staggers back out of range of a third strike, but he’s off-balance now, and Keller knows it. A third strike catches him in the ribs; a fourth, across the jaw. Sparks dance in his vision and he tastes blood.

One more strike, across the temple, and it knocks him down. His skull thunks hard against the asphalt as he goes down and suddenly he’s twelve years old and he’s just hit the mats again and B is leaning over him with his hair all messed up and sweaty. He’s not even breathing hard, but that scar on his chin is stretched in the way it only does when he’s really genuinely smiling.

C’mon, chum, don’t give up now. Remember what we said? C’mon, Dickie. Why do we fall?

Everything is so bright and blurry shadows dance across his vision, somehow both more and less real than the memory of B reaching down to him.

So we can learn to get back up.

He forces his eyes to blink, glacially slow, and the blurriness fades slightly. What had been just vague shadows are now recognizable shapes.

Broad shoulders. Dark hair. Familiar.

“Br’s?” he slurs.

Get back up, Dick.

The shadow shifts, stretching up, up towards the burning sun. There’s something long and thin that rises from the peak of its reach, hooked at the end.

Dick, get up !

His hands shoot up automatically, catching the cane inches from his face.

It takes Keller by surprise and he uses that moment of shock to pull, hard. Keller doesn’t even have time to let go of the cane.

The force of the yank pulls Keller clean off his feet, sends him sprawling onto the concrete behind Dick’s left shoulder.

Dick rises, falling into a fighting stance that he hasn’t used in a decade. His back and ribs are still smarting, and there’s something hot and wet matting the hair just above one temple, but he ignores it all.

Focus, Dick.

Keller is more wary, this time. His stance is more closed, curled inward, protecting his vulnerable places. His eyes are dark and filled with pure, undisguised hate.

Wild animals are most dangerous when they’re injured.

Keep your guard up.

He bats away the first punch that Keller throws, but isn’t quite fast enough to fully catch the second.  It glances across his shoulder. Dick shakes off the sting and counterattacks.

Jab to ribs. Blocked, but that’s okay, it puts Keller’s kneecap perfectly in range. 

Keller howls as he staggers back and swipes out blindly with a fist.

Dick dodges the blow but reaches out to catch the arm at the top of its swing. He doesn’t even have to twist, not really; Keller’s inertia does all the work for him.

Keller yells again as his arm is wrenched up behind him.

“Shit,” he hisses out between gritted teeth.

“Yeah,” Dick agrees, pulling the shoulder tighter. “I’m just full of surprises.”

“You ain’t the only one,” Keller says, and that’s all the warning Dick gets before Keller’s free hand is slashing outwards with a knife.

Dick shoves himself away just in time to avoid being gutted.

Sloppy, Dick. Where’s your situational awareness?

He feints forward, but Keller stabs out with the knife and he’s forced to retreat.

“Not so tough now, huh, Neal?”

Oh, they’re bantering now?

“Says the guy hiding behind the knife.” And the gun. And the cane. But who’s counting?

He sees a flash of silver out of the corner of his eye and rolls instinctively. Keller isn’t so lucky.

“What the he—” Keller begins as the capsule rolls to a stop at his feet, already spewing a thick, white smoke that blossoms out in an impenetrable haze.

That’s all Dick needs. 

A high kick to the wrist knocks the knife from his hand. The second spinning kick to the jaw might be a little gratuitous, but screw it. This has gone on long enough.

“... wh’th’fuck are you?” Keller slurs out, blood dripping from his teeth.

“Screwed, probably,” Dick tells him succinctly, and turns out the lights.

By the time Peter arrives, it’s already over.

When he’d heard the shots and realized that both Neal and Keller were missing, he’d assumed the worst. Keller had that weird nostalgia thing going, but he was also a violent sociopath who had no issues killing and a hell of a lot of reasons to hold a grudge against Neal. He’d have no problem cutting his losses, permanently.

A big part of him doesn’t really expect to find Neal alive.

No part of him expects to find Neal ‘Never-fought-in-his-life’ Caffrey standing over Keller’s unconscious body, blood dripping off his knuckles.

“Neal,” he says, in lieu of anything better to say. His gun is still drawn, but he lowers it slightly. Doesn’t holster it. Not yet.

(“I want him to know how it felt,” Neal had whispered, and the gun in his hand hadn’t wavered. His gaze had been fixed somewhere far beyond Fowler’s face, but his arm had been steady.“How she felt.”)

It takes Neal a moment to respond to his name, like he’s so deep in his own head that he doesn’t even recognize it.

But then his head turns slowly and he blinks.

“Peter,” he says.

Peter knows the look that comes next. It’s a look that he’s seen a thousand times when Neal’s been caught out on his latest scheme or con. When he finally realizes that there’s no talking his way out of it, that there are things called ‘consequences’. 

It’s the look of a man who wants to run.

Peter drops the gun. “You okay?” he asks.

Neal blinks at him. “I’m— yeah.” His voice is hoarser than usual. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding,” Peter points out, edging forward. 

Neal frowns, one hand rising to the bleeding cut at his hairline. “It’s fine.”

Yeah, Peter believes that about as much as he believes that Caffrey had nothing to do with the Antioch manuscripts. But he lets it go for now and gestures roughly towards Keller’s prone form.

“He breathing?”

“Yes.”

Peter moves forward again and his foot glances off something small and shiny that he hadn’t noticed before. Peter frowns at it. It looks like a car cigarette lighter plug, but… not. Too metallic, for one. A little too large.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it longer before Neal speaks and drags his attention back up.

“We should probably call this in,” he says quickly. “And, uh… I don’t think he’ll be waking up anytime soon, but you wouldn’t happen to have your cuffs on you, do you?”

Peter does not. He does, however, have his badge, which goes a long way in convincing the NYPD unis who show up that it is in fact the unconscious, bleeding man on the ground that they should be arresting, not the (also bleeding) man who made him that way.

“Your boy there sure can throw a punch,” one of the officers whistles as they wait on the ambulance. “Damn.”

Peter makes a vague noise, but doesn’t comment. He’s not sure what to think.

They head back to the office separately; Peter and Mozzie in Peter’s car, and Neal in a second ambulance. Jones has already promised to meet him at the hospital and keep an eye on him while he gets stitched up. Neal isn’t particularly pleased, but Peter secretly feels grateful.

“Did you know that he could fight like that?” he asks Mozzie at one point during the otherwise silent ride.

Mozzie’s answer is singularly unhelpful, as ever.

“Neal doesn’t like violence.”

All thoughts of Neal’s fighting prowess (or not, as it may be) are blown out of his head when he walks into the Bureau and Elizabeth is there, sitting in the conference room with Diana, her dark head bent down as she points to something on the table.

Safe.

She’s safe.

He takes the stairs two at a time and she hears him, looks up and smiles and she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life.

She meets him halfway and throws her arms around him and he crushes her to his body. One of her hands comes up to rub between his shoulder blades, and they just stand like that for a few minutes, soaking in each other’s presence.

“Hey, hon,” El breathes in his ear.

“Hey, hon,” he rumbles back.

When they finally draw apart, they’re both grinning like idiots, holding hands.

“I missed you so much,” Peter tells her, and she laughs.

“It was only a day.”

“Felt like an eternity,” he says truthfully, and from the tired way she smiles and squeezes his hand, he’s sure she agrees.

Someone clears their throat behind him, and Elizabeth’s smiles grows wider.

“I missed you too, Mozzie,” she says, giving him a quick hug with her free arm. “Thank you so much for everything you did for me. And Neal, too. Where is he?”

Peter exchanges a glance with Diana over her head. She has an eyebrow quirked questioningly as well.

“He’s… getting checked out at the hospital,” Peter says carefully. “No, no— it’s nothing bad, he, uh. He got in a fight. With Keller.”

“Is he alright?” El demands, looking worried. Because of course she is, even after everything. “Oh, Neal…”

“He’s fine,” Peter assures her. “He’ll need a few stitches. Keller got the worst of it, actually.”

Both of Diana’s eyebrows are up now, but El seems less concerned.

“Good,” she says firmly. “He deserves it.”

Peter can’t disagree with that.

“And what about you?” he asks his wife. “Are you alright? Are you hurt at all?”

El pats his cheek comfortingly. “I’m okay,” she promises. “Not even a bruise.”

“Looks like she had a guardian angel looking out for her,” Diana comments, reaching behind her. “Or something, at least.”

Peter blinks at the binder she hands him, not quite recognizing it at first. “Di, what—?”

“We were canvassing the area you gave us when we got a call from the 25th Precinct that a cape had just walked in with a woman who said that her name was Elizabeth Burke and that she’d been kidnapped.”

Peter looks down at the open page in the Cape Catalogue, then back up at Diana. “But that’s—”

“I know,” Diana says. “I guess the Bats can leave Gotham after all.”

“She saved me, Peter,” El jumps in passionately. “I was a little scared at first with, you know, the mask and everything, and all the stuff that people say about them, but she was so kind. She helped me get to the police station, and then she stayed with me until I told her that I was okay.”

Christ. And just when he thought he couldn’t get any more confused. Now Batgirl was involved, too?

Peter settles for pulling her back into his arms. “I’m just so glad you’re okay,” he tells the top of her head.

Jones pulls up in front of June’s place and kills the engine.

“Here we are,” he announces. “Door to door service. Need any help getting upstairs?”

“I’m fine,” Neal replies, “but thanks.”

“No problem.” Jones reaches across him to pop the door. From Peter or Diana, it would have been a hint that it was time for him to get out of the car and out of their hair, but Jones is just like that sometimes. Courteous.

Still, Neal really is tired and aching, so he begins the laborious process of dragging himself up and out of the car.

“I’m sure I don’t gotta say it,” Jones says, watching him as he unfolds painfully, “but don’t go running off anywhere tonight. Just take it easy. You hear me?”

“I hear you,” Neal says sincerely, clutching his aching ribs. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

Except quite possibly to prison. But that’s another story.

“Good,” Jones says firmly. “Get some rest, Neal. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” Neal agrees, and steps back as the car pulls smoothly away from the curb.

In his apartment, he grabs the first wine bottle he sees and pours without looking at the label. It could be Château d’Yquem or from the bottom of the bargain bin, at this point he really doesn’t care.

The number is still near the top of his Recently Dialed and he settles himself comfortably on the couch as he presses ‘Call’.

“Hello?” Robin answers.

“Hey.” Neal shifts, tossing one of the cushions down by his feet. “It’s me again. You okay to talk?”

“Dick!” Tim exclaims, and he sounds so frazzled that Neal doesn’t correct him. “Yeah, I’m alone— what’s wrong? Is your friend okay? Are you hurt? Do you need me to come to New York?”

“Everything’s okay,” Neal says quickly. “I’m okay, El’s home safe. We even got the bad guy. Everything worked out… really well, actually.”

“Oh.” Tim calms a bit. “Good, I’m glad to hear it. But, um. If it’s all worked out, then why are you calling me?”

He flexes his toes against the armrest. “Well, I wasn’t sure if your mission would be over yet, but I figured if it wasn’t, you just wouldn’t answer and I could try again later.”

"So you're just calling to... what, to check up on me?"

Neal frowns a little at the phone. Is it too weird? They don’t really know each other that well… Legacies aside, they’d spent, what, twelve hours together? Still—

 "You were just on a mission to Infinity Island. I just wanted to make sure you were... you know, okay."

“Oh, yeah, that’s— Yeah, cool.” Tim says, sounding incredibly flustered. “Yeah, I’m great, how are you?”

He’s so incredibly awkward it’s endearing.

“Better now,” Neal admits, leaning back in his chair. “I also wanted to thank you again for hooking me up with Oracle. She’s… impressive.”

“She’s the best,” Tim says matter-of-factly. “She’s been doing this longer than anyone—except Bruce, of course.”

“Of course,” Neal says smoothly, filing that little tidbit away. “Well, maybe you can thank her from me. We couldn’t have done it without her. Or Batgirl.”

“Uh,” Tim says, and his voice is a half-octave higher than before. “Ca— Batgirl was there, too?”

“Mhm.” Neal allows himself a grin and a sip of wine. “Sounds like the two of you—three of you?—have a lot to talk about.”

There’s an edge of panic in Tim’s voice. “You didn’t tell them, did you?”

Neal takes pity on him. “No, I didn’t,” he says, “but I think Oracle is a little more concerned by the fact that a convicted conman knows your secret identity.”

“Oh god,” Tim moans. “I’m so dead.”

“Well, if you need to fake your own death and start a life of crime, just let me know,” Neal jokes. “Pretty sure I’m the reigning authority on that one.”

“Man, I wish,” Tim mutters lowly enough that Neal’s not sure if he heard him correctly. “I should probably go face the music. Uh, thanks for calling, Di— Neal. I’m glad your friend’s okay.”

“Yeah, take care,” Neal says. “See you around, Robin.”

“See you around,” Tim echoes, and hangs up.

Neal doesn’t get in until late the next morning, and while Peter would normally be annoyed, this time it’s probably for the best.

“Shit,” Diana says, watching the video of Keller’s interrogation. “You’re telling me Caffrey did that?”

Peter had seen the medical report late last night. Broken jaw. Shattered kneecap. Partial dislocation of the shoulder joint. And more bruises and contusions than you could shake a stick at. Nothing life-threatening, but Keller wouldn’t be walking out of there under his own power anytime soon. The interrogation had been held with him handcuffed to a hospital bed.

“It’s not like he made it out unscathed.” Jones surprises Peter by defending Neal. “Should’ve seen him last night. He looked like someone took a tenderizer to him.”

Of course. Jones had driven him home from the hospital last night, while Peter was at home holding his wife. He feels the faintest twinge of guilt that he hadn’t at least called to check in last night.

Diana concedes that. “Still,” she says, “I didn’t think he had it in him. At least it doesn’t seem like NYPD is pressing charges. Pretty clear self-defense.”

“Not for that, maybe,” Jones stresses. “But all that treasure stuff— even Neal can’t talk his way out of that one.”

Well, Peter hadn’t planned on bringing it up so soon, but…

“Actually,” he begins heavily, “It seems like somebody else might have done that for him.”

Both Jones and Diana look up at him with varying degrees of wariness.

“What does that mean?” Diana asks.

“Apparently, shortly after Keller was arrested, the NYPD received an anonymous tip. Documents and surveillance video, tying Keller to at least three past heists, plus El’s kidnapping.” Peter takes a deep breath. “And these files… imply that Keller was the one who originally stole the treasure from Vincent Adler.” He nods at the interrogation footage, which is paused. “So far, he’s going along with it—to save his own skin from the Russians, of course—but what that means is that the three of us are the only ones who know for sure that Neal was involved.”

He hesitates over the next part, but to be honest, it’s not like it’s the first time. “I would never ask either of you to lie but, really, I doubt NYPD will look too closely now that they have a confession. So…”

“…You want us to keep our mouths shut,” Diana says knowingly. “Keep Caffrey out of jail. Peter, are you sure? After he spent months lying to you?”

“And got your wife kidnapped,” Jones throws in.

“Trust me, I know,” Peter sighs, rubbing his forehead. “But I think… He said something to me, about making his choice. He stayed, even when Mozzie left. I think he really does want to change.”

Diana and Jones exchange a look.

“I’m trusting your judgement on this, Boss,” Diana says. “Besides, I’d miss him if he got sent back to SuperMax. But don’t you ever tell him I said that.”

Jones laughs, holding up his hands as she jabs her finger at him. “My lips are sealed,” he promises. “On both counts. Caffrey’s one hell of an asset. Be a shame to lose him.”

Peter feels a surge of relief. “Damn straight.”

“Burke.”

He turns, surprised, to find Hughes standing in the doorway with an odd expression on his face.

“Reese?” he says. “What is it?”

Hughes steps inside and holds out an envelope for him to take.

Peter frowns at it, turning it over in his hands.

OFFICE OF PROBATION AND PRETRIAL SERVICES

“I didn’t open it,” Hughes says. “But I’ve got friends in the Probation Office who gave me a pretty good idea what it was going to be. I thought you might want to open it before Caffrey gets here.”

Shit. Maybe they’d put the cart before the horse worrying about the NYPD pressing charges. Neal doesn’t have to be charged with anything for his deal to withdrawn, if the powers that be decide that he’s back to his old ways.

Peter takes a deep breath and opens the envelope.

He only manages to read the first three sentences before he has to sit down, hard.

“Peter?” Diana says, concerned.

Dear Mr. Caffrey,

This letter is to inform you that a hearing has been scheduled concerning your probation. Because of your outstanding service, including the recovery of stolen Nazi artworks, as well as your assistance in the capture of Matthew Keller, the U.S. probation office is convening a hearing to discuss the commutation of your sentence. 

…the commutation of your sentence…

…commutation…

“Oh my god,” Peter breathes. “They want to set him free.”

(In the next office, unnoticed, a special news bulletin plays out unseen and unheard.

“…the body of 24-year-old Salvatore Mancuso was discovered in an abandoned factory yesterday, the second to be found mysteriously impaled in as many months. NYPD has no comment on possible motives or connection between the victims, although a source in the department has confirmed that both victims were natives of Gotham City. Anyone with information on these incidents is urged to come forward and contact the NYPD tip line…”)

Chapter Text

“Why are you not more excited about this?” demands Peter.

“This is my excited face,” Neal deadpans. 

It’s 8:00 on Monday morning, exactly one week after he’d found out about the possibility of commutation, and already he finds himself missing the days when Peter suspected him of stealing a Nazi treasure hoard.

“Oh, come on,” Peter scoffs. “It’s been a whole week, and I haven’t heard a word out of you about commutation. Not one. I shouldn’t be able to get you to stop talking about it! Hell, I should be drowning in Italian roast by now, not this corner store crap.” 

Neal gasps, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Are you saying that you think I would try to bribe a federal agent?”

Peter just looks at him pointedly and Neal deflates.

“Right. Yeah, okay, that… is something I would probably do. But I’m not!” he adds quickly. “Because that would be illegal and I am a reformed, responsible former criminal with a great deal of respect for the rule of law.” The delivery comes out smooth and sincere, and Neal sneaks a glance to the side to see how Peter’s taking it.

His handler is rolling his eyes. “There it is,” Peter mutters. “There’s the conman I was looking for.”

Neal pouts. “You don’t believe me,” he accuses. “You don’t think I’ve changed?”

“Oh, I know you’ve changed,” Peter acknowledges. “As for reformed… well, I’ll believe it when I see it, Steve Tabernacle.”

“Ah, Steve,” Neal breathes reminiscently. “Steve had some fun, didn’t he?” 

There’d been that job in Munich, for one… And that time in Miami… Not to mention that heiress in Santorini with the exceptional set of busts; Neal always has appreciated a good Grecian marble…

He notices Peter’s glare a moment too late. “…But of course that was all—allegedly—very illegal and it’s all behind me now?” He tries a charming smile, and Peter huffs and throws his hands in the air.

Neal decides to change the subject. “So, do we have a case?”

“Oh, I do,” Peter says, still looking sour. “It’s called the case of ‘How the hell did a Gotham vigilante get involved in my wife’s kidnapping’.”

Neal groans. Not this again. “I told you, I had nothing to do with that. I have never met Batgirl in my life, I had no idea she was going to show up.”

“But your hacker friend,” Peter presses. “She knows her, right? She said she was sending an ‘agent’.”

“I guess.” Neal shrugs. “But I swear, I had no idea...that...was a possibility.” Mostly because it had slipped his mind that there were Bats flapping about Gotham other than the Dynamic Duo, but— that’s just splitting hairs.

Peter is frowning at him in that way that says ‘I know you’re lying to me about something but there are so many possibilities that I can’t narrow it down’. He points his half-empty coffee cup at Neal’s nose threateningly. “I will find out, you know.”

“Yeah, sure,” Neal agrees, sweetly.

In spite of all Peter’s prodding questions, Neal finds that he’s in a better mood than he’s been in— ages, really. There’s a certain kind of high that comes with any successful mission. It’s not unlike the high from a successful heist, or the conclusion of a case. But purer, somehow.

El is safe. The treasure situation is… resolved. Both Mozzie and Peter seem to have forgiven him. And this whole commutation thing— well, that has to be Tim, doesn’t it? Wayne Enterprises has been sponsoring rehabilitative programs and parole hearings since before there even was a Robin. If anyone has the pull and the impetus to pull some strings at the Office of Probation and Pretrial Services, it would be Tim Wayne.

They haven’t spoken directly since the day of Elizabeth’s kidnapping, although Neal is sure he’s felt the familiar prickle on the back of his neck that comes with being watched. He can only assume that the commutation—as well as the lack of Bats showing up on his front doorstep—is some kind of message.

(What and why can’t he just pick up a phone, Neal isn’t quite sure. Who knows what goes on in that kid’s head?)

But either way, things are good. He’s got a little over a month to convince Peter and the Commutation Board that he is fully reformed and ready to be let off his anklet. All he has to do is keep his nose clean and continue to prove that he is a crime-solving asset.

For a guy who used to be Robin, how hard can it be?

“How hard can it be?” Boone said, cracking his knuckles.“This is what Shrike’s been training us for! It’ll be a piece of cake.”

“Yeah, it’s just one guy,” Lo agreed. “Pop a cap in his ass, bam! Done.”

“How the fuck do you know?” Vader snapped back. “What if it’s the fuckin’ Batman, huh? What about that?”

“It’s not the Batman,” Raul said.

“Yeah? How you know?”

“Because they’re giving us the location, dumbfuck. No one knows where the Batman fucking lives, so how could they give us the fucking location?”

“Yeah, but did you see how much they’re payin’?”

Dick stayed silent as they bickered, picking restlessly at the torn edge of his jeans. His chest was a spring wound tight, ready to burst.

It had never been a secret what Shrike was training them for, but it had never felt so real until now. Now that it was here, he wasn’t sure what to do. He couldn’t— he couldn’t do this, he couldn’t kill someone in cold blood, but the ways out were looking more and more precarious.

He’d thought, at first, when Shrike had made him an that offer Dick (or rather, Freddy) couldn’t refuse, that it would be easy. Like undercover, but without Batman breathing down the back of his neck and giving him terse instructions over comms. He’d thought he’d just go along for a little bit, hold back so that he just seemed like a talented civilian, find out what was the real story behind this whole “Vengeance Academy” thing, and then—

Well, he hadn’t quite worked that part out yet. Hand it all to the Commish? Drop them all hogtied in front of Police Headquarters with a note? 

Those were things that Robin would do, and he... wasn’t Robin anymore.

And he wasn’t Dick Grayson anymore, either. Not here. Not when he can feel them watching, all the time, for the slightest crack, the slightest weakness. 

If he didn’t do this— If he refused to kill—

Well, he might not get the chance to be Freddy Loyd for very long either.

On his list of good things, one item he hadn’t expected was the chance to make up with Sara.

Well, not like make up, make up. They’re not back together or anything. They’re just... friends. (And Peter can stop giving him that knowing look.)

Besides, Neal can use more... friends. Especially friends who don’t look at him and see the commutation hearing that is creeping closer every day. As far as Sara is concerned, he’s still the irritatingly charming thief who got away. As much as it was an inside joke between them, Neal knows that Sara has never truly given up hope of recovering Raphael’s St. George and the Dragon. She might not want to see him locked up anymore, but she’s not the kind of person who’ll let something like that go. She’s as tenacious as a dog with a bone, and Neal could not admire her more for it.

(He’s still not giving the painting back, though.)

The point is, they’ve reached a sort of... equilibrium. Commutation will just complicate that.

Too bad someone didn’t get the memo.

“Peter told me about your commutation hearing.”

He doesn’t wince. What kind of conman would he be if he winced? His face might, possibly, go vaguely wince-like for a moment, but that doesn’t count.

“Oh, yeah. That.”

“Yeah, that.” Dryly. “Congratulations.”

The hurt has been carefully wrapped up and tucked away in favor of more practical emotions, but Neal knows it’s there. That’s how Sara is. She’s brilliant, strong, capable— and guarded. It takes a lot for her to let someone in.

Neal just hopes he hasn’t lost that right forever.

“Neal, what are we doing right now?” Sara asks, and he’s pretty sure it’s rhetorical, but he’s not quite sure what answer she wants.

“Talking?” he tries.

It’s the right answer, because she smiles and steps in closer. “Yes, we’re talking. We're being open with each other. That is what we need to do. I don't need you to protect me by hiding things from me, all right? 'Cause that's where we got tripped up last time.”

It’s hard to think with her so close. He can smell her perfume, orchids and spice. It’s… entrancing.

He manages a sardonic, “That, and a multi-billion-dollar U-boat treasure, you know, explosion.”

Sara laughs, and steps away. Neal can’t decide if he’s relieved or disappointed until she grabs a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses. “Tonight,” she declares, settling into his couch, “you and I are gonna talk. Not about your hearing, but we are going to talk.”

He follows and settles next to her. “What do we talk about?” he asks, accepting a glass.

Sara smiles over the rim of her glass.

“Everything.”

“Is this who I think it is?” Lo held the manilla folder gingerly, as if at any moment it might bite. Boone, peering over his shoulder, let out a huff of surprise.

“Your quarry,” Shrike said cooly. His arms were crossed across his long, dark coat. “Nothing less and nothing more. But certainly a murder for the right price.”

Dick saw Raul glance at the picture and away, throat bobbing, and wondered if maybe he wasn’t the only one having second thoughts.

And then Boone passed him the picture, and everything… stopped.

He didn’t need to read the name. He knew it. He saw that face in his nightmares.

As faces went, it was pretty unmistakable.

“Problem, Freddy?” Shrike asked silkily.

He realized, suddenly that his hands were clenched into fists so tight that his knuckles screamed protest.

Quickly, he forced his grip to relax, schooling his expression. “No,” he heard himself say. “No problem. Just a question…”

Months now he’s been here, lived with them, trained with them, laughed with and bled with them and lied to their faces. Months, since he abandoned the life that he used to have. The life that had been taken from him.

Vengeance Academy. What a name.

Dick looked up and met Shrike’s gaze squarely. His voice was perfectly steady.

“When does he die?”

Neal might not have a lot of respect for laws of man or nature, but there are a few even he can’t escape.

For example: the higher you are, the farther you have to fall.

“Agent Kramer!” Neal’s had some pretty bad falls in his time, but all the experience in the world can’t dull that first moment when you miss the last step on the stairs, or when your foot starts to slip out from under you. That lurch in your stomach when the ground isn’t quite as steady under your feet as you’d thought it was. “Nice to see you again. And so… soon.”

So soon, when he’d thought—hoped—that the end of the treasure fiasco meant that he would never agains cross paths with the head of DC Art Crimes.

It’s twice as embarrassing that the man had actually managed to sneak up on him— him! The sneaking expert!

(He can just imagine what B would have—)

Kramer blinks at him. “Peter didn't tell you I was coming?”

Of course, some part of him wants to reply, but he suspects Kramer would see it for the bluff it is.

“We’ve had a pretty busy week,” he says instead. His smile feels too wide, like overstretched canvas.

“Oh, I’ve heard,” Agent Kramer says sympathetically. “Poor Elizabeth. Sounds like she went through quite the ordeal. Petey, too.”

Neal’s ruffled feathers start to settle. Kramer was Peter’s old mentor, and clearly a friend. Of course he’d want to check in. 

“And then there’s yourself!” Kramer continues, and instantly Neal’s back on high alert. “Up for parole!”

“Commutation, actually,” Neal corrects swiftly.

Kramer laughs it off. “Yes, of course. That’s right. I’ll make sure I don’t make that mistake in my report!”

Neal’s stomach sinks even further, if possible. 

“What report?”

Later that evening, he toys with a glass of Malbec while his long-time partner in crime paces the apartment fretfully.

“A written summary,” Mozzie repeats yet again, wringing his hands anxiously, “Of all your cases?”

“That’s what he said,” Neal confirms for the hundredth time. “Due to the ‘high-profile nature of some of our past cases’, DC needs someone to compile a report on all my work with the Bureau since I’ve been on the anklet. Apparently, it couldn’t be Peter because he was involved in all the cases, and no one else in New York had a high enough clearance.”

“What about the Suit’s boss?” Mozzie demands. “Why can’t he do it?”

Neal raises a brow, swirling his wine slowly. “I didn’t think you liked Hughes that much.”

Moz scoffs dramatically at the idea of his liking a Federal Agent—as if he isn’t over at the Burkes’ nearly as often as Neal is—and executes an about-turn that would have made a drill sergeant weep.

“This is the same Kramer we’re talking about, isn’t it?” Mozzie says, hands on his hips. “The Über-Suit, the G-man’s G-man? The same Agent Kramer who knows that we stole the treasure?”

“Kramer doesn’t know that we stole the treasure,” Neal contradicts, draining the last of his wine. “All that he knows is that Peter thought we stole the treasure. And we proved that we didn’t. Or— close enough.”

Mozzie groans and throws his hands up over his head. “Well, I think it’s safe to assume that we can’t count on Kramer to put in a good word for you with the committee. What about the Suit? Did you talk to him yet?”

“I’m not asking Peter to testify for me,” Neal says quickly.

Mozzie goggles at him. “Why not? Neal, he’s your handler! He’s the one who arrested you! If there’s anyone whose opinion could convince them to snip your electronic leash, it would be him!”

He’s not wrong, but Neal stands by his words. It’s not a question he needs answered.

(What would Peter say? If it wasn’t a joke, if he had to go on record with it— Would Peter say that he’s changed? If it was his choice, would Peter let him walk free?)

“No Peter,” Neal repeats firmly.

A huff, and a new circuit begun. “Well, we can count on June to blow it out of the water,” Mozzie mutters feverishly. “I bet Mrs. Suit will do it too, I can ask her at our Tuesday Brunch. What about the Demi-Suits?”

“Jones and Diana?” Neal considers it. “I don’t know. Jones… maybe. He’s a good guy. Diana…” 

He can’t help the slightly nervous laugh that squeaks out.

“Well, let’s just say that I don’t think she’s pulling any punches.”

When Diana Berrigan was 11 years old, she punched a boy in the face. 

It was her first month back in the States after almost three years in Brussels, and everything still seemed too big, too loud, too American. She’d decided the very first day that she hated their new house and she hated the unfamiliar staff and above all, she hated the gross, muggy DC summer. Dad kept saying to give it time, that she’d get used to it, but she didn’t want to. She wanted her old bedroom and her old school and her old friends.

Charlie was the only one who really understood.

“It sucks,” he’d said succinctly, as he helped her lace on her favorite boxing gloves (the blue ones with the golden Ws across the back, just like Wonder Woman). “You angry?”

“Yeah.” Charlie was the only one she had never been afraid to be honest with.

He tugged at the edge of one of the gloves so that it sat more comfortably against her wrist. “It help?”

She shrugged, shuffling her feet against the mats, and Charlie sighed and squeezed her arm a little.

“Yeah, I know,” her bodyguard said. He sounded sad. “I know.” 

They sat like that for another minute before Charlie straightened up and pulled her to her feet. “Alright, Pony Legs, that’s enough sitting around. Gimme some quick jabs! Go!”

Punching helped, a little. Not enough. The house was still too big and fancy, and her teachers were mean, and the other kids still whispered behind her back.

It was at lunch one day when the girl came up shyly to where Diana was eating alone and said, “I like your lunchbox.”

“Thank you.” It had been a birthday gift from Dad, one of the few that hadn’t been boring and girly. “Wonder Woman is my favorite.”

“Mine too!” The girl had big, pink-rimmed glasses and when she grinned, one dimple was slightly higher than the other. It was… a good smile. It made Diana want to smile back.

A boy at the table in front of them sniggered something that sounded like Losers to his friend and Diana frowned.

“Hey,” she snapped. “What’d you just say?”

The boy turned around in his seat, sneering. “Wonder Woman is lame.”

“Wonder Woman isn’t lame,” the other girl insisted, pinking up. “She’s really strong and cool!”

“Superman is way stronger,” the boy’s friend chimed in. “And he can fly and shoot lasers.”

“Yeah, but Wonder Woman has her Lasso of Truth!”

“So what?” said the first boy. “She’s just a dumb girl.”

“Shut up!” Diana said, standing up. People were starting to watch.

The boy sneered harder. “And my dad says she’s a dy—”

That was the point when Diana punched him.

She’d earned herself a three week suspension and a fractured knuckle.

She didn’t make a lot of friends at that school, or the one after.

Maybe that’s why it means so much to her that Peter had accepted her so unquestioningly, based on her own competency and skills. Not her father, not her background, not her gender or or orientation. She’s part of his team, and that’s it. That’s all he needs to know.

She’s still not entirely sure what she thinks of Agent Kramer. He’s a respected agent—almost legendary, really—with an unimpeachable reputation. Peter clearly thinks of him as a trusted mentor, even now. And Caffrey— Well, Diana has to respect anyone who makes Caffrey that nervous.

But he’s no Peter. And as much as she’d occasionally like to strangle Neal, he’s one of her team, too. Kramer isn’t.

“I have the rest of the files you asked for.” Diana would be lying if she said she enjoyed fetching and carrying, but she is, technically, the most junior agent on the team. And perhaps more importantly, she’s the only one that Neal isn’t stupid enough to try and con the details out of.

And given that it’s Neal’s files that he had asked for…

“Yes, of course!” Kramer shuffles aside some of the stacks of papers to clear a corner of the table for her.

As she carefully places the files down, she can’t help but glance over the spread of folders. Case files, mostly, which makes sense. But also— something handwritten. Letters? Stamped with the US Department of Corrections. Neal’s prison letters?

Kramer catches her looking. “Looks like I’ve gotten my work cut out for me. Any shortcuts you can talk to me about so I don't waste my time?”

Why, so I can waste my time? Diana thinks, but Kramer is a superior agent so she forces a smile.

“Sorry. I know it's a lot, but everything you need for the report's in there.”

“The more I read, the more it sounds like something out of a comic book,” Kramer chuckles.

Diana… can’t exactly argue with that. Even if she doesn’t like the way he says it. “Well, it was definitely real. You can trust me on that.”

“I was just reading about,” he flips backwards a few pages, “a fear gas attack? Wow. That must’ve been…”

“Terrifying,” Diana fills in for him. Her skin prickles just thinking about it. “Yeah. It was.” 

She hadn’t been lying in the hospital when she’d told Agent Yang that she barely remembered her hallucinations, but even now, months later, she can’t quite shake the feeling that went with them.

Kramer is watching her closely, still with that mild, avuncular air of amiability.

“It’s fairly rare, isn’t it, to see fear gas outside of Gotham City?” he asks.

“I guess.” It’s not the first time she’s been asked about it— it’s a pretty dramatic story, after all. While the Bureau had managed to keep it out of the news, FBI agents gossiped like teenaged girls. By the time she’d made it out of the hospital, she’d had ex-colleagues from as far away as San Francisco calling to check up on her.

It’s perfectly natural for Kramer to be curious.

(But then why doesn’t he just ask Peter? whispers a little voice in the back of her mind. Aren’t they supposed to be close?)

(Why is he looking at Neal’s prison letters?)

“From what I heard,” Kramer is saying, “your team had a pretty close call there. That gas is pretty dangerous stuff.”

“Yeah. If it wasn’t for Neal, I don’t think any of us would have made it out,” she adds, because whatever she may think about Caffrey’s recent activities regarding the treasure, there’s no denying what she—what they all—owe him. “He saved our lives.”

“Hmm, yes. It seems like our Mr. Caffrey was quite the hero.” Diana follows his gaze down to the bullpen, where the man in question is leaning against the side of a desk, visibly flirting—shamelessly—with one of the probationary agents. 

As if sensing their eyes, he looks up suddenly, and as their eyes lock, Diana sees a flash of some unnameable emotion cross his face. Then it’s gone and Neal turns back to his conversation as if it had never been interrupted.

“Quite the hero,” Kramer repeats softly. 

Diana drags her attention back up. “You should include it,” she says abruptly. “In your report to the Commutation Board.”

Kramer looks at her with mild interest. “You think he should go free, then?”

That’s— She’s thought about it, more than once since the letter from the Board arrived, but Kramer is the first one to actually ask, in so many words.

“I don’t think my opinion is the one that matters,” she evades.

“It could.” Kramer closes the folder and taps the cover with one thick finger. “You’ve worked with him for a few years now, haven’t you? You were there for the gas attack… the whole mess with the treasure… hell, you were there for his very first case out of prison, weren’t you? I think the Board might be very interested to hear what you have to say.”

Diana keeps her expression smooth as she thinks.

“Caffrey’s broken a lot of laws,” she says aloud, “And bent a lot of rules. But I don’t think he’s bad. Don’t know if he’s ready to be good, but… It’s Peter’s opinion that really matters. And I trust Peter’s judgement. I’ll stand by whatever recommendation he decides to make.”

Kramer’s smile tightens slightly. “Your loyalty is commendable. Thank you, Agent Berrigan. I’ll consider your suggestions.”

It’s a clear dismissal, and Diana rises gratefully. 

Just before she reaches the door, Kramer’s voice stops her.

“One last thing, Agent. How did Caffrey recognize the gas?”

Diana halts, caught off-guard. “What?”

“The fear gas.” Kramer’s eyes are sharp, his affable façade discarded. “How did a strictly non-violent, white collar criminal identify a Category-1 chemical weapon by scent alone?”

“I— don’t know.” She hadn’t thought about it before. It’s Neal. He just seems to… know things. “I never asked. I assume he’d seen it before somewhere.”

“Ah.” There’s something almost satisfied in the set of his jaw. “Well, thank you. I won’t take up any more of your time.”

Unnerved, Diana leaves the room, but the question still echoes in her head.

How did he know?

She catches Neal’s eye by accident as she passes and can’t quite return the grin he shoots her. His smile falters slightly and his eyes dart up to Kramer’s makeshift office.

How did he know?

She forces herself to relax, to return the smile fully. Neal was reckless enough on a normal day. No telling what he might get up to if he suspects Kramer’s investigation is more than just a formality.

Peter needs to know about this, she decides as she sinks back into her own desk. She’s not entirely sure what Kramer’s looking for, or why, but this, she is sure of. Peter needs to know.

All of it.

“Hey, Boss, you got a minute?”

Peter looks up from his desk-full of paperwork to find Diana hovering in the door of his office, looking unusually serious.

“Sure,” he says easily, marking his spot with a finger. “What’s on your mind?”

Diana glances once over her shoulder before stepping fully into the office and shutting the door behind her.

“It’s about Agent Kramer,” she says. “And… Neal.”

Peter closes the file and gives her his full attention.

“Tell me.”

“You sure about this?”

Dick nearly cut his fingers open with the knife he was supposed to be cleaning. He’d been so focused on the rag and metal, so lost within his own thoughts, that he hadn’t even heard Boone come in.

“What?”

Boone rolled his eyes. “ Jee -zus, Freddy. I said , are you sure about this? It’s not too late to chicken out, you know.”

“Fuck you,” Dick said automatically. It was a good answer to pretty much anything that came out of Boone’s mouth.

Boone scowled, but didn’t move. He just… stood there, awkwardly, as the silence stretched out.

It was strange; with anyone else, Dick would have called it hovering, but Boone wasn’t the kind of guy who did ‘hovering’. Concern—empathy in general—wasn’t really his strong suit.

But he was still just standing there, clearly waiting for something .

“You didn’t say anything,” Boone said abruptly. “Earlier, with the guys.”

“So?” Dick fixed his attention back on the blade in his lap.

“ So, this is it .” Boone snapped, stepping nearer. He was wearing his stealth blacks already, and his balaclava was scrunched down around his neck. “The big test, the final exam. This is what we’ve been training for.”

“Okay, and?” Dick tried to keep the impatience out of his voice. The knife was clean, really, but he kept running the cloth up and down and up again.

“And you saw the target.”

Dick hissed as the blade slipped and nicked his thumb. “Shit,” he said, sticking the thumb in his mouth. The tang of copper was slight enough that it was probably not too bad, but it stung . “Dammit. Yeah, I saw the target. You were there. So what?” He looked up, and Boone was staring at him fixedly. No, not him— at the blade in his lap, the slightest smear of red against the steel. Dick couldn’t begin to guess what he was thinking.

After a moment Boone looked away, crossing his arms. “Jesus Christ, ” he said, and he sounded more like his usual self, scathing and superior.“Forget it. We’re Vengeance fucking Academy, right? That freak won’t know what hit him.”

“Right,” Dick echoed.

Boone tossed something at him, and Dick caught it instinctively. Another balaclava, identical to the one Boone had around his neck.

“Get dressed,” Boone ordered. “Shrike wants us ready to leave in 20.”

“Sure,” Dick said, flexing his injured thumb experimentally. “See you there?”

Boone grinned at him, sudden and vicious. “Not if I see you first.”

“…and he brought some of his own files, too,” Diana continues her report. “I’m pretty sure he had copies of some of Neal's old prison letters.”

“His letters to Kate?” Peter specifies, and at her nod, frowns thoughtfully. “We always suspected they contained codes, but we could never crack them.”

More importantly, Peter could never crack them. There are still photocopies that live in the ‘Caffrey Box’, margins filled with notes and failed attempts at ciphers.

Diana shrugs. “Maybe he thinks he can. And… Boss, there’s something else. I didn’t want to mention it before, but… when I spoke to him, earlier, about the gas attack… I think he thinks that Neal was involved, somehow.”

“What?” It comes out almost as a laugh, even though there’s nothing funny about it at all. “That’s ridiculous. Neal would never— besides, he was right there with us. Why would he expose himself?”

“I agree,” Diana says frankly, “But ‘involved’ doesn’t have to mean ‘responsible for’. If he really has some kind of history with Gotham… is it possible that Caffrey was the target?”

Peter’s breath catches. The investigative team had never found a suspect, or even a motive. He can still remember the overwhelming, sickening terror. And after, in the hospital, how sunken Jones’ eyes had seemed. How Diana had jumped at every sound. How Neal had barely been able to look him in the eye.

“If it even was an attack,” he says, more to convince himself than anything. “We don’t know for sure.”

Diana makes a face, and Peter knows exactly what she’s thinking. The odds that it really wasn’t an attack were about as high as the chance of Mozzie running for Police Commissioner.

“I need to talk to Phil,” Peter mutters, mostly to himself.

“What about Neal?” Diana asks. “Are you going to tell him?”

Peter considers.

Neal Caffrey is many things. He’s a thief, and often a liar. He’s a charmer. An artist. And in another life, he would have made a damn good agent.

But this isn’t another life, and Neal is who he is, and among all those other things, 

“No,” he decides. “No, not yet. When Neal feels cornered, he runs. And that’s the last thing we need right now. He has enough to worry about with the commutation.”

Diana nods purses her lips but accepts his decision.

Peter just hopes he doesn’t live to regret it.

Chapter Text

Gotham was never quiet. Even now, in the dead hours between midnight and morning, cars rolled down half-lit intersections and shadowy figures lurked at the edges of trash-strewn alleyways.

No one noticed one more lost soul stumbling along the pavement.

Dick tucked his hands deeper into the armpits of his stolen jacket to try and stem their shaking. Five hours. Just five hours ago, he'd sat in the warehouse, sharpening a knife, knowing that he was going out to kill a man. Anticipating it. Dreading it.

No— no, he'd wanted it, hadn't he? He'd seen the photograph and he'd said— He'd said—

Somewhere nearby, glass shattered and a voice screamed profanities loud enough that Dick couldn't keep himself from flinching, skittering away towards the far edge of the pavement.

They'd be looking for him by now. Shrike. Boone. Bru— Everyone. They'd know what he'd done. They'd know. And they'd find him. He needed to get away , but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to run, he couldn't go back.

He couldn't ever go back. Not anymore.

His feet stumbled on blindly, even as his mind churned in increasingly incoherent circles. He just kept thinking about the dogs. 

They'd been big dogs, some kind of Rottweiler mix, all rippling muscle and teeth. 

The dogwhistles had been Dick's idea; get the guard dogs agitated, keep them barking at shadows long enough and the human guards would get sick of the noise and lock them inside.

They'd had to do something; they'd never have made it across the lawn with getting spotted.

He hadn't expected the guards to shoot them.

He'd thought it was funny, thumbing his nose as the dogs went crazy at the whistle. Then  bang, bang  and they'd dropped like broken puppets (just like Mom and Dad—)

His feet carried him on, past a boarded-up bodega, past a group of drunks cat-calling the hookers across the street, down an alley that stank of piss and garbage.

He'd never been here before, not exactly, but his feet knew the way into the building. Up the stairs. Down the narrow hall, stop in front of the door. Hand up, knock twice, pause, again.  Bang, bang. Bang, bang . 

He didn't have enough time to worry about what he'd do if no one was home before the door was opening.

"Robin?"

No, not Robin,  never  Robin, he'd ruined it all, soiled it,  betrayed  the cape and the name, he'd ruined everything, and the tears that he hadn't even noticed had been building suddenly boiled over all at once.

He untucked his hands from his armpits and stretched them out, trembling and blood-speckled, in desperate supplication.

"Selina," he managed, voice wavering. "Please.  Help me ."

There’s something going on. 

Something more than the commutation, or a review of his work with the Bureau. Something that has Neal’s coworkers—his friends—watching him carefully. Which— okay, not totally unusual, but normally no one bothers to hide it. He’s a criminal and they’re FBI agents. He likes to keep them on their toes, and they want to keep him in line. He’s used to being watched with varying levels of friendly suspicion.

This is different.

It had started with— well, it had started with Kramer, hadn’t it?  But then he must have said something to Diana when she was in the conference room with him, because suddenly he can feel her eyes on him every time he turns his back. She’s too good to actually let herself get caught staring after the first time, but it doesn’t matter; Neal’s instincts are well-honed from a lifetime of living on the edge. He knows when he’s being watched.

And then, of course, Diana had gone straight to Peter and shut the door behind her.

It’s not a long conversation—a few minutes at most—and though Neal can’t quite get an angle to read lips through the reflections on the glass, he can see when Peter’s expression goes grim. 

Diana slips out of the office unobtrusively, choosing, Neal notes, not to pass in front of Kramer’s make-shift command center.

Peter doesn’t wait long before he rises from his desk and slips his suit jacket over his shoulders. Neal can recognize someone arming himself for battle.

He wishes he could be surprised when Peter heads straight for Kramer, who looks pleased as ever to see him. They exchange a few words, and then Kramer, too, rises from his desk and together they make their way down the stairs and out of the bullpen.

Neal hesitates for a moment, torn, but— this could be his only chance to get into Kramer’s office and see what he’s been looking at that has everyone so skittish. There will be another chance to eavesdrop, later.

No one gives him a second look as he slips through the bullpen. Peter and Kramer are well out of sight and, by the looks of things, won’t be back for a while. He only hesitates a moment before easing open the door to Kramer’s conference room. The walls are glass; anyone could look up and see exactly what he’s doing. He doesn’t have much time. He leafs quickly through the piles of files and reports, searching for something, anything.

Mostly, he sees familiar case files: the Dutchman; Yankee Stadium; the pink diamond; the kryptonite; the U-boat and Elizabeth’s kidnapping.

But all that’s to be expected, if Kramer’s really compiling a report on his work as Peter’s CI. The fear gas case, too, makes sense if Kramer’s trying to build a picture of his time with the Bureau. 

What’s a little bit more unnerving is the fact that there’s a copy of Neal’s medical report attached. On some level, Neal had been aware that the FBI had a copy of the doctor’s examination, can even remember giving his consent to release the information in case it might help identify the mastermind behind the attack. On another, he’d never imagined that someone as meticulous as Kramer might go back through it, carefully highlighting phrases like “pre-existing scar tissue in lungs” and “increased resistance to toxins”.

He forces himself to move on. More case files, a few crime scene reports from past capers that Peter had never been able to definitely tie him to, and— There. 

Department of Corrections. His own handwriting.

Dear Kate,

Mere ink and paper cannot convey the hollow that rests within my soul every moment we are apart…

It didn’t get much better from there; he’s never been much of a poet. But that hadn’t been the point, not for this particular letter, and Kramer shouldn’t know that, so why of all the letters he’d ever written her is this the one that he’s interested in?

Just in case, he’d said the next time Kate had visited him in prison. He hadn’t dared say more, not with closed circuit cameras watching their every move, and he’d thought she understood.

(Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she’d never cracked the code. Maybe she’d forgotten, lost the letter. It feels safer to think that, than to think that during that elusive year with Fowler and Adler and chasing the music box, she’d chosen to ignore it.)

There are messy scribbles along the margins of the letter, half-finished attempts at ciphers and failed decryptions. Getting closer, though. If Kramer hasn’t cracked it yet, he will soon.

This… could be a problem.

Not a call-Tim level problem, not alone, but if Kramer knows enough to be looking into the letter and the gas incident, then he needs to deal with it, now.

What was it that Mozzie had said, once? ‘Fate has a way of putting in front of us that which we’d most like to leave behind’?

He has probably moments left, he knows, and he quickly reorders the piles of paper, restoring them to the way he’d found them.

It’s as he’s replacing the top file that a square of color catches his eye. There’s a post-it stuck to the glass of the table with a short note written in a sloping hand.

Laurence Walters

4221 Main St. Roosevelt Is. 14E

—X insists is a witness —> Corroborate statement w/ local PD?

Neal memorizes the address, slips the last file into place, and is out of the room and out of sight long before Peter and Kramer reappear in the bullpen.

"Please don't tell him."

He was sitting on Selina's couch, hands resting loosely on his thighs. There wasn't even that much blood on them, really. Just flecks. Speckles, dusted across the back of his knuckles.

Selina was crouched in front of him, and he couldn't remember how long she'd been there. One of her innumerable cats was twining between her ankles, watching him with eerie yellow eyes.

"I'm sorry," his clumsy tongue said, unbidden. "I didn't mean it. Please don't tell him."

"I'm not going to do anything you don't want, Dick," Selina said calmly. She didn't touch him, and that was good, she shouldn’t touch him. Not when there was still blood on his hands. "But I need you to tell me what happened. Are you hurt? Did someone try to hurt you?"

For some reason that struck him as funny; he laughed, hard enough to give the Joker a run for his money. The cat hissed, darting away from the startling burst of noise. Selina too had drawn back slightly, paling.

"He didn't hurt me," Dick forced out between giggles. "Not anymore. I hurt him ." He giggled again, but it caught badly in his throat and came out half a sob. "He'll never hurt me again. "

And then he was crying in earnest and Selina reached out to pull him into her arms and he buried himself in her shoulder and sobbed.

"Please don't tell him," he heard himself whimpering. "Please, please don't tell him, please don't tell him!"

"I won't tell him," Selina promised into his hair. "You're alright, kitten, no one's going to tell him. Shhh, shhh, sweetie, it's going to be okay.”

“Hey, Phil. Got a minute?”

Phil Kramer looks up from the note he’s writing, and smiles. “Petey!” he exclaims, tucking the paper inside one of his myriad folders. “To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?”

Peter forces a smile of his own. “Oh… Just checking in. Making sure you’ve got everything you need.”

Phil makes a show of glancing around the conference room, at the stacks of files and forms. “I think I’ve settled in very nicely. Your Agent Berrigan is very efficient.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Peter mutters. Louder, “Yes, Diana’s one of my best agents. I honestly don’t know what I would do without her.”

Phil nods along as he speaks. “You’ve built yourself quite the team over here, Petey.”

“I’ve been lucky,” Peter says, meaning every word. “I’ve got a team full of incredible people, and I know that I can trust them all with my life. All of them.”

He leaves it there, hanging; not a challenge, but a declaration.

Phil regards him for a moment and then plants his hands on the table and pushes himself up.

“Let’s take a walk.”

Peter lets Phil take the lead as they stroll through the forest of desks and paperwork. They end up back by the interrogation rooms, at one of the small break tables. It’s a good place for a private conversation.

“I ever tell you about my time in Philadelphia?”

Peter glances at him, unsurprised by the non-sequitur. Phil’s always liked couching his points in little parables. “Yeah… before you got the transfer to Art Crimes, you were working Public Corruption. You always said that you spent so much time with corrupt politicians that you almost had to register as a lobbyist.”

“That’s right!” Kramer chuckles, pleased. “Oh, you’d’ve hated it, Petey. They weren’t even clever, there was no real challenge to it. Just petty, greedy little men. Now, that’s not to say that we never had an interesting case or two cross our desk, oh… There was this one time, this city commissioner was preparing a big organized crime bust, but the local PD was just riddled with corruption, and the courts, and the local politicians… Well! You can imagine, it was a mess.”

“Sounds like,” Peter agrees, wondering where this is going. 

“So this commissioner, he calls in a favor from an old buddy in the Bureau, and long story short, me and my partner at the time—Andy McIver, great big teddy bear of a man—get loaned out to help the boys in blue figure out how deep the corruption really goes.”

“Shouldn’t that have been a job for Internal Affairs or a special investigatory commission?” Peter asks, brow crinkling. “Or a full team, at least, if it was really that bad?”

“Oh, well.” Kramer smiles tightly. “They have their own way of doing things in Gotham. And they don’t like strangers much.”

Something twitches in Peter’s gut. Gotham, again. It’s too much to be a coincidence.

“So we get into Gotham,” Kramer continues. “Oh, and it’s just as bad as everyone says. They put us up in this awful little pay-by-the-hour motel, if you know what I mean, and gave us a list of nine GCPD officers that we could trust with our assignment. Nine! That was all that they could be sure of!

“Well, we start digging into the files they brought us, and it was just a mess. Half the prosecutors were on the take, and most of the others were just incompetent. The DA was a hell of a man, a real tiger, but he was only one man, and the number of cases we were building— no one man could carry all of that, no matter how driven. And then there was him.

“It took us a while to figure out what was happening. At first it was little things— files not where you left them, evidence disappearing for a few hours. Nothing ever outright tampered with—and we checked—but just enough to set you on edge.”

“Sounds like you had a mole,” Peter comments.

“That’s what we thought,” Phil agrees. “And it wasn’t long after that the first attack happened. They called him Ricky ‘The Reaper’ Bamonte. High-up enforcer for the Maronis. Dropped outside a hospital with eight broken bones and a head injury so bad he didn’t wake up for three days.”

“Jesus,” Peter says, disturbed, and Kramer nods along grimly.

“Funny thing,” he says. “That night, someone dropped off a stack of files at our headquarters. Anonymous tip. Linked Ricky and a couple of his buddies to the shooting of an off-duty cop and his parents a few weeks before.”

“Jesus,” Peter repeats, and he can’t help the incredulity in his voice, because that sounds an awful lot like— “Was it Batman?”

Phil spreads his hands dramatically. “This was almost fifteen years ago, Pete. The Batman was barely even an urban myth at that point. No one had ever caught him on film, and most folks even in Gotham didn’t really think he existed.”

Peter leans forward, fascinated despite himself. “So what happened?”

“Well.” Phil leans back, laces his hands over his stomach. “A few days later, we got a lead. The Maronis had been storing guns at these warehouses down by the docks. We had this whole list of locations, and we started putting together a raid. Andy and I, it wasn’t our usual kind of thing, but with only eleven of us, we needed every man. It took us a day to set up the warrants and get everything ready.”

“And?” Peter prompts.

The smile has sunk away and Phil looks tired and gray and as old as his years. “And no one had noticed when the list of locations went missing for an hour. The night before our raid, a masked man broke into one of those warehouses. Took out half the security team before getting chased off. Maroni was furious, apparently; shot every surviving member of the security team, and had his men set a trap at each of the remaining warehouses.”

“Oh, Phil,” Peter breathes, horrified.

Phil sighs and rubs his face absently. “We lost five good men,” he says quietly. “Including my partner.”

Peter reaches across to grip his arm. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “That should never have happened.”

“No,” Kramer says clearly. “It shouldn’t have. Andy was a hell of an agent. Had two kids, a wife. But one man decided the rules didn’t apply to him, and my friend paid the price.”

Peter’s already shaking his head even before Kramer finishes speaking. “It’s not like that, Phil. Neal, he— He’s not the best at coloring inside the lines, but he’s learning. He’s an asset to this team, and he would never do anything to put us in danger.”

“But he already has,” Phil says sharply. “C’mon, Petey, have you already forgotten what happened to your wife? To Elizabeth? I’ve been around the block enough times to read between the lines of a report. It was Caffrey’s actions that put her in danger. And what about that mess with the U-boat? Or the time you were kidnapped? Fowler?”

Peter can’t really argue with any of it, but he tries nonetheless. “I know him, Phil. He has a good heart, he just needs someone to keep him on the straight and narrow.”

“Do you know him?” Kramer challenges. “Do you really, Pete? He lies for a living. What do you really know about him?”

There’s a strange tension creeping into Peter’s shoulders and up his jaw. “I know enough.”

Kramer’s mouth twitches, but it isn’t a smile. “Do you. Then I guess you know how a non-violent criminal got so very good with guns. Or how he could identify kryptonite at a glance. Or why Batgirl, a known vigilante, was keeping an eye on him.”

Peter bites his tongue, hard, to suppress the first response that rises. “I trust him, Phil. I’m asking you to trust me.”

“He’s not what you think,” Phil insists, shaking his head dolefully. “I don’t want to see you hurt, Petey, but I will see this through. Whatever it takes.” He rises from his chair without waiting for a response.

There’s nothing much Peter can do besides follow him back to the bullpen. His mind is racing, both from the story that Kramer had shared and the pointed questions he’d asked. A month ago, if he’d had to choose who to put his faith in, Neal Caffrey or Phil Kramer, it would have been a hard call. Now, it feels almost impossible.

Something isn’t right here, but it feels like everyone else is playing with more cards than he is. There’s something he’s missing, something important, and it’s leaving him at a disadvantage.

Whatever it is that Kramer has on Neal, it’s clearly become personal. He says he wants to protect Peter, but Peter would bet his badge it’s as much about proving to Peter that Neal is... reckless? Dangerous? 

And how does Gotham fit into all this? He can’t even begin to guess.

And of course, he realizes looking out across the bullpen, the one person who could shed some light on all this is missing from his desk.

Goddammit, Neal.

When he finally stopped crying, Selina made him drink a glass of water and wipe his face and hands with a wet washcloth before she let him talk again.

When he came out of the bathroom, Selina was by the window, drawing on a cigarette like it was pure oxygen. A different cat than before had clawed its way up her body and was perched on her shoulder. Dick wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen her without make-up before. It made her eyes look smaller, less angled. She was still beautiful, just… less conspicuously. More comfortable than showy.

"Didn't know you smoked," Dick said, and Selina spun around to face him.

"I used to," she said after a moment. "Haven't in years. Forgot how bad it actually tastes."

"Oh." Neither of them pointed out the fact that she was still smoking it regardless, pausing every few seconds to blow a cloud of smoke away from the tabby on her shoulder. "You didn't call him, did you?"

She drew the cigarette out of her mouth. "You would have heard if I had. And I told you I wouldn’t."

Right. Dick scuffled his feet against the plush carpet, only stopping when a black-and-white kitten darted out from under the couch to bat at his toes.

“What are you going to do with me?” he mumbled at the kitten.

Selina sighed. “I haven’t decided yet. Who knows what happened?”

Boone. Definitely Boone.

Vader and Lo and Raul, waiting out in the hallway while he and Boone took care of business. They’d have heard— enough.

Shrike. And whoever it is that Shrike reports to.

Plus, enough of the guards had survived that the news would be halfway across Gotham by dawn.

Selina swore and flicked the butt of her cigarette out the open window. The tabby farther into her shoulder, the tip of its tail flicking around her opposite ear.

“Okay,” Selina said. “Okay. Dick, I’m going to— We’re going to get you out of town for a little while. Alright? Out of Gotham. Somewhere safe. Your circus, are they—”

“ No, ” Dick said vehemently. “No, that’s— That’s the first place he’ll look for me, and, and, Mr. Haly, I don’t want to bring ‘em trouble, and if it’s dangerous—”

“Fine,” Selina said. “No circus. Fuck, alright. I’m going to call a friend. I know a place. No one will look for you there. Just for a little while, okay?”

“Yeah,” Dick said. “Yeah, okay. Thanks. Um. Do you—” He lost his nerve halfway through, stuttering to an awkward stop.

“Do I what?” Selina prompted, eyes narrowing.

“Nothing,” Dick said quickly. “Just, do you… do you think he— knows. Yet.”

Her expression twisted minutely. Pity. “You’d know better than I would, Robin,” she murmured and Dick flinched.

“I’m not,” he said, biting his lip. “I’m not Robin. Robin is dead. Br— Bru— He was right. Robin was a mistake.”

He dials Mozzie’s most recent burner as soon as he clears the lobby.

“We’ve got a problem, Moz,” he says as soon as the call’s answered. “Kramer’s after me.”

“What?” Mozzie’s tinny voice sounds more bemused than alarmed. “For what? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Neal responds, irritated. “And for once, I have no idea. At this point, I’m pretty sure he’s throwing darts to see what sticks. I found a note in his office, some witness up in Roosevelt Island. Does the name ‘Laurence Walters’ mean anything to you?”

“I knew a Barney Walters in Baltimore,” Mozzie offers nostalgically. “He was a virtuoso on the Hydraulophone. Should’ve heard his rendition of Handel’s Messiah.”

For a moment, Neal considers asking, but— no.

“I’m going to head over there,” he says instead. “See what I can find out. Can you—?”

“—Keep an eye on Kramer, yeah, I know,” Mozzie grumbles. “Consider me your Cardinal Richelieu. Your Yuri Modin. Your George Smiley!” A pause. "The Alec Guinness-George Smiley, not the Gary Oldman-George Smiley. Obviously."

Neal bites his cheek to keep from laughing. “Thanks, Moz. I’ll let you know what I find.”

Mozzie hangs up without a goodbye, which practically counts as its own goodbye in his book.

Neal breathes deeply in the mid-afternoon sun. Peter will notice he’s gone soon enough, but he intends to be halfway to his destination by then. Easier to ask forgiveness than permission, and all that.

To his surprise, his phone rings again before he’s gone a hundred meters.

It’s not Peter.

“Neal, what the hell is going on?”

“Sara?” Neal says, confused. “What do you mean? What’s wrong?”

He hasn’t heard Sara this agitated since the treasure debacle. “What’s wrong? Neal, there are FBI agents in the lobby. Peter’s not picking up his phone, and now that Agent Kramer says he has a warrant for all my files on you!”

“What?” Neal says, aghast. It’s a bold move on Kramer’s part, going to Sterling-Bosch— one he wouldn’t risk unless he was sure he had to gain from it. “Well, did he say what he’s looking for?”

“I don’t know! All he said was that his agents were coming to pick up all physical and digital evidence connected to the Raphael.”

Neal groans. This is the last thing he needs right now. “Great. What do you even have that the FBI doesn’t?”

“Again, I don’t know,” Sara snaps. “Nothing important— a few scraps, a couple of leads that never went anywhere. Look, they’re downstairs already. What do you want me to do?”

“Give it to him,” Neal says immediately. He wouldn’t put it past Kramer to charge Sara if he though she was impeding his investigation. “It’s fine. I’m pretty sure I know what he’s up to, and it’s not going to lead him anywhere.”

“It’s not?” Sara says pointedly.

“No, it’s—” Neal sighs. “Keller cracked a coded letter that I wrote in prison that has a phone number for an— old friend.”

“An ex?” Sara asks knowingly, and Neal scowls.

“No, she’s not an ex, why does everyone always— Never mind. Point is, it won’t do him any good. Selina’s not going to talk to a cop, especially not a Fed. But the longer it takes him to realize it’s a dead end…”

“…The more time you have to cover up evidence of your other crimes,” Sara finishes. Neal’s pretty sure she’s rolling her eyes. “Right. So just give them everything?”

“And more, if you can,” Neal says, as he spots his destination ahead. “Whatever you can give them to keep them busy.”

“I can do that,” Sara says slyly. Her voice drops slightly, to something more serious. “Be careful, Neal.”

“I will,” he promises, and ends the call.

The tram station’s mostly empty at this time of day, which is ideal. No one gives him a second glance as he scans his MetroCard and slips through the gate. God bless New Yorkers. He’s even able to get a tramcar all to himself.

Which is fortunate; there’s one more call he has to make.

The cable groans as the tramcar starts to move. It’s a surprisingly smooth ascent, barely any swaying or rattling. Hell of a view, too, suspended right over the East River, Manhattan behind him, Queens in the distance.

He’s delayed as long as he can; he doesn’t like the idea of forcing Peter’s hand so artlessly, but…

“Neal,” Peter answers immediately. “Where are you?” He does not sound amused.

“You know where I am,” Neal fires back. 

“You’re at the edge of your radius,” Peter rumbles. There’s an undercurrent of and just what do you think you’re doing there? that Neal ignores.

“I need more than two miles today.”

Peter swears. “Goddammit, Neal. Your hearing is tomorrow. Phil’s on the warpath. This is the worst possible time for you to be going off half-cocked.”

“We both know Kramer’s here for a lot more than a commutation hearing,” Neal counters. “Look, Peter, I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life. I can’t undo what’s been done, but I also can’t set things right if I don’t know what I’m being punished for.”

Peter makes a little growling sound of irritation across the line. 

“I’m getting sick of being treated like a mushroom,” Peter says darkly. “Kept in the dark and fed shit. That ends now. You’re going to tell me what’s going on here, and then we’ll figure out what Kramer’s after together. As partners.”

Neal bites his lip, glancing down at where the rippled shadow of the tramcar falls against the gleaming river. “Honestly, Peter. I don’t know what’s going on any more than you do. I found an address in Kramer’s notes. I’m heading there now to see if I can figure out what’s going on.”

“So you’re interfering in a federal investigation,” Peter deduces. “What’s the address? I’ll meet you there.”

Neal perks up. “So you’ll call the marshals, then?” he asks hopefully.

“Yes, I’ll aid and abet your parole violation,” Peter says snippily, and Neal considers pointing out that technically, he’s not on parole, but decides not to poke the bear.

“Call me back when it’s done?” he requests, and hangs up halfway through Peter’s wait, Neal, address first—

His anklet’s light is still green— if his mental math is correct, it should reach the end of its tether about halfway across. The point of no return, as it were.

Sure enough, as the car passes the next support tower, the light flickers to a warning yellow.

“Come on, Peter,” he urges under his breath.

The sudden buzz of his phone nearly makes him jump out of his skin.

“Peter?” he says breathlessly, jamming the phone to his ear. “The anklet’s still active.”

“I know,” Agent Burke says grimly. “Neal, get out of there. Do not leave your radius.”

Neal glances out his window, at the water drifting inexorably past. “Peter, it’s a little late for that. Did you call the marshals?”

“I did,” and there’s something seething and angry in his voice. “Kramer went over my head. He revoked my authorization to deactivate your anklet.”

“But you’re my handler,” Neal says, uncomprehending. “How can he do that?”

“I don’t know,” Peter admits dourly. “I could try appealing to Hughes or Bancroft, but it won’t matter if you break your radius now. Get out of there.”

Dammit.

Neal stands, his gaze darting around the car. Not much to work with. His eye catches on the roof hatch, and it’s probably the stupidest idea he’s had in ages, but there’s no choice, and there’s no time. He wedges his phone between his ear and shoulder and shoves the hatch open. It’s awkward trying to jump up to get a grip on the edge of the hole, but he manages. And then he’s pulling himself up and out into the open air. Good thing he hadn’t worn a hat today.

The wind tugs at his hair, and Neal takes a moment to shut his eyes and breathe it in.

Just like flying.

All of this—the investigation, the anklet, maybe even the note Neal had found, had been a trap, and he’d walked right into it.

Holy Instant Regret, Batman!

But right now, none of that matters. It’s just him and the wind and the swallowing space beneath his feet.

The light on his anklet flashes to red, and begins to beep urgently.

No time to waste. He backs to the edge of the tramcar, and readies himself. The phone tucks into the front of his jacket. Pick a point. He pushes himself into a run— one, two, three, four, plant a foot on the metal supports, catch with one hand and kick upward with the legs, hook a knee over the cables, just like the trapeze, you can do it, Dickie, hook the other knee for stability, pull up to a seated position. Good. Now, feet under you, keep your balance, you’ve been doing this since you could walk, one foot in front of the other, and you walk. No safety nets here. Don’t look at the water below, that doesn’t matter. It’s just you and your own body and the tightrope beneath your feet.

It takes a moment to fall into the rhythm of it, to compensate for the wind pushing from the sides and the awkwardness stiffness of his dress shoes. He moves forward step-by-step until the light on his anklet flickers back to a warning yellow.

He carefully lowers himself back to a sitting position, curling his legs under the wire. To his surprise, his hands are trembling slightly when he pulls his phone from his breast pocket. He’s shamefully out of practice.

“Peter, you still there?” he asks, pressing the phone back to his ear.

“Do I want to know what you just did?” Peter says tensely, and Neal laughs breathlessly.

“No, probably not. Definitely not. So, what now?”

“You come back to the Bureau.” Peter says it like it’s a foregone conclusion.

Neal glances down at the water far below. “Easier said than done. You’re sure you can’t override him?”

Peter sighs through his teeth— Neal recognizes the sound. “I wouldn’t know where to start. The marshals aren’t going to listen to me over him, and your anklet is— well, you know.”

He does know. He hadn’t exaggerated when he’d first proposed the deal to Peter; the anklet was top-of-the-line, tamper-proof, and irritatingly accurate. WayneTech had first started developing it as a way to keep track of some of the most dangerous Gotham offenders. He can remember B showing him the coding, going through the systems line by line, demonstrating each of the backdoors he’d installed…

Neal jolts so hard that he nearly slips from his perch. It couldn’t be that easy, could it? Surely not. Not after almost two years of chafing at his leash, discarding dozens of doomed schemes to slip the anklet for even a little while…

But why would he have considered it before? Before Tim, and Oracle? Back when he’d been so sure that B had forgotten him, erased every trace of his failure of a Robin?

Back when he’d been so afraid to relax his iron-tight grip on his secrets even a little.

 “Peter,” he says urgently. “Can you still access my tracking data online?”

“That’s how I knew where you were,” Peter says. “But I don’t have any access to the anklet’s operation, only the marshals have administrator access.”

“Well, theoretically,” Neal says. “We don’t have time. Open the administrator panel and enter this code: RG901S97.”

“RG901S97,” Peter repeats slowly, and Neal wants to yell at him to hurry up. “Alright, what’s that supposed to— What the hell.” 

The light on the anklet flashes one more time and goes out. Neal breathes a sigh of relief. “It worked.” 

“It worked,” Peter echoes, aghast. “Neal, why did that work?”

Right. He… might need to come up with a believable explanation for that (that does not include Batman and Robin) sooner rather than later.

In the meantime, he deflects. “The address is 4221 Main Street. You can slip Kramer, right? Great! I’ll see you there!”

“Don’t hang up,” Peter warns. “Neal, do not hang up, how long have you had that code—”

Getting down is surprisingly easy. All he has to do is wait until the car on the other cable comes by, heading out towards the island. The jump across is barely even a challenge. The passengers inside… might possibly have gotten a couple of photos, but hopefully nothing identifying. To dismount, he just waits until they’re about to pull into the station, leaps from the car to the station roof, then drops down behind the building.

He takes a moment to straighten his suit and finger-comb his hair into something more acceptable.

The address from Kramer’s note is surprisingly normal; residential high-rise, good condition. The buzzer for 14E is unlabeled. Neal bypasses it, and presses the button above it.

“Who is it?” an elderly man’s voice croaks over the speaker.

“Hi, Mr.—” Neal glances at the label, “—Roth? This is Jimmy, from 12F. I, uh, forgot my key this morning. Could you buzz me in?”

“You said you’re Timmy? Linda’s boy?”

“That’s right,” Neal lies. “Linda’s boy, that’s me. Can you buzz me in?”

“Oh… yes, alright. Just a minute…”

The door clicks open and Neal grins. “Thank you, sir. You have a nice day now.”

“Mhm…”

He sees a couple of residents in the halls, but mostly the building is empty. Middle of the afternoon on a weekday, most people are probably at work or school. The fourteenth floor is no exception; a tidy, pleasant line of numbered doors in a well-lit hallway.

14E is down near the end, kitty-corner from the emergency stairs. Based on the layout of the hallway, Neal can guess that it’s probably one of the smaller units in the building.

He knocks, and waits.

There’s a thud from somewhere inside the apartment and then the rattle of a chain as the door unlocks. 

It opens the barest crack, not nearly enough to see through, and a man’s voice says irritably, “What do you want?”

“Laurence Walters?” Neal asks hopefully. “My name is Neal Caffrey. I’m with the FBI.” Technically it isn’t impersonating a federal agent, even if people do tend to take it that way. “Can I come in?”

“Another fucking Fed,” the man mutters and then throws the door open.

Neal has just a moment to take stock of the man: shaved head; tattoos down one arm and the side of his neck; stained wife-beater and loose sweatpants; build of an athlete whose glory days are behind them, although in truth he can’t be more than a year or two older than Neal himself.

And then they’re face-to-face and everything goes to shit.

When he catches sight of Neal, Walters’ eyes widen and he immediately tries to slam the door shut. It’s only Neal’s well-honed reflexes that allow him to catch the door before he can.

“Shit!” the man shouts, stumbling backwards as Neal shoves his way into the apartment. “Shit, man, don’t kill me! I didn’t tell him anything, man!”

“I’m not going to kill you,” Neal says, nonplussed. “I just want to talk.”

The man doesn’t seem reassured. He backs further into the kitchen, one hand fumbling behind him, and Neal moves instinctively, jabbing at the inside of the elbow as his arm comes around with the knife. Catch the wrist, twist until the man yelps and the blade falls from numb fingers.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Walters yelps. “I’m sorry, man, I’m sorry! I don’t want to die, man! I swear, I didn’t tell the Fed anything!”

“Look,” Neal says. “I am not going to hurt you, okay? Relax. I’m letting go, now. Okay?” Carefully, he releases pressure on Walters’ arm and wrist, watching for a sign that he’s going to go for another knife.

Walters staggers back, clutching his wrist.

“Okay,” Neal says soothingly. “You said ‘the Fed’— is that Kramer? Agent Phil Kramer?”

“Y-yeah,” the man stutters. “I didn’t say a word, man. I swear. I wouldn’t rat you out, never. We gotta stick together, right?”

By now, Neal’s fairly sure there’s a whole layer of this conversation that he’s missing. “Right… And how did Kramer find you?”

“I— I don’t know,” Walters says. “I just got a call, said they’d pay me two grand if I went to some meeting. Didn’t know it was gonna be a Fed. And then he was asking all these questions about the old crew, and I didn’t want to say nothing, but— I was scared, man. I didn’t want to end up like the others.”

“The others?” Neal asks.

Walters gives him a strange look. “Yeah, you know, the guys. I saw it on the news. I don’t want to end up dead like that— so please, man. Please. Just let me go. I won’t never come back, please, man!”

He has to ask: “Why do you keep saying that? I’m not here to kill you. I’m not a killer.”

Walter makes a noise that somewhere between and laugh and a squawk. “Yeah, says the guy who shot Two-Face in the fuckin’ head.”

Bang.

         (the gun in his hand)

                         (what’s the matter, Freddy? Don’t you want to play?)

(no. i don’t want to play.)

Bang.

                         (go ahead…)

Bang, bang!

Laurence Walters. 

Lo.

God, he’s been so stupid.

All of this—the investigation, the address, the witness— it had all been a trap, and he’d walked right into it.

Someone knows. Maybe not everything, but enough. Too much. They know what he’s done.

Someone knows.

When the knock on the door came, Dick was already out of his seat and halfway to the window before Catwoman could even react.

“Relax, birdie,” Selina ordered, rolling her eyes. “It’s just Lola. Here, hold Nala for me.”

Dick didn’t really have a chance to protest as a squirming cat was shoved into his arms, and then Selina was opening the door and there was a woman waiting with her arms crossed.

“Damn, baby,” the woman said, looking Selina up and down. “You look like the cat dragged you in.”

“Thanks,” Selina replied sarcastically. “Thanks for coming.”

“I owe you,” the woman shrugs. “Gonna let me in?”

The corner of Selina’s mouth twitched, and she stepped back from the doorway to let the other woman in.

She wasn’t exactly what Dick would have expected, when Selina suggested her ‘friend’.  She was tall, taller than Selina by at least a foot. Her hair was buzzed short to the scalp, and she was dressed like she’d just come from the gym. She wasn’t particularly broad, but under her light jacket, Dick could see the outline of hard muscle.

The woman regarded him cynically, eyeing the darkening bruises on his face and arms and the too-large t-shirt that Selina had lent him.

“Picked up another stray, ‘Lina?” she said shrewdly.

Selina made a face. “Something like that.”

“Just a fuckin’ baby,” the other woman muttered. “Fuckin’ Gotham. Shit.”

“Go grab your jacket, kitten,” Selina commanded, and Dick obeyed, sliding it over his shoulders and trying his best not to think about the knives hidden (literally) up his sleeves.

Selina was handing the other woman a roll of cash, which quickly disappeared down the front of her shirt.

“That should be enough to get you to Columbus,” Selina was saying. “Remember, stick to motels, pay in cash.”

“Not my first rodeo, baby girl,” Lola said. “You want I should call Sisi?”

“No,” Selina shook her head. “I’ll take care of it. She owes me one. Tweety, you ready?”

“I’m ready,” Dick said quietly.

“Good,” Selina said brusquely, and, “Here.” She pressed something flat and familiar into his hands. It was the sketchbook he’d given her, months ago when he was still recovering at the Manor. “Something for you to do in the car. I expect a masterpiece next time I see you, understood?”

“Sure,” Dick said, and there was an awful little pause where he knew he ought to say something, goodbye or thank you , but he couldn’t quite find the words. And then somehow the woman, Lola, was steering him out the door and it was too late to do anything but keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Chapter Text

"4221 Main street," Peter reads off the building in front of him. "It's a high-rise."

Over the phone, he can hear Jones muttering to himself as he searches. "4221... You're sure that's the address Neal gave you?"

"I'm sure," Peter confirms. "I tracked his anklet, he's definitely here. Somewhere. You got anything."

"Nothing," Jones says, sounding frustrated. "Peter, I'm sorry, but if Agent Kramer's got some kind of safe house up there, he didn't go through official channels."

"There's a lot of that going around," Peter mutters. "Alright, thanks, Jones. I'll let you know if anything happens."

He wishes he could say he knows what he's doing here. He wishes he could say he knows what he's doing, period. Is Phil right? Is his friendship with Neal blinding him? Peter can't imagine any other situation in which he would help a convicted felon trick the U.S. Marshals and interfere with a witness in a federal investigation. It should go against every code of ethics he has.

But when he looks back, he can't quite regret his choices. He'd meant what he'd said; whatever this is, they'll deal with it as partners.

As if on cue, the building's door swings open and Peter's wayward partner steps out into the light.

Neal doesn't even pause when he sees Peter standing there, just marches purposefully down the steps. "We need to go," he states, and Peter just blinks at him.

"What? Did you find the witness?"

"Don't worry about it," Neal says brusquely. "Did you drive?"

"Yes, I parked just down the— What do you mean 'don't worry about it'?" Peter demands, reaching out to catch his consultant by the elbow before he can breeze past.

Neal goes rigid at the touch, and Peter stills. Carefully, he removes his hand. His partner doesn’t even twitch, doesn't adjust his expensive suit, just stands there unmoving, head tipped down a little.

"Are you okay?" Peter asks, concerned.

Neal gives himself a little shake. "Fine. We need to go."

"No, no, no," Peter says, planting himself in his path. "First, what happened? What's going on?"

Blue eyes dart away and back. "Please, Peter. Can we just go?"

"No," Peter snaps. "Answers, Neal. Now."

Neal sighs. “It’s— complicated."

"When isn't it, with you?" Peter asks rhetorically. "The witness?"

"...someone I ran with a long time ago," Neal says slowly. "Kind of. He won't talk to feds, at least."

The FBI agent in Peter has him ask, "Did you threaten him?"

Neal looks at him, a little sardonic. At his sides, his fingers are plucking at the edges of his sleeves, tugging them further down his wrists. "Not on purpose. He wasn't exactly expecting to see me."

…Peter will call that one a gray area. It’s not like Neal is particularly intimidating, anyways.

But that leaves an important question unanswered.

"If it's not a problem, then why are you so..." he waves a hand vaguely.

Neal's mouth tightens. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Kinda looks like it matters,” Peter argues.

“It doesn’t, it—” Neal breaks off suddenly and whips around so violently that Peter nearly goes for his gun.

“What?” he says urgently, scanning the street, the nearby buildings for some kind of threat. “What is it?”

“I—” Neal sounds strange, almost breathless. “I thought I saw something. It’s nothing. Sorry. Just, um, jumpy. Can we go now, please?”

“I…” Peter doesn’t even know what to say to that. He’s rarely seen Neal like this, not in all their daring escapades. This isn’t just jumpy. This is… afraid.

The last time he’d seen it, he’d been wearing a backless hospital gown and Neal had been lying in a hospital bed.

It makes you see things, Neal had said, looking uncharacteristically small. Bad things. Everything that you’re afraid of.

And Peter had asked, What did you see, Neal? What are you afraid of?

Nothing. Guess that’s my worst fear. Losing... people. Everyone.

The time before that had been on a burning tarmac, as pieces of Kate’s plane floated down around them.

“Fine,” Peter says, deciding a strategic retreat is in order. “We’ll head back to the Bureau. But this isn’t over.”

" You hungry?” Selina’s friend asked a couple of hours into the drive. "We can hit a drive-thru if you want."

"No, thank you," Dick mumbled into the window.

"You sure, hon? Might be a while before we got another chance."

Dick burrowed deeper into the crevasse between his seat and the door. "I'm fine."

"Sure," the woman said, in the tone of one who was humoring him.

They lapsed back into silence, as they had since leaving Gotham.

It was starting to bug Dick; she hadn't asked him anything, not his name, not what he was running from, nothing. It was  weird — who dropped everything to drive some random kid halfway across the country without a single question? As far as she knew, he could have been a serial killer.

(or worse— the guy who killed a serial killer. Does Two-Face count as a serial killer? Bru— B made him memorize the definition, but the memory rattles around his mind, like someone dropped a handful of marbles in a bathtub)

The words slipped out before he could stop them; "Aren't you going to ask?"

The woman —Lola— glanced at him. "You say somethin'?"

He could stay silent, pretend it had never slipped out, but he didn't. "Aren't you going to ask what I did?" His voice cracked embarrassingly, which he was more than willing to blame on approaching puberty.

"Nope." She popped the 'p' dramatically. His expression must have been good, because she glanced across at him and her lips curled back from her teeth. 

"Baby," she said, "You think this is the first time 'Lina called me to take one of her strays? Not my business, and not anybody else's either, 'less you want it to be."

“Yeah,” Dick mumbled, slumping back against the seat. “Right.”

Jones pulls him aside when they get back to the office. “I got the list of tenants for that building,” he says, pitching his voice low so that Neal, who at least looks to be focused on his phone, can’t hear. “Still nothing that connects to Kramer, but only one person signed their lease last Thursday.”

“The day before Kramer arrived,” Peter observes.

“Right.” Jones passes over a slim folder. “So I did some digging. Tenant’s name is Laurence Walters. Multiple priors for assault and possession, going back years.”

Peter opens the folder at looks at the picture inside. Visible gang tattoos, a nasty scar across the top of his shoulder. “Not exactly the kind of guy most high-end condos like to rent to.”

Not exactly the kind of guy Neal would work with, either. Not if he had a choice.

“Yeah,” Jones agrees. “So I called the real estate company that owns the building. According to them, rent is paid by some overseas company. Looks like a shell.”

“Hmm.” Peter carefully files that away to think about later. “Thanks, Jones.”

When he approaches Neal’s desk, his consultant is still absorbed in his phone, swearing quietly under his breath.

“Trying to get a hold of someone?” Peter asks lightly, and even though he hadn’t been particularly quiet coming over, Neal jumps.

“N-no,” he stutters, dropping his phone into his lap. “I mean, yeah— uh, Moz agreed to keep an eye on Kramer for me. Apparently he decided to visit Roosevelt Island, too. And according to Moz, he looks pretty upset, so I guess he knows we were there.”

“Hmm.” If Jones was right and Kramer hadn’t gone through official channels, then it was unlikely he’d be able to make much of a case for interfering in an investigation. Still— it took some doing to rile him up, but Peter knew from experience that Phil could have quite the temper. “And Mozzie’s the only person you’ve been texting?”

Neal meets his gaze, a little too wide-eyed to be genuine. “Yes. Why? Who else would I be talking to?”

Peter shrugs, faux-casual. “Can’t imagine,” he says blithely. “If I leave you here for a few minutes while I call my wife, can I trust you not to commit a major felony?”

Neal places his hand over his heart. “Scout’s honor.”

Before he calls El, he makes sure to close the door to his office and turn his chair so that he facing the windows. Over time, he’s learned it’s best not to assume anything when it comes to Neal.

“Hey, hun,” he says when she picks up, and feels the familiar rush of affection when she replies brightly, “Hey, hun.”

There’s a certain breathlessness to her voice that she always gets when she has to drop something to run for the phone, so he asks, “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Oh, no,” El laughs. “Satch just had a little accident by the stairs, I was cleaning it up before the stains set.”

“Tell him I’m very disappointed in him,” Peter says, mock-stern, and El laughs again.

“So what’s up? Everything okay with Neal and Kramer?”

Even after fifteen years of marriage, it always amazes him what an insightful woman he married. “Not exactly.”

“Uh-oh. What did Neal do now?” It doesn’t escape his attention that the tone she uses is the same mixture of exasperated-affectionate she’d used for the dog.

“I don’t know,” Peter admits, sitting heavily in his chair. “And that’s half the problem. Phil’s got the scent of something, but I can’t pry the details out of him or Neal.”

“You think it will affect the commutation?” El asks, sounding concerned, and Peter remembers that she’d already agreed to testify in Neal’s favor tomorrow (and god only knows what the Board were going to think of that).

Still, he needs to tell someone the truth. “I’m afraid Phil’s aiming a lot higher than that. He seems determined to see Neal back in jail, for a long time.”

“I thought he liked Neal last time he was here?”

“‘Like’ is a strong word,” Peter says, “but you’re right; something’s changed, and I don’t know what. He won’t confide in me, thinks that Neal’s been playing me all this time. And Caffrey’s no better.”

“What do you mean?”

“He went chasing off after some potential witness today. Convinced me to help him break his radius.” And possibly, to hack the marshals’ monitoring service, but El doesn’t need to know that. “And now, he’s jumpier than Mozzie at an NSA conference. I came up behind him and he just about chucked his phone across the room.” Peter grates out a huff. “And I have no idea why, or what’s going on.”

“Well, honey,” El says reasonably, “have you asked him?”

“All I’ve done is ask him!” Peter bursts out. “And he keeps dodging the question!”

He hears El sigh. “I don’t mean ask him as an FBI agent, hun. I mean ask him as a friend.”

“You think that’ll make a difference?” he asks skeptically.

“It worked when you were going after Adler, didn’t it?” Elizabeth points out. “Get him in an atmosphere were he feels safe, and relaxed, and just ask him, as his friend. If you’re already helping him dodge Kramer, it’s pretty clear that you don’t want to see him go back to prison for whatever this is.”

“I don’t,” Peter admits.

“Then tell him that.”

“I’ll try it. Thanks, El,” he says. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

After hanging up, he stares at his phone for a while. Just talk to him. It’s hard to believe that he’ll have any more success than he’s had so far, but he trusts his brilliant wife’s insight.

Tonight. He’ll come over to Neal’s apartment with beer (and some of the screw-top wine that Neal claims to hate but drinks anyway), and they’ll… talk. About Kramer. And the hearing.

In the meantime…

He glances at his phone again, and then at the scrap of paper Diana had discreetly slipped him amidst a bundle of expense reports. Neal’s prison letter to Kate, fully decoded. The phone number has been copied neatly across the top of the page.

…it can’t hurt, can it, to go into their conversation with as much information as possible? Just in case El is wrong and Neal isn’t in a sharing mood.

He glances down at Caffrey’s desk, but Neal seems to be engrossed in sketching something on a loose bit of paper.

It can’t hurt; he dials.

“Thank you for calling Paws for Effect, Gotham’s #1 no-kill Feline Sanctuary!” a cheerful voice greets him. “This is Alyssa speaking, how can I help you?”

Peter actually has to pull back and look at his phone for a moment to be sure that he’d just heard that correctly.

“Hello?” says the voice, a little less certainly.

“Sorry,” Peter says quickly, putting the phone back to his ear. “I think I have the wrong number.”

He hangs up and then compares the number he’d dialed to the one that Kramer had deciphered in Neal’s letter. Exactly the same.

But why on Earth would Neal bother to send a coded phone number for an animal shelter in his prison letter? Peter didn’t even know that he particularly liked animals. Although he does seem to get along particularly well with Satchmo. And with June’s yappy little pug. And then there was that whole thing with Mozzie’s weird carrier pigeon hobby.

Maybe the shelter is a front?

Peter doesn’t have a chance to puzzle over it further because there’s a sudden commotion down in the bullpen.

Raised voices drift up the stairs as Peter stands and moves to the door of his office.

Kramer’s back.

Once, when Peter had been a new probie, a recent transfer to Kramer’s team had blown an undercover op and nearly gotten an agent killed because he was busy talking to his girlfriend when he was supposed to be waiting for the take-down code.

At the time, he’d honestly thought that Phil might physically throw the guy out of the building. He’d been red as a tomato, and nearly lost his voice from all the shouting.

That had been nothing compared to Kramer now.

“What did you do?!” 

Instinct has Peter dashing down the stairs as fast as he can as Kramer comes barreling through the doors, aimed directly toward Peter’s frozen partner.

“What did you do?!” the agent demands again, his jowly face purple with agitation.

No matter how fast he moves, Peter will never be fast enough to intercept before Kramer reaches Neal. 

Kramer grabs a handful of Neal’s shirt and jacket, right between his neck and shoulder. What happens next is so fast that Peter’s eyes can’t track. One second Kramer is right in Neal’s face, and the next he’s stumbling away in the opposite direction and Neal is pressed up against the side  of his desk, hands raised defensively.

Peter finally reaches them and places himself bodily between the two men. Luckily, he’s not the only one who’s noticed.

“What the hell is going on down here?” Hughes’ voice rings out across the room. “For god’s sake, this is the FBI, not a preschool! Agent Kramer?”

Peter crowds Neal back farther as Kramer puffs and straightens up. His tie has been knocked slightly askew, and there’s a slight sheen of sweat at his temples. It’s the least put-together Peter has ever seen him.

Phil raises a thick finger to jab at Neal. “My witness,” he says viciously, “is missing.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter sees Neal’s face flicker briefly, and he doesn’t think it’s surprise.

Hughes looks between the three of them. “Your witness?” he repeats. “And you think Caffrey had something to do with it?”

“I know he did,” Kramer snarls. “I know he was at that building, and then my witness disappears? That’s no coincidence. He did something.”

“If you’re going to accuse me of something,” Neal says defiantly from behind Peter’s shoulder, “Come out and say it.”

Hughes looks at him sharply. “Agent Kramer,” he says sternly. “Do you have any evidence that Caffrey was involved with your witness’ disappearance?”

Kramer glares. “His anklet was tampered with,” he grates out. “There’s an hour missing from his tracking data. Before that, he was spotted trespassing in my office.”

“Your temporary office,” Peter corrects swiftly. “And as for the anklet, Neal was with me all the time he was outside this building. For anything else, you’d have to talk to the marshals. You must have some friends over there, right?” It comes out a little mean, and Hughes raises a brow at him, but Kramer flushes angrily.

Rather than letting himself be drawn into a losing argument, Kramer refocuses on Neal.

“Where is he, Caffrey?” he demands.

“No idea,” Neal says blandly.

“Don’t lie to me!”

“I’m not.” Neal shoulders his way out from behind Peter to stand nose-to-nose —or more accurately, chin-to-nose— with Kramer. “So, unless you’re going to accuse me of something specific…”

So much for jumping at shadows. Peter knows even less what to do with this aggressive Neal than he did with scared Neal.

Phil steps forward so that their chests are an inch apart.

“You might have them fooled, but not me,” Kramer spits. “I know what you are. And I will prove it.”

“Alright, that’s enough!” Hughes pushes forward until he’s close enough to grip both Neal and Kramer by the shoulders and give them a pointed shove apart. “Burke, show Agent Kramer back to his office. I’m sure he could use some help packing his files for the trip back to D.C. Caffrey, with me.”

Phil goes, but not without shooting one more burning glare in Neal’s direction.

He tried again later, after Selina’s friend — Lola, her name is Lola — had grabbed them a couple of bags of chips each from a highway gas station.

“You don’t know anything about me,” he said, picking at the plastic edges of the bag. “I could be dangerous.”

Lola looked him up and down and snorted. “You’re, what, a hundred pounds soaking wet? I ain’t too worried, baby.”

Dick couldn’t help the scowl. “I’m stronger than I look,” he bit out.

“I’m sure you are.” It could’ve been patronizing, but it wasn’t, and Dick’s ruffled feathers started to settle.

“Sorry,” he said after a minute. And then, because apparently even being wanted for murder couldn’t stifle his need to know, he asked, “So where are we actually going?”

“It’s a safehouse,” Lola said, checking over her shoulder as she changed lanes. “Friend of ours outta Central set it up.”

Central? No, no— that was where Wally lived, and Flash— they’d find out, and then they’d tell the League because they’d have to, and then He’d find out, and—

Was it too hot in the car? He plucked at the neck of his shirt, but it didn’t help. “I can’t go to Central City.”

Lola barely glanced at him. “The friend’s in Central, not the safehouse.”

“Oh.” Right. Right, that was— It was stupid, anyway, to get so worked up. It’s not like no one knew where he is— Selina knew, and no matter how good a liar she was, He’d figure it out eventually.

So… yeah.

“Who’s the safehouse for?” he heard himself ask.

Lola shrugged. “Whoever. Runaways. Junkies tryin’ to get clean. ‘Lina likes to send her girls there if the city gets too hot for ‘em.”

What girls, Dick almost asked before he understood. 

Right. Them.

He’d known a few of the street girls, back when he was Robin. They’d been good sources of information— and more likely to talk to a nonthreatening twelve-year-old than the Big Bad Bat.

Likewise, the streetwalkers of Crime Alley had their own quiet system of justice that didn’t rely on Gotham PD or a man in a batsuit. More than once, some of the nastier johns had turned up with empty pockets and distinctive clawmarks, but no one ever said a word.

A thought struck him. “Wait,” he said, “You’re a…”

Lola raised an eyebrow and he hurried to clarify, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I just, um.”

Luckily, she took pity on him. “Nah,” she says. “Not my vice.”

Well, if she hadn’t gotten pissed at him yet… “What was yours?” he asked bluntly.

It was rude, and Alfie would give him that Look if he was here— but he wasn't. And just because this lady was willing to trust some kid she’d never met didn’t mean he could afford the same blindness.

Lola’s mouth pinched slightly, but she still didn’t seem angry. Maybe she understood. Maybe she was just being nice because Selina had asked her to take care of him. 

“Drugs,” she said finally. “Been clean five years, but— When 'Lina met me, I was the worst kind of junkie. Saw a lotta shit, did a lotta shit. So,” and she turned to look him in the eye, “Runnin’ away from your own self, I get it. Feels like shit, yeah?”

Dick bit his lip. “Yeah,” he said to his lap, the closest he could come to a confirmation.

“Yeah,” Lola repeated softly. “It’s bad stuff, baby. Real fuckin’ shit. But you're getting out, and that’s the first step.”

Hughes’ hand doesn’t leave his shoulder as the gaggle of gawking agents slowly disperses.

It’s… nice, actually. Not as nice as when Peter does it, sometimes, when they’ve just found a breakthrough in a case or on those rare occasions when Peter decides that Neal needs emotional support.

But nice all the same.

“You alright, Caffrey?” Hughes asks gruffly when they’ve got a reasonable bubble of privacy.

“Fine,” Neal says, smiling. The smile is good. People don’t look past the smile.

Hughes’ brow pulls down. “If you want to make a complaint against Agent Kramer,” he begins, and Neal cuts him off immediately, because—

Because.

“That’s not necessary,” he says, straightening his suit. If it dislodges Hughes’ hand from his shoulder, well, he won’t spare the time to mourn it. “I’d rather just forget it.” 

Filing a complaint would mean committing all this to record— if Kramer hasn’t taken that step yet, Neal will be damned if he’ll do it for him.

Kramer has nothing. Nothing. Whatever it is that he suspects, he doesn’t know. If he did, Neal would be in cuffs right now, evidence or no. But he’s not. Because Kramer has nothing. 

Lo must have run like he’d promised, so that’s one less thing to worry about.

And Kramer had called him Caffrey, not Freddy or Dick or, god forbid, Robin. So his identity’s safe. He’s safe. Kramer can bluster and shout and dig up old phone numbers all he wants, he won’t find anything. He won’t prove anything.

Because no one ever has.

Hughes glances down at Neal’s desk, and it takes Neal a moment to realize what must have caught his attention. It’s just an old 118B form that Neal had been doodling on to keep his hands busy while he waited for Mozzie or Sara or Tim to text him back. He hadn’t really been paying attention to what he’d been drawing— there are a few hand studies in the margin, a few familiar faces. Plenty of birds, which he’s sure a psychoanalyst would have a field day with, but no one here will read too much into it.

Hughes studies the paper for a few moments, expression unreadable. He reaches out to turn the paper towards himself, and his fingers linger on one of the drawings for just a moment longer than necessary. Then the hand falls back to his side and he looks at Neal grimly.

“Caffrey,” he says. “Be careful.”

When he’s gone, Neal carefully seats himself behind the desk and picks up the paper with careful hands. His eyes find the drawing that Hughes had lingered over and something sharp catches in his chest.

(one dark, hateful eye; half a sneer; a hand holding something small and round; the rest, angry, mutilated scribbles)

Swiftly, he folds the paper in two and tucks it safely out of sight in his suit pocket. He’ll burn it as soon as he gets back to the loft.

It doesn’t mean anything. Hughes doesn’t know. Kramer doesn’t know, either. Nobody does, and Neal will keep it that way. 

Even if it kills him.

“Was it hard?” he asked a few hours later, watching fields of cows blur past. “Stopping, I mean. Like, the bad stuff.”

Lola rolled her head over to look at him, and he met her eyes unflinchingly.

"It sure wasn't easy," she said after a moment. “But I can look at myself in the mirror again, you know?”

Dick couldn’t imagine what he’d see if he looked in a mirror now. He pulled his feet up onto the seat, curled around knees like a little kid.

“But what if you screwed up?” he asked. “What if it happened again? Weren’t you ever scared?”

“ Hell, yeah,” Lola said, smacking the steering wheel for emphasis. “Every damn day, baby. But that’s just how it goes, you know? You wake up, you want a hit, but you know you can’t, so you don’t. That’s the rules, baby. Gotta make your rules and stick to ‘em.”

Dick had had rules before. Really, he’d had one rule. The Rule. B’s one, unbreakable rule.

He’d thought about it before he’d walked into that house. He’d thought about it with the gun in his hand. But he’d broken it anyway.

And now look at him.

B was right. Dick had never been good enough to be Robin. It had been a mistake, all of it. Who had he been kidding, anyway? He wasn’t a hero. He was a killer. He was just like all the criminals they’d fought to stop. He was just like Two-Face .

No.

No, he wasn’t . He couldn’t be. He wouldn’t let himself be.

Rules? He could do rules.

And this time, he would never, ever break them.

Never.

Peter drags Phil out of the bullpen, not to his temporary office as Reese had suggested/ordered, but back to the same empty break area where they’d spoken only hours before.

“What the hell was that?” he demands, rounding on his old mentor.

(What was it that Neal had said the first time he’d called Phil that?)

(“As depicted in Homer's ‘Odyssey’, Mentor was half-man-half-God. He represented the union of path and goal… Mentor also guided Odysseus' son during the Trojan war.”)

(“You planning on going to war, Peter?”)

“That was me doing my job,” Phil says harshly, and Peter gapes at him in disbelief.

“Your job?” he repeats derisively. “Assaulting my consultant is your job?”

Phil has the grace to look slightly ashamed, but his posture remains defiant. “I can admit it got a little out of hand, but you saw him, Petey— he’s not the helpless pet con he likes to pretend he is. He’s dangerous.”

“C’mon, Phil,” Peter says, trying to appeal to reason. “It’s Caffrey. You can’t really think he did anything to your witness. He’s as nonviolent as they come.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Kramer says sharply. His color is starting to rise again. “Or did Matthew Keller just fall down the stairs on the way to his holding cell?”

“Hey now, that was self-defense,” Peter argues.

“Very thorough self-defense,” Kramer shoots back. “How many broken bones did Mr. Keller have, again?”

“You’ve got Neal all wrong,” Peter insists. “He’s a good man. He’s my friend.”

“He’s fooling you, Petey!” Phil snaps. “Can’t you see that I’m doing this for you? To protect you?”

“To protect me?” Peter echoes, dumbfounded. “God, Phil, I don’t need to be protected from Neal. He’s my partner. He’s got my back, and I’ve got his.”

“He’s dangerous, Pete,” Kramer says again, voice thick with conviction. “And I will prove it. One way or another.”

Peter steps back. Straightens his spine. “It’s Special Agent Burke, actually. And you will stay away from my partner, or I’ll file a claim on his behalf for harassment and assault. And given your unprofessional behavior today, I’m sure Hughes and Bancroft will agree with me that someone else will handle the Bureau’s report for Neal Caffrey’s commutation hearing.” He pauses and looks Kramer in the eye. “I’m not your probie anymore, Phil. Don’t test me on this.”

Phil holds his gaze for several seconds before smiling bitterly. “This isn’t over, Peter. You may not want to believe it, but it’s true. Neal Caffrey is not the man he pretends he is. And sooner or later, the truth will out. When it does, I hope you remember that I have only ever been looking out for you.”

Peter doesn’t bother with a response, just turns and walks away. He has a team to run, cases to solve, and a partner who’s waiting for him. Kramer can find his own way out.

They stopped for the night just outside Louisville, Kentucky. Lola didn’t say how much farther they had to go, and Dick didn’t ask. He had enough to think about.

The motel was probably about fifty years old, and smelled like it. The manager didn’t ask any questions when a grown woman and a teenage boy with absolutely no luggage asked for a room on the very end. Probably he just didn’t care.

The room had two twin beds, a boxy TV, a bathroom window that looked ready to fall out of its frame, and a crack down the side of the toilet. Dick tried his best to breathe through his mouth as he flopped onto the bed farthest from the door.

“Here.” Lola tossed a couple of takeout menus at him. “You pick dinner.”

Dick opened the top menu lethargically. He still didn’t have much of an appetite. “There’s… Thai?” he offered without enthusiasm.

“Sounds good to me,” Lola said, flipping through channels on the crappy TV. “What you want, hon?”

Dick picked something at random, and Lola stepped outside the room to place the order. When the food arrived, he picked at it for as long as he could stand before announcing that he was full. Lola gave him a skeptical look but didn’t comment. She left the room briefly to ask for extra towels at the main office, and by the time she came back, Dick was tucked under the covers, eyes closed, breathing deep.

He heard the soft pad of her steps as she came up to the edge of the bed, then her quiet, “Fuckin’ Gotham,” before her steps moved away again and the door opened and shut once more.

Dick waited for a count of 2,356 before throwing off the covers as silently as possible. He was still fully dressed, shoes and all. It only took a moment to shove a couple of pillows under the covers to approximate a sleeping fourteen-year-old. He lingered for a moment over the sketchbook, tracing the lines of paintings he’ll never see again in person. The pencil felt heavier than usual in his hand when he flipped to a blank page and wrote two short messages:

L—

Please return to S. Thanks for everything.

S—

Sorry for dragging you into this. I appreciate all your help, but he’ll come looking and I can’t see him again. Keep this safe for me? And I promise, next time I see you, I’ll owe you that masterpiece.

He tucked the book under the covers, right on top of his pillow-decoy where it would be impossible to miss when someone pulled back the covers.

Then, with all the grace of a boy who had once been Robin, he pulled himself through the tiny bathroom window and landed silently on the ground outside.

By the time Lola thought to come check on him, he’d be long gone.

Neal looks less surprised than resigned when Peter shows up at his door with a case of beer and corner store wine. From the carefully blank look on his face when he examines the wine label, Peter suspects he’s really outdone himself this time.

He’s unsurprised when Neal opts for the beer.

“So,” Peter says, toying with his own bottle. “Hearing starts in the morning.”

“Yep,” Neal replies. He doesn’t seem particularly anxious, so Peter pushes a little farther.

“Got all your witnesses lined up?”

“Yeah,” Neal says, smiling a little. “June and Mozzie were up all night practicing her testimony. I think they’re going for the ‘poor lonely widow’ angle. Uh, Sara agreed to testify. So we’ll see how that goes. El, of course—you’ll have to thank her again for me.”

“She’s happy to do it,” Peter assures him. “On the FBI’s side, I know Jones has been asked to speak, and Hughes will be taking over for Kramer.”

Neal hums a little in acknowledgement. 

Peter watches him for a moment, the way his hair falls across his forehead and makes him look even younger than he already is. “You haven’t asked about me,” he says finally.

Neal glances at him, just a quick little flash. “About you testifying?” he clarifies.

“Yeah. I am your handler, after all,” a teasing little jab.

“Gee, I never noticed,” Neal rebounds, all dry sarcasm. Then, more seriously, “I didn’t think it was necessary.”

It’s ridiculous to feel a flicker of hurt. “You don’t want me to testify at your commutation hearing?”

Neal shrugs, not looking up. “I don’t know. It’s not you, Peter, it’s just…”

“You think I’d say you should stay on the anklet,” Peter deduces.

“No.” Neal shakes his head, then hesitates. “Yes. I don’t know.”

“Is that why you won’t tell me what’s going on with Kramer?” Peter asks. “Because you think it will change my opinion?” He hasn’t broached the subject of El’s suggestion yet. But if it’s some strange sort of shame, not consequences, that’s keeping Neal silent…

Neal flashes him a weak smile. “No. That has nothing to do with it. It’s just… I don’t know what you would say.”

“And that upsets you?” Peter tries. Conversations about feelings are more of El’s forte.

“Yes,” Neal says, then, with a little groan of frustration, “No. I don’t… It’s like, I don’t know what you would say, but I also don’t know what I’d want you to say.”

Peter blinks. That is nothing that he’d expected. “Neal, do you even want your anklet off?” he asks.

“Yes,” Neal says emphatically. “But that doesn’t— Aren’t you the one who always says I have to serve my time?”

“I did say that,” Peter says carefully. He’s not sure what to make of this; has Neal finally come to terms with his sentence? Is this… guilt? Neal rarely shows any sort of regret for his past crimes, and even then, it’s usually less about the crime itself and more about unintended consequences. Like El’s kidnapping.

Maybe that’s it, maybe this is his convoluted method of penance. Or maybe it’s something even darker— how often do criminals finish their sentence, just to reoffend because they couldn’t cope with the transition between prison and the outside world? Peter hadn’t been particularly worried about Neal, given that most of the time he acted like he barely even noticed he was still technically a ward of the federal prison system, but maybe he should have been. He’s worked hard to give Neal structure and purpose and limits, and the idea of those limits suddenly disappearing could be… unnerving. Change is scary, even to a chameleon like Neal Caffrey.

So he says, casually, “You know… if they do take the anklet off… I think we might just have a vacancy for a paid consultant at the FBI.”

The corner of Neal’s mouth turns up. “You sure you can afford me?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “I thought it wasn’t about the money,” he counters, drawing up Neal’s own words.

Neal gives an exaggerated little grimace. “The money doesn’t hurt,” he hedges. Then, more seriously, “Thank you, Peter. That means a lot.”

Uncomfortable, Peter shrugs off the gratitude. “You’re part of the team.”

Neal grins at him, a quick flash of teeth. “Here,” he says, pushing up from the table. “I want to show you something.”

Peter settles back in his seat, expecting Neal to pull down on of his many art books from the shelves, or maybe to drag out a perfectly forged Matisse from under the bed.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he opens one of the smaller books on his bedside table and withdraws a something small from within its pages.

Peter is sure he must be frowning in confusion as Neal hands him the object— a photograph.

“What’s this?” he asks, examining the image. It’s— not exactly what he would have expected. A small group of people posing for the camera. Some kind of festival— a carnival? And the costumes, the blindingly bright colors of the leotards and capes worn by one of the couples and the larger of the two children.

Neal is settled across from him, watching him with his chin propped up on one arm. “Remember the Burmese Ruby case?” he asks. “What I told you about my parents?”

Peter gives the picture a second, closer look. Two young couples, and two dark-haired boys. The younger of the two can’t be more than a toddler, dressed in a tiny little tweed suit, half-turned away from the camera as he perches on the knee of the older boy.

“That’s you,” Peter realizes, thunderstruck. “You and your parents.” He taps at that little boy, trying to imagine his brilliant, immature, enigmatic consultant that young.

He glances up at his partner again, and Neal is biting his lower lip like he’s trying not to laugh.

“No,” he says fondly. “It’s not. That’s me,” and he leans across to tap the picture, and—

No. No.

“That’s you,” Peter repeats. Pure sunshine is bubbling up in his chest, a hundred remembered comments and jokes and— but they weren’t jokes, were they? “That’s you?”

Neal winks at him and tilts his chair back, smirking. “I told you, didn’t I?”

“I thought you were kidding,” Peter says, and can’t stop himself from laughing. “That’s really you? Wearing that?”

“It’s a family tradition,” Neal says, unperturbed. “Or, it was, I guess.”

“You look like Robin fell into a sequin factory,” Peter chortles, and is so absorbed in examining every inch of the picture that he misses the complicated expression that crosses Neal’s face. “Your dad really did work in the circus.”

“And my mom,” Neal confirms. “And me, for a while. I loved it. We all did.”

“Neal, that’s—” Peter looks up and the full weight of what Neal just shared with him hits him. “This is amazing. Thank you for sharing this with me.”

Neal shrugs, avoiding his eyes and, dare Peter say it, looking a little shy. “I wanted to show you for a while,” he admits. “It’s the only picture I have of them. And, um,” he swirls his bottle of beer, watching the foamy bubbles spin, “I wanted you to know that I. I really do try not to lie to you. Not unless I have to.”

Ah. So this is about Kramer, too; for whatever reason, that’s one of the lies that Neal feels he ‘has to’ tell. And this is his way of apologizing, of proving he does trust Peter.

Maybe he ought to be more concerned at the transactional nature of it all, but—

“So tell me, then,” Peter says, leaning forward intently, the picture still held delicately in his hands, “Did you guys have hats, too?”

Chapter Text

How do you build a life’s worth of rules? Where do you even start?

The answer is, you start at the beginning. You start at the line in the sand, the point of no return.

No killing.

Never again. That’s Rule #1. That’s the line. And this time it’s not Batman’s line. It’s not Bruce’s. It’s his.

Take a step back. Rule #2.

No Robin.  

No capes. No masks. No heroics. He’d had his chance to do good, to be something more, and he’d blown it. Robin is done. Gone.

And so is Freddy Loyd and this Vengeance Academy bullshit. No more vigilantism. 

And no more vigilantes. No Batman. No Uncle Clark. No Wonder Woman, no Watchtower. They won’t want him anymore, not after what he’s done, unless it’s to lock him away, and he—

He’d deserve it. He killed a man (a monster) and it wasn’t self-defense and he should be locked away. But he can’t. He’s fourteen years old and he killed a man and he doesn’t want to go to prison. He can’t do it.

So; no heroes . A clean break.

And maybe, maybe if he can follow the rules this time, if he can do better, then maybe someday—

Maybe, someday, it will be enough.

Neal is a light sleeper. Always has been. His body is primed for fast waking, for being up and out the window before the Feds finish kicking in the door. He’s gotten spoiled in New York, trusting in the safety of his open, airy loft and the reassuring weight of the anklet on his leg.

But some things stay with you.

He wakes before his phone has fully finished its first buzz, bolting upright in bed, one hand reaching for— something? He’s not sure what. 

Doesn’t matter. Loft’s empty. No threats, no shadows that are deeper than they should be. He’s alone.

The phone buzzes again and he gropes for it, knocking yesterday’s cufflinks and last week’s rolled-up tie to the floor. He can be organized when the situation calls for it, but no one has ever accused him of being neat .

When he finally gets his phone unlocked, he should probably feel more surprised than he does that instead of a caller ID, his phone’s screen shows only a familiar green mask.

Well, then.

“Hello?” he says, knowing his voice is still rough with sleep and not really caring.

“You’re an idiot.”

He wishes he could say it’s the first time he’s had a phone call with a woman start this way, but… “Oracle,” he groans, “you do know that civilians are asleep at four in the morning?”

“Are you still pretending you’re a civilian?” That synthesized voice is unmistakable, as quick and sharp-witted as he remembered.

“I’m a civilian,” he protests. “ You’re a civilian. Tim, that over-caffeinated little geek, is a civilian. If you weren’t a civilian, trust me, you would not have the energy to be backflipping around Gotham in colorful underpants at four in the morning . Did I mention that part?”

“Trust me , my backflipping days are long over,” Oracle says without inflection. “And you’re one to talk.”

Maybe it’s the early hour, maybe it’s the lingering high of telling Peter the truth—well, a sliver of the truth—but for once Neal can’t summon up his usual panic.

“Maybe I am,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Does it matter?”

“It does if I have to cover up the use of a classified WayneTech backdoor into the federal Marshals system,” Oracle snaps, and Neal isn’t sure whether to swear or laugh.

He’d been braced for the worst since the moment his old access code had worked, but if the Bats’ resident hacker had intercepted whatever alert before the Batman saw it personally—

—maybe not the best case scenario, but pretty high up there. Even if that meant that O had probably put the pieces together by now.

“I should probably thank you for that.”

“You probably should.”

“Mmm. Just so we’re clear, what all am I thanking you for?”

“You could start with wiping all records of your little unauthorized access attempt from the marshals’ system, plus backdating your handler’s authorized disabling of your anklet, plus ensuring Agent Philip Kramer’s recall to D.C. before he could dig any further into it or into you . And on top of all that ,” Oracle pauses to take an audible breath, “You should definitely be thanking me for keeping Bruce from finding out that someone’s been using Richard John Grayson’s personal emergency access codes.”

Yeah. She knows.

“I guess I really do have a lot to thank you for,” he says quietly.

“Mmm.”

The panic still isn’t quite there, but there is a sort of morbid curiosity, like poking at the fleshy pit of a lost tooth. “Did you figure it out when you saw the code?” he asks. “Or did Tim tell you?” If she didn’t know that Tim knows, he’s kind of throwing the kid under the bus— but at this point he doesn’t think that anyone would believe that Tim didn’t know.

“Actually, I had a nice talk with your Agent Burke,” Oracle says lightly. “He told me all about how mysterious your past is, how you like to tell everyone that you grew up in the circus .”

Dick groans and rolls over so that his face is buried in the pillow. “He told you that?” he asks, muffled in the pillow. “I didn’t think he took me seriously back then!”

“He didn’t,” Oracle says wryly. “But you have to admit, Boy Wonder, for someone who’s trying to hide from his past, you sure are dropping a lot of breadcrumbs lately.”

Dick pries himself out of the pillows to say, “It’s not exactly my fault— and don’t call me that. I’m not Robin, Tim’s Robin.”

“It would make his year to hear you say that.”

“I have said it,” Dick complains. “I’ll say it until I’m blue in the face— Tim is Robin, and from what I can tell, he’s doing a great job. I don’t know what Br— Batman has been doing over there, but as far as I’m concerned, he’s a better Robin than I ever was.”

“I don’t think Tim would agree.”

Dick can feel his temper starting to slip. “Then clearly he hasn’t read the files on me closely enough.”

There’s silence for a moment. 

“Richard—”

“Don’t call me that,” he says sharply. “Just—where is Tim, anyway? I’ve been calling and calling, but he’s not picking up.”

Oracle sighs, a rush of static across the line, and a chill goes down Dick’s neck. He sits up in bed.

“Oracle,” he says more urgently, “Where is Tim? Did something happen to Tim?”

“He’s fine,” Oracle says. “Physically.”

“Physically,” Dick repeats . Fine, physically leaves an awful lot of other ways for Tim to be not-fine . After all, Dick had been fine, physically on the night that he’d shown up at Selina’s apartment covered in blood. There’d barely been a scratch on him. And it had still been probably the second-worst night of his life.

“He’s had a— difficult week,” Oracle says. “There was an incident a few days ago, and one of his friends—his best friend, really—didn’t… make it.”

Oh.

Oh, Tim .

“Who?” Dick can’t stop himself from asking, cycling through all the memory-worn faces of his childhood. But no, that’s the wrong generation, the only cape that Dick knows who’s anywhere near Tim’s age is—

“Oh no,” Dick breathes. “Not Superboy. Tell me it’s not Superboy.”

Oracle is silent and he knows that he’s right.

“Jesus.” Dick’s going to be sick . “He was, what, sixteen?” What had Tim said his real name was? Connor? “He was just a kid. And Tim— God, Tim’s just a kid.”

“Yes,” Oracle says quietly.

“Is Tim—” Of course he’s not okay, he’s sixteen and his best friend just died. “Does he have someone with him?” 

(Not Bruce. Bruce tries, but…  Not Bruce.)

(Alfred. Alfred knows what to do with a grieving boy.)

Oracle is silent for long enough that he almost asks again before she finally relents.

“The funeral is in New York,” she says. “Officially, it’s a private event and I have no idea where it’s being held. Unofficially, New York isn’t nearly as big of a city as people like to pretend it is. Madison and 81st is in your radius, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Dick acknowledges. “I have an— engagement this morning, but I’ll try and get down there after that.”

“Your commutation hearing is today,” Oracle comments, and Dick is not going to ask how she knows that. 

“In about… four and a half hours, now,” he says, checking the clock.

“Hmm. It wasn’t Tim, you know.”

Dick blinks. “What?”

“It wasn’t Tim,” Oracle repeats. “The commutation. Your Bureau came up with it on their own. Tim didn’t interfere. I thought you might like to know.”

“…Thanks,” Dick says slowly. “I think. Um.”

He considers, for a moment, asking the question that’s been bothering him since he spoke to Lo— to Laurence Walters.

I didn’t want to end up like the others.

You know, the guys. I saw it on the news. I don’t want to end up dead like that.

The others. 

Dead.

He’d been too distracted to ask Walters then, but he’d wondered, later. The others — that had to be the VA, didn’t it? He hadn’t heard anything about the others since the day he’d run, but— why would he have? Vengeance Academy had been so far underground that even Batman hadn’t known about it, and—as Walters had demonstrated— it had been long enough that Dick would hardly recognize his ‘classmates’ if they were standing right in front of him.

If anyone knows what happened to those kids, it’s Oracle. She has the context, she has the contacts, and if she’s been looking into the Fall of Dick Grayson, she has half the story already. If Walters was right, and not just paranoid… If someone really is hunting former VA members… She could find out.

(And if she did? Tim’s on the bench for the foreseeable future. Last time, she sent Batgirl to keep an eye on him, but if Robin’s out, then Batgirl will be needed in Gotham. Who’s next? Black Canary? Huntress? Will she ask Martian Manhunter to swing by NYC? Who else will find out about him? And how long until someone cracks, until Bruce ferrets it out? Too many people know already, but at least they’re Bats. No one else has found him yet. No one else will find him. As long as he keeps quiet, keeps away, he’ll be fine. They’ll be fine.)

He keeps his mouth shut.

“I’ll let you get some sleep before your big hearing,” Oracle says. “I’m sure you’ll need it.”

Dick… cannot tell if that’s meant to be a jab at him. Probably not.

Besides, she’s not wrong.

“Send me the address for Tim?” he requests. “I’ll take him out for lunch or something. Peter won’t mind.”

“Sent,” Oracle says. “Good luck, Richard.”

Coeur de lion , his mother had told him once, before his very first show. Your name is for bravery. Lion’s heart. My brave, brave boy.

Now, he scoffs, letting the memory sink back down into the dimness of recollection. “I mean it, don’t call me that. No one calls me that.” Not for… a long time. Lifetimes. “It’s Dick. Or Neal, if you have company.”

“I still find it hard to believe that a grown man chooses to be called ‘Dick’,” Oracle says dryly, “but if you insist. Good luck… Dick .”

“Thanks… Oracle .”

He isn’t able to really get back to sleep after she hangs up, but it’s okay. She knows. Someone else knows about him, and the sky hasn’t fallen. The world isn’t ending.

Tomorrow he’ll see Tim and he’ll have his hearing, and no matter what happens, it will be okay.

He can feel it.

He didn’t stick around any one place too long. St. Louis to Minneapolis to Portland to Los Angeles, Jacksonville to Boston to Buffalo to Philadelphia. He gave Gotham City a wide berth, and Metropolis, too. It was too risky and he wasn’t stupid — he knew they’d still be looking for him, that they were just waiting until he showed his face.

So he didn’t; he wore hoodies with the hood pulled up and baseball caps pulled low and avoided cameras. When he needed money, he stole it— from criminals, drug dealers, and sometimes he called the cops after, but sometimes he didn't. He couldn’t risk leaving a trail, and it wasn’t his responsibility anymore, anyways. 

He didn’t fight. If there was any rule he could follow, it was that one. He didn’t fight.

It was hard. The cash that he took from hideouts and street dealers was never enough. Too often, he slept on the streets or in condemned buildings. He was three weeks from his fifteenth birthday the first time he broke into an empty house just so that he could sleep in a bed for once. The owners were on vacation, and Dick ended up staying for a week and a half. When they finally returned, he had less than a minute’s warning to roll out of bed, grab his backpack, and climb out the third-floor window.

He didn’t stick around to see the family’s reaction, but he imagined it was very ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears’— he hadn’t had a chance to make the bed, much less clean up the stack of dirty bowls and spoons in the kitchen sink (and Alfie had always said no one could live off breakfast cereal alone— showed him, Dick felt great ).

Things got better after that— it wasn’t so hard to figure out which houses were sitting empty, to talk his way in as a family friend asked to feed the cat or water the plants. The security systems were a joke; he could crack half of these when he was twelve .

He broke into mansions and townhomes and walked the empty, art-lined halls and remembered sleepless nights at the Manor, charcoal under his fingernails. It wasn’t hard to find another sketchbook, some basic drawing pencils. He was rusty after months without practice, but that’s okay. It was something that he could work on, something that he could do better .

And he did.

It’s almost funny, in a macabre kind of way; for all the death that Neal’s seen and lived and investigated, he has surprisingly little experience with what comes after.

For the living, at least. He knows all too well what happens to a corpse after three weeks in a badly-ventilated warehouse, or when a shallow grave is too shallow to protect it from weather and scavengers. He knows the stages of decay, rigor mortis, decomposition– and yet, in his whole life, he’s only ever seen a single real funeral.

It hadn’t been much of a service, back then. The circus had mostly moved on by the time the cops had released their bodies for burial, and only Pop Haley and Seamus the strongman and Miss Rita (looking strange and bland without her spangly leotard and bright makeup) had stuck around long enough to see his mother and father lowered into the ground.

Someone had found a suit for him somewhere, and it had been too small, pinching at the armpits every time he moved. It had been the first suit he’d ever worn, and he’d hated it. It had taken Bruce and Alfred months to coax him into a properly-tailored suit for formal galas. He’d only agreed when they’d let him pick his own bowtie, neon blue with little yellow birds.

He’d missed Kate’s funeral. Peter had tried to visit him in prison, but he’d refused all visitors and spent the day curled in his cell, ignoring the clatter of the other inmates.

He’s never seen a superhero’s funeral. Well— Memorial service, really. No body. Neal doesn’t want to think about why.

Neal doesn’t even have to con his way in. No one spares him a glance when he slips into the back of the service, just another mourner in a dark suit. The gathering is smaller than he’d expected, and though he’d been prepared for the possibility of familiar faces, the only figure he recognizes is Tim. 

In contrast to his perfectly-pressed designer suit and dark glasses, Tim is paler than Neal’s ever seen him. His face betrays no expression as he sits in the front pew and listens to the priest talk about the tragedy of losing someone so kind, so young.

Neal ducks his head as the service ends and mourners start to trickle out. Most of them are— young, Neal can’t stop himself from noticing. Some of them are almost certainly civilians (school friends, maybe?) but others…

He tries not to think about that, either.

There’s only a handful of mourners left when Neal makes his way up the aisle. Tim’s still at the front, talking quietly to a tall girl with blond hair pulled back with a headband. He looks up as Neal calls his name.

“D— Neal? What are you doing here?” Tim says, and clearly Oracle hadn’t seen fit to warn him that Neal was coming, which is just great of her, but whatever.

“Hey, Timmy,” Neal says. It feels oddly natural to reach out and rest a hand on his shoulder. But in a sense, aren’t they practically family? “Sorry to just show up like this, but I heard about your friend. I’m so sorry, kiddo.”

He’s sure Tim must be sick of those words by now but, to his credit, he just gives a tight little nod of acknowledgement.

The girl that Tim had been talking to is still standing there, glancing curiously between the two of them, so Neal offers her a smile and holds out his free hand. “Hi. Neal Caffrey. Sorry for your loss.”

“Uh, Cassandra. Cassie,” the girl says, giving his hand an awkward shake. Her grip is surprisingly firm, and Neal subtly flexes his hand once it’s released. “You… Did you know Connor?”

Neal switches his charming smile for something softer. “Not exactly. He saved my life, once, but… I never really even had a chance to thank him.” He looks up at the flower-strewn portrait on the dais. Connor Kent looked even younger in civilian clothes, beaming at the camera with someone’s arm around his shoulders. The owner of the arm is cut off in the picture, but Neal’s fairly certain he recognizes that red hoodie.

He squeezes Tim’s shoulder a little tighter.

“Shouldn’t you be at your hearing?” Tim asks, not quite looking at him. “I thought that was today.”

“It is,” Neal admits. “But I wanted to check in on you. Make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” Tim says, shrugging a little under his hand, and it’s almost believable.

“Okay,” Neal says easily. “Hey– I don’t know if you guys already have plans or anything, but I thought I could treat you to lunch? Since you’re in town.” He glances up at Tim’s little friend questioningly as he speaks, but she shakes her head quickly.

“My mom’s picking me up,” she says ruefully. “Family stuff, you know. Um, Tim, do you want me to…?”

“No,” Tim says dismissively. “I’ll take care of the apartment. Don’t worry about it.”

“Cool.” The girl smiles at them a bit sadly, and leaves.

“Oracle told you,” Tim says when she’s gone.

“She did,” Neal admits. “You could have let me know that she knows, by the way.”

There’s a spark of his usual mischief in Tim’s eyes when he smirks. “Wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun that way.”

Neal laughs and pulls him in to ruffle his hair. “Brat,” he says affectionately. “Seriously, though, what do you want to eat? It’s on me.”

They end up in some tiny little family-owned deli where the proprietor fusses over Tim in his smart suit and piles double meats on his sandwich because he’s ‘too skinny for a boy your age!’ .

Tim endures this fussing with all the grace of a Wayne heir until they’re safely ensconced at a table in the back corner of the shop.

“The real service is back in Kansas,” he tells Neal over cold cuts and giardiniera. “You know, for the family. But we wanted to do something for the team, and for his friends here in New York.”

“The team?” Neal says, raising an eyebrow. “I thought the League didn’t endorse any junior teams.”

Tim makes a face. “It’s not a junior team,” he says. “And it wasn’t really… official, yet.” His mouth pulls down further. “I guess it won’t ever be, now.”

Right.

Neal picks at his sandwich. “I’m not going to pretend I knew Conner,” he says, “but I don’t think he’d want you to give up. Not if this is important to you.”

Tim makes a dismissive little gesture and changes the subject. “So, your commutation hearing. How’s that going?”

“Good, I think.” Neal carefully dabs at a spot of mustard on his sleeve. “Better now that Kramer’s gone.”

“Kramer?”

Neal waves a hand vaguely. “Peter’s old FBI mentor. He was— digging into stuff. Gotham stuff,” he adds meaningfully, and Tim’s face goes hard.

“Does he know—?”

“No, nothing like that,” Neal says quickly. “No B-A-T- s involved. Just, you know, other stuff. I ran into someone that I knew from after I… ran away.”

Tim is looking at him with a crease in his brow, and it’s enough for Neal to take that last step.

He takes a deep breath. “You said that you know about Vengeance Academy.”

He’s expecting surprise. Disgust. Concern, maybe. He’s not expecting Tim to nearly choke on his bite of sandwich.

“What?” Tim gasps, red-faced. “Wait, what? He’s here? Here in New York?”

It’s not the reaction Neal is expecting. 

It’s—

Wait —

“You know Lo?” Neal says, baffled.

“What?”

“What?”

They stare at each other across the rickety table.

Neal finds his voice first. “Lo. Uh, Laurence Walters. You know about him?”

Tim shakes his head, not in denial but in bemusement. “He was the only one I couldn’t find, I guess I assumed— but you saw him? Here, in New York? Alive?”

“Alive,” Neal repeats dumbly. “I mean, yes, he was alive. Yesterday. Yesterday he was alive, and I saw him. On Roosevelt Island. Kramer found him, somehow, and wanted him to testify— but he freaked out when he saw me. He said… Is it true, then? About the others?”

Tim’s eyes drop away, and Neal knows even before he says it. “Yes. It’s true.”

“They’re dead,” Neal says, and Tim confirms, “Murdered. All of them within the last 12 months. It’s been in the news, we thought you knew.”

(But he didn’t. He didn’t recognize Lo when he was right in front of him, not after a decade. He only ever knew them by stupid teenage nicknames and never bothered to look back after he ran. All he’d thought about was putting distance between himself and his own mistakes. He hadn’t thought about the ones he’d left behind.)

(And now they’re dead.)

“‘We’?” he asks, dragging himself away from dark thoughts that won’t help anyone.

“Oracle and I.” Tim still looks so pale. “We’ve been investigating the murders, but we haven’t gotten anywhere. We thought— Dick, I swear, there was no sign that anyone knew where you were. If we thought you were in danger, we would have told you right away.”

Neal doubts that , but that’s not important right now.

“Walters has been missing since yesterday afternoon,” he says bluntly. “I assumed he ran after we talked, but— If someone’s hunting members of the V.A.…”

“You’re both in danger,” Tim finishes pointedly.

Aw. It’s almost sweet, seeing little Robin being all concerned.

“I can take care of myself,” Neal says kindly. “Besides, there’s no proof that anyone else knows where —or who — I am. Walters is the priority now.”

“ Or he’s the murderer and he knows exactly where to find you,” Tim challenges him.

Neal rolls his eyes. “If he wanted me dead, he would’ve tried yesterday. Besides, he didn’t exactly seem… threatening , when I saw him. I’m pretty sure he thought I was the murderer, actually. Point is, we need to find him.”

“I’ll call Oracle,” Tim says. “If there’s any type of digital or electronic trail, she’ll find it. What about your hearing?”

Neal shrugs. “I already gave my opening statement this morning. Right now it’s just character witnesses. They don’t need me back until they’re ready to give their decision.”

“You shouldn’t stay at your apartment.”

“No,” Neal agrees. “I’ll call Mozzie, he’ll have a place for me to lie low. My anklet—”

“I’ll deal with it,” Tim promises, pushing up from the table, sandwich long forgotten. “I’ll call you if I find anything. Stay safe.”

You too , Neal thinks, and, What have I gotten us into now?

A year after he’d climbed out of that motel room, he was at a bus depot in Baltimore when he saw a newspaper abandoned on the bench.

Dick crumpled the paper without a second thought and bought a one-way ticket to New York City.

Joseph S. Burke had always been a big bear of a man. Big, rough bricklayer’s hands that were always gentle as a lamb when they pulled his wife close or ruffled his son’s hair.

Those hands are more lined now. They ache in the colder months, much as Joseph tries to pretend they don’t. They’re just as strong, though, whether they’re wrapped around a hammer or a cane.

Peter has his father's hands.

Neal's hands are a thief's hands. Long and light-fingered, slipping in and out of pockets and jewelry boxes. They're an artist's hands, too. Controlled. Steady, yet graceful.

In less than an hour, they could be the hands of a free man.

It feels strange not to be involved in the hearing; as Neal's primary handler, if anything, his should have been the most important testimony of all. But Neal had asked, and so Peter sits up in his office and watches as first Jones, then Diana, then Reese each disappear to give testimony before the board. He knows that El had given hers first thing in the morning, and Sara not long after, and now it's nearly 5 p.m. and all that's left to do is... wait.

He doesn't blame his CI for begging off work today— if Neal hadn't suggested it himself, Peter would have insisted. The suspense is killing him , and it's not even his freedom on the line.

(Doesn’t mean that Peter likes having him out of his sight, though. Not after the week they’ve had already.)

Does Neal have his father’s hands? His father, the circus performer — because only Neal Caffrey is brazen enough to tell such an unbelievable truth knowing that everyone would assume it’s a lie.

Even knowing, it’s hard to match up the Neal Caffrey of slick suits and thousand-dollar watches and the little boy in the banana-yellow cape and sequins. Peter would almost wonder if it isn’t all just a joke at his expense, except —

Except for the look on Neal’s face when he looked at the photograph. Bright and a little bit lost all at the same time.

Neal couldn’t—wouldn’t—lie about that.

4:22 , says Peter’s watch, and that’s close enough. He grabs his jacket.

“Heading over to the courthouse?” Diana asks, falling in step. “You ready for this, Peter?”

“Which part?” Peter grumbles. “Don’t answer that. You and Jones coming?”

“We’ll see you there,” Di promises. “Hey, Boss?”

Peter pauses on the threshold, expectant.

“What would you have said?” she asks. “If they’d asked you?”

Peter considers her for a moment. He hasn’t asked what she or Jones said to the board, nor will he. He thinks he has a pretty good idea, anyway.

“Honestly?” he says. “I thought I knew what I would’ve said. And I thought Neal did too, and that’s why he didn’t want me there. But now?” Peter shakes his head. “I’m not even sure anymore.”

“Hmm.” Nobody else stares you down quite like Diana Berrigan. “I guess we’ll all find out.”

New York City traffic is like New York City weather; the one time you’re actually prepared is the one time you don’t need it. By the time that Peter arrives at the courthouse, parks, and makes his way to the front steps, there’s still a good ten minutes until Neal is supposed to meet him.

Peter valiantly resists the urge to check his anklet. Depending on how the Board goes, there may not be an anklet to check after today.

(Peter does not shudder at the thought.)

He’s almost to the courthouse door when someone grabs his elbow.

“Agent Burke!”

Peter turns, surprised.

He’s not expecting the hand on his elbow to belong to— well, to a kid . Couldn’t be older than seventeen, messy hair, dark suit cut in a style that’s just a little too mature for him. Like a teenager borrowing one of his dad’s suits for prom.

“Can I help you?” Peter asks, bemused.

“Where’s Neal,” the kid demands and Peter blinks at him.

“What?” he says, thinking (hoping) that he’d misheard, because Neal, what did you do now, you were so close —

“Neal Caffrey,” the kid says. “The marshals are resetting their system, so I can’t track his anklet. I tried Mozzie, but he said Neal had already left to meet you. Is he here? Do you know where he is?”

For a second, Peter has no idea what to say. That the marshals are resetting the system is no surprise, since Kramer must have reported Neal’s little bypass— but how could this kid know? And if he can’t track Neal’s anklet because of the reset, does that mean that otherwise he would be able to?

No. No, there’s no way that a teenager could access something like that. No way.

“Who are you?” Peter demands. “Is this some kind of prank?” He glances around suspiciously, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe he’s on camera?

But the kid is still holding his arm with surprising strength, and his face is deadly serious.

“Who I am doesn’t matter,” he says. “I need to find Neal, now . He’s in danger.”

Danger?

“What do you—” he starts, but because this day can’t get any better, that’s the point where Phillip J. Kramer decides to turn up. With a dozen armed U.S. Marshals in tow.

“Phil,” Peter says, surprised and angry . “What the hell are you doing here?”

Kramer comes to a stop on the top step and the marshals fall into formation around him. “These gentlemen and I are here to take Neal Caffrey into custody.” For once, he doesn’t sound smug or knowing— just grim.

Peter scoffs. “On what charges?” he demands disbelievingly. “This is ludicrous.”

“Peter,” Phil pauses, corrects himself. “Agent Burke. Where is Neal Caffrey?”

“No idea,” Peter bites out, crossing his arms. “And I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

The warning is soft, but resolute. “Don’t do this, Peter.”

“Yesterday you assaulted him in front of a dozen FBI agents,” Peter growls, just in case Kramer’s somehow forgotten. “Even if Neal isn’t pressing charges, you shouldn’t be anywhere near him, let alone serving an arrest warrant. And you know what else—”

Kramer cuts him off.  

“We found Lawrence Walters,” he says bluntly. “He’s dead.”

Peter blinks, the words caught in his throat.

“We found Caffrey’s prints and DNA at the scene.”

Later, he’ll probably feel guilty that for a moment—just a moment—he remembers a gun held in a steady hand, pointed at Fowler’s center mass; Keller a bloody pulp on the ground; the cornered-animal tension when Peter had found him on Roosevelt Island— and he wonders. 

It’s only a moment, and then common sense reasserts itself. This is Neal . Neal, who’d let himself be kidnapped to protect the daughter of the man who’d testified against him. Neal, who made Peter’s dog an accomplice to destruction of private property. Neal, who hates violence with a passion that rivals only his love for his friends.

“You’re wrong,” Peter tells Kramer firmly. “Neal didn’t do this. He couldn’t have.”

“Oh?” Kramer challenges. “Then tell me, Petey— where is he? He was the last one to see Walters alive. His anklet’s malfunctioning. We went to his apartment— he hasn’t been there all day. Hasn’t been to the office. How do you know he hasn’t already run?”

“He hasn’t run,” the kid cuts in, drawing Kramer’s attention for the first time. “I saw him barely an hour ago. He was with me for most of the morning, and I can testify to that if necessary.”

Kramer looks him up and down, and the expression on his face would be amusing in any other situation. “And who are you supposed to be?” 

“Someone with an interest in preventing a miscarraige of justice,” the kid says, and if nothing else, Peter has to admire his nerve.

It certainly makes Kramer puff up like an offended peacock.

“This is FBI business,” he snaps. “Move along.”

The boy doesn’t budge. “I’m pretty sure the preservation of civil rights is everyone’s business,” he says calmly. “And in the spirit of that, I’d like to inform you that I am recording this conversation.” He holds up a cellphone in one thin, pale hand, and Peter is pleased to see that the length of the recording is far longer than since the boy slipped into the confrontation.

Kramer notices too, and he turns an ugly shade of puce. “Give that to me,” he demands, holding out a hand. “You have no right—”

The boy slides smoothly out of reach. “Actually, New York has a one-party consent law. Only one person in the conversation has to consent to being recorded for it to be legal. And seeing as I am now part of this conversation and I consent…” Those slim lips quirk slightly, a pointed so there . 

Kramer levels a thunderous finger at him. “I don’t know who you think you are, young man, but unless both of you want to be charged with obstructing an arrest, I would recommend that you get out of my way.”

“Oh,” the boy says, and the perfect innocence makes every warning hair on Peter’s body stand on end. “Haven’t I introduced myself? My apologies, Agents. That was remiss of me.”

Suddenly, he doesn’t seem so much like a kid anymore. At some point Peter hadn’t noticed, he’s straightened out of his teenage slouch. His full height is still about half a head shorter than Peter, but he finds himself wanting to step back to fit him fully into his frame of vision. Even his hair doesn’t seem so much inadvertently disheveled as artfully mussed. It’s like looking at a scaled-down politician, or maybe one of the teenage celebrities who speaks to the UN about child poverty in third world countries.

Peter has the sudden impression that Kramer has made a terrible mistake.

“Hi,” the kid says brightly. “My name is Tim Wayne. COO of Wayne Enterprises’ tech division, co-chair of the Martha Wayne Foundation, and number three on last year’s Forbes list of 30 under 30 . You might have heard of me.”

What, Peter thinks dumbly. What the hell. Neal, what did you do .

And speak of the devil…

The way that they’re standing, a tense triangle with Peter at the peak and Kramer’s marshals trailing out behind like kite tails, means that Peter’s the only one to see Neal hesitating on the opposite sidewalk. His eyes scan over the scene, narrowing on Kramer and widening at the kid, before he meets Peter’s gaze. There’s a question there, and for a second Peter is struck breathless that Neal would trust him enough to ask —

Wait, Peter gestures with the subtlest tilt of the hand. Wait .

Neal’s head dips almost imperceptibly. He’s got the message.

“Agent Kramer,” Peter says, cutting back into the conversation. It’s hard to take his eyes off Neal, to trust that he won’t just disappear, but he forces himself. “You said you were here to take Neal into custody. Do you have an arrest warrant?”

Phil’s lips purse. “Peter,” he begins.

“Do you have a warrant?” Peter presses. “Signed by a judge? If not, I think you’ll find that Neal is still my CI, in my custody.” He pauses, drops his voice a little. “Phil, please. You have to know that Neal didn’t kill anyone. He’s not capable of it. If anything, he’s the one in danger here.”

The kid makes a strangled kind of sound in his throat, but steps forward supportively. “Agent Burke is right, sir. Mr. Caffrey couldn’t have been involved. I’ll swear it under oath. Which means that the real culprit is still out there.”

He looks so incredibly earnest that the part of Peter that has spent years dealing with Neal Caffrey can’t quite believe it’s real.

Phil hesitates. Peter can see the way his eyes flick from the kid to Peter to the marshals waiting behind him. For a moment, Peter thinks it might actually have worked, for now.

And then Kramer’s gaze falls on the phone in the kid’s hand and his jaw hardens. “Young man, you—”

“Tim. There you are.”

A hand falls across the kid’s shoulder, big and rough and calloused as a bricklayer’s. Peter’s eye follows it up: past a crisp cuff, perfectly pressed; up an arm clad in a suit more expensive than anything that even Neal owns; across the broad shoulders, over the strong jaw and toothpaste-perfect smile.

“Everything alright, officers?” There’s a faint scar across the man’s chin that stretches when he speaks. “I do hope my son hasn’t been getting himself into any trouble .”

“Your son?” Kramer echoes, and the man smiles, brilliant and edged.

“Bruce Wayne,” he introduces himself, holding out one of those broad hands. “A pleasure, I’m sure.”

Peter has no idea what’s even going on anymore. His gaze drifts against his will, back to where Neal is still—

—frozen in place, pale as death , his eyes so wide that even from this distance Peter can see the whites all the way around.

He looks like someone just stabbed him in the back. He looks like the day that Kate died, standing on the tarmac as bits of burning plane fluttered down around them.

He looks terrified .

And Peter has no idea why.

His breath catches in his throat, and it’s such a tiny sound, but it catches the attention of the man—Wayne.

His sharp blue eyes turn to follow Peter’s gaze, but by then it’s already too late.

Neal is gone .

Chapter Text

Wait, Peter gestures with the subtlest tilt of the hand. Wait. Don’t run.

You’re so close, Neal. Just trust me.

Trust me.

Don’t run.

“...Peter, Caffrey’s cut his anklet. Neal’s gone .”

“We can’t hold them, Peter.”

“I’m not asking you to throw them in Guantanamo, Reese,” Peter says, frustration bleeding through the edges of his composure. “Just an interview. A conversation.”

“They’ve already given a statement to the Marshals, it’s their case now. If you want to see the transcript so bad, go bother them.”

“I’ve seen the transcript,” Peter grumbles, “and it’s bullshit. There’s nothing there.”

Peter has some significant doubts about the story that they’d fed Kramer’s agents about some sort of foundation with an interest in criminal rehabilitation. 

Neal had been so… strange about the whole commutation process, but he’d never said a word about being approached by anyone like that.

And he would have. He would have told Peter. Peter’s sure of it.

Hughes leans back in his chair, massaging the bridge of his nose. He’s been doing that a lot the last few days. Reese isn’t young anymore, and it’s times like these when it shows.

“There’s nothing I can do, Peter,” he says tiredly. “The man’s a literal billionaire. That lawyer of his charges more for one day than I have in my entire retirement account. Unless you have concrete proof that they had something to do with Neal’s escape, we can’t keep them in New York.” He raises a stern eyebrow. “ Do you have proof?”

Peter grinds his teeth. “...No,” he admits grudgingly.

Reese sighs. “Then I’ll let them know that they’re free to return to Gotham, and we’ll reach out through their attorneys if we need to speak to them again.”

“I’m sure they’ll find a way to weasel out of it,” Peter mutters.

“You’re not even supposed to be working this case anymore,” Hughes reminds him, although as reprimands go, it’s fairly unenthused. Even though Neal’s case has officially been handed off, no one had seemed surprised when Peter kept his team running down leads and chasing sightings until the early hours of the morning.

He’s heard through the Bureau skuttlebutt that Kramer had tried to raise a stink about him being compromised and interfering with the investigation, but it seemed as though Hughes really had made an official complaint about Kramer’s assault on Neal. And as a result, Phil had been quickly and quietly recalled to Washington before things could become even more of a mess than they already are.

(Neal, why did you have to run?)

Peter tries one more time.

“Just one conversation, sir,” he pleads. “Five minutes. Off the record.”

Hughes throws up a hand, exasperated. “What do you think you’re going to get in five minutes that’s worth the shitstorm this will bring down?”

Peter only hesitates for a moment. “The kid… He seemed so sure that Neal was in danger. I just need to know…” He trails off.

Everything , really. How did the kid know Neal? How had he known about Kramer, the anklet, Mozzie? Had he somehow known about Laurence Walters already? Was that why he’d been so sure that Neal was in danger? If so, from whom? Is Neal still in danger, wherever he is?

Peter had, through grace of Diana, managed to sneak a look at the crime scene report on the Walters murder. It had only made him feel worse. What kind of sick psychopath could do something like that to a human being? And how had Neal’s DNA ended up at the scene? Peter doesn’t for a second believe that Neal could have been involved in something so… gruesome , but the questions just continue to pile up.

Reese looks like he’s regretting not taking retirement the fifth time it was offered to him. “Ah, hell,” he sighs. “Even when he’s not here, Caffrey can’t make it any easier on us, can he?”

“Nossir.” Peter is careful to keep a straight face. Working with Neal these past few years have only honed his already-expert sense of how far to push people, when to let the silence stretch—

“Fine,” Hughes growls. “We still can’t hold them in New York. But. Given their… cooperation in the investigation, it would be appropriate for the senior agent to thank them—in person—for their assistance. But, Peter— if you push them too far, I won’t be able to protect you.”

For the first time since Diana had broken the news that Neal’s anklet was cut, Peter feels a rush of anticipation. “Understood,” he says quickly. “Thank you, sir.”

Hughes waves him off, and though his voice is still gruff, Peter can’t help but remember that when Neal had been unconscious in the hospital, shivering his way through the effects of the fear gas they’d all been hit with, it had been Hughes who’d sat up with him through the night.

“Get out of my office,” Reese says, “And go find Caffrey before this whole mess gets worse than it already is.”

“Yessir,” Peter repeats, and beats a hasty retreat back to his own office.

Sometimes he thinks that Neal’s greatest gift is not his silver tongue or his quick mind or even his artistic gift, but rather his almost supernatural ability to get literally everyone in his life to care about him— no matter how much trouble he causes.

Hughes, June, Elizabeth… Hell, he’d even convinced his own ex to testify on his behalf, when only four years earlier she’d been calling him a sociopath on the stand. If Peter hadn’t seen the negative test results himself after Neal’s first arrest, he’d almost wonder if there was a latent meta-gene at play…

“Well?” Diana says, leaning against Peter’s doorway with a stack of files in her arms. “What did Hughes say?”

Peter drops heavily into his chair. “I’ve been asked to personally thank the Waynes on behalf of the Bureau for their assistance in our investigation.” He manages to keep his skepticism to a reasonably manageable level, but Diana rolls her eyes regardless.

“Do you have the background I asked for?” Peter asks. “I want to go into this with as much info as possible.”

“Got you covered, Boss.” Diana passes him a folder from the pile under her arm, and Peter’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline at the thickness of it. “You want to be careful with this one, Peter,” she warns. “This guy has some serious juice.”

“Does he now,” Peter murmurs, taking the file from her. “And what’s his connection to Neal?”

Diana shrugs. “None, officially. But considering it’s Neal, I’d be surprised if he hasn’t stolen something from this guy— you should see his art collection.”

Obediently, Peter flips forward until he reaches the corresponding page and his eyebrows shoot up. He whistles. “Damn. Who is this guy, and why haven’t I ever heard of him before now?”

“You probably have,” Diana says, taking the file back and rifling through it until she reaches a collection of pictures all featuring a familiarly handsome, dark-haired man with a blindingly white smile and various models hanging off his arms, “You probably just don’t realize it. Wayne Enterprises isn’t as big of a name outside of Gotham as LexCorp, but they’ve got subsidiaries involved in everything from military technology to cosmetics. Plus about a billion different charities, most of them focused on Gotham. Apparently they’ve been the city’s biggest benefactors for generations.  This Wayne,” a careless gesture towards the photos, “inherited the whole empire after his parents died. He’s supposed to be a total idiot, though. You ever see that video of the drunk guy running away from some rich asshole’s pet cheetah, and then he fell off the roof?”

“No,” Peter says dubiously.

“Well, that was him. He also crashed a jet-ski into Lex Luthor’s personal yacht or something. He’s always in the news for something stupid.”

“Huh,” Peter says. He had seemed somewhat distractible—almost air-headed—during the interview Kramer’s people had conducted, prattling on about how he was only in town for some kind of charity event, and how long was this going to take, he had a date tonight that he just couldn’t miss…

“What about the kid?” he asks.

Diana gestures to the file Peter still holds in his hand. “His full name is Timothy Drake-Wayne. Probably just dropped the hyphen to mess with Kramer. His parents were archeologists or something, so they traveled a lot. A couple years ago, there was a botched kidnapping attempt while they were on one of their trips. The kid wasn’t with them. Mom was killed and dad was in a coma. Apparently, the kid stayed with Wayne for a while, until the dad woke up. And then, about— year and a half ago?—the dad gets murdered. The kid found him. Some luck, huh?”

“Some luck,” Peter agrees heavily.

“After that, the kid went back to Wayne, who adopted him for real this time. He’s some kind of prodigy, my friend who I was talking to says that all of WE’s stockholders are just waiting for him to turn 18 so that Wayne can name him CEO and go back to chasing supermodels.” 

Finished with her recitation, Diana regards him for a moment, a hint of concern carefully not visible in her eyes. 

“Peter, what’s this really about? Even Kramer admitted that he doesn’t think they were involved with Neal’s escape. Why are we still digging at this?”

Good old Diana. She’s always known him better than just about anyone. 

Except El, of course. 

And Neal. On a good day. When he’s thinking with his brain and not his sticky fingers.

And in return, Peter can say that he knows Neal Caffrey better than anyone except probably Mozzie (and maybe Kate, but… in death, Neal has all but canonized her. Not that he was much more clear-headed when she was alive, but whatever the truth of their relationship and Kate’s real priorities was, it died with her. Peter knows better than to salt a wound).

Peter knows Neal, has learned to parse the language of his body with as much accuracy as anyone ever has, and something about that day just doesn’t sit right with him.

Neal had been surprised. He hadn’t expected Kramer there— well, none of them had. He’d known something was wrong. Probably had guessed that Kramer hadn’t given up so easily. He’d been tensed, poised to run if Peter had given him the slightest signal, but… he hadn’t. 

He’d stood there, looking Peter in the eye and Peter would have sworn on every book of law and symbol of justice that he would not have run.

And then Bruce Wayne appeared like the bad proverbial penny, and Peter took his eyes off Neal for two seconds , and when he looked back, Neal was gone.

“Is there any proof that Neal might have met Bruce Wayne before?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

Diana stares at him for a moment then drops the file on the desk. “You tell me. On paper, Wayne looks like a perfect mark, but as far as we know, he and Neal have managed to never be in the same place at the same time. Half a dozen FBI agents—myself included—have been over Wayne and the kid with a fine-toothed comb. Nobody found anything to suggest a connection. But you already know all that, so what is it about this guy?”

Neal had been afraid. He’d been terrified .

Peter has seen Neal with a gun to his head looking less afraid.

Neal’s faced down mobsters and murderers, killers and psychopaths and never looked like that .

And he’d run.

He’d run, and not because he was afraid of Kramer or being arrested again or losing his shot at freedom. He’d seen Bruce Wayne, and he’d run. 

Just like that.

Gone.

Peter looks again at the photo in the file, at Wayne’s perfectly-coiffed hair and impeccable suit and impenetrable smile.

He doesn’t believe in coincidences.

“There’s just something strange about Mr. Wayne . Call it a gut feeling.”

The door is opened by a tall, dark-haired man in a fluffy white hotel robe.

“You’re not room service,” Wayne says, blinking at him.

“No,” Peter agrees. “I’m Special Agent Peter Burke, with the FBI. We met the other day?”

When your kid showed up at my partner’s hearing out of nowhere claiming that he was in danger.

Wayne blinks at him for another good thirty seconds before his expression melts into sheepish recognition. “That’s right! Agent, er— Brooks, you said?”

Peter forces a professional smile. “Burke,” he corrects. He does not think about the time that Neal had just about laughed himself sick at the old professor who kept blithely mangling his name during the kryptonite case. Doesn’t think about how hard Neal had fought to save some random kid from making his mistakes all over again. How hard Neal had fought to be more than just a criminal. How all that work has been obliterated, in one fell swoop.

Wayne has the grace to look chagrined. “Right! Agent Burke. Sorry, I’m a mess at remembering names, just ask my exes!” The smile that he flashes is charming and self-deprecating and entirely, unnervingly familiar.

He’s lying.

Peter has always had good instincts. Even without eight years spent studying Neal Caffrey, he knows when he’s being played, and Wayne has all the sincerity of a master liar.

He keeps his expression still. “Would it be alright if I came in for a moment?” he asks.

“Of course! Of course!” Wayne shuffles backwards so that Peter can squeeze through to the hotel room— or rather, suite . Peter has seen some opulent hotel rooms in his time, but this one just about takes the cake.

Must be nice to be a literal billionaire.

Peter’s gaze snags on a pair of red converse kicked half-under the crushed velvet settee. “Is your son here, too?” he asks.

“Oh, Timmy?” Wayne says. “I think he said he was going to take a shower… Is everything alright, Agent? Did you catch your man already?” His expression betrays nothing but vague curiosity and mild concern.

Peter tamps down the flash of irritation. “No, no leads quite yet.”

Even though Wayne keeps up his façade of disinterest, Peter can’t help but notice that the man’s gaze doesn’t leave him for even an instant.

“Oh,” Wayne says, scratching the back of his neck. “Well, I’m sorry we couldn’t be more help. Say— that other agent, he said that this guy actually killed someone?”

It’s fishing so obvious it’s practically covert. Still, Peter bristles. “Neal didn’t kill anyone.”

Wayne’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh! Right, of course, I apologize. Clearly I’ve misunderstood something here. The other agent made it sound like—”

“That agent was mistaken.”

“Of course, of course… You—”

“Bruce?” Peter hadn’t even noticed the kid sneak up on them, but suddenly he’s just there, hovering at Wayne’s elbow. He’s traded in the junior businessman suit for an oversized t-shirt and sweats that only emphasize how young he really is. There’s a towel draped across his bony shoulders, catching the drips from his still-damp hair.

Timothy Drake-Wayne glances between the two of them, and if Peter didn’t know better, he’d say the kid almost looks nervous .

“Agent Burke,” Timothy says, and Peter notes that he has no problem remembering his name correctly. “Has there been an update in the investigation?”

Even in casual clothes, there’s something very prim about the way the kid holds himself that’s completely at odds with his guardian’s careless persona. Peter can see why a corporate board might favor the wunderkind teenage heir over an apparent wastrel jetsetter.

“Not yet,” Peter admits. “We’ve still got our best people working on it, but… Neal’s always been a master at avoiding detection. There’s only so much for us to go on.”

“And what about—” Tim hesitates momentarily, eyes darting to his guardian. “What about the man who was killed? Have you found out anything new?”

Peter can’t help but glance at Wayne as well, but if the man has any objections to a federal agent discussing a brutal murder with his seventeen-year-old son, he doesn’t say a word.

“...There hasn’t been much progress there, either,” Peter admits. “Whoever did it didn’t leave much evidence behind.”

“Is Neal still a suspect?” The kid is straightforward about it, no hint of accusation.

“Officially, yes,” Peter sighs. “Unofficially, as DNA evidence goes, it’s pretty flimsy.” He really shouldn’t be sharing any details of an ongoing investigation, but if there’s a chance the kid knows something… “They were only able to identify a single viable sample of DNA near the body. If someone was trying to frame him, they did a pretty sloppy job.”

The kid nods thoughtfully, considering that. “I might not know much about crime scenes,” he says after a moment, fiddling with the ends of his towel, “but it seems like a pretty convenient coincidence that that other agent—Kramer—was able to find and test that one viable sample so quickly, and it just happened to match the man he was already looking to bring in.”

Peter wants to flinch from the implied accusation, but— the kid isn’t wrong. It is an uncomfortable coincidence, and another reason it was so easy for Hughes to get Kramer booted from the case.

“...We’re looking into it,” he says. “Right now, I’m more concerned about finding Neal before something else happens.” He almost hesitates to ask the next bit, but he’s come this far… “As far as we can tell, you were the last person to speak to him before the hearing. Do you have any idea—”

“Agent Burke,” Wayne interrupts, and though he’s still smiling, his eyes are chips of ice. “This is starting to sound like something our lawyers should be present for. I hope you’re not suggesting that our Timmy would withhold information from a federal investigation.”

Peter holds the kid’s gaze. “I’m not asking as an FBI agent. I’m asking as Neal’s friend. His partner.” He reaches for his wallet and draws out the picture that he keeps there, tucked away behind the photo of him and El on their most recent anniversary.

It’s just a little 2x3 print from the Dentist of Detroit case, when El had been so insistent on taking their “prom picture” before the sting. Ridiculously posed as it is, it’s clear to see the amusement and playfulness in Neal’s grin, and the fondness in his own smile. It’s one of Peter’s favorite memories of the two of them— three, if you count El snickering at them as she straightened their bowties and sent them off to their sting.

He holds it out to the kid, but to his surprise it’s Wayne who takes it from his hand and studies it intensely.

Weirdly intensely. Almost uncomfortably so.

“...All I want is to bring him home, safe,” Peter says, forcing his attention back to the kid. “I don’t know everything that’s going on here, but I know that I can’t let him face this alone. So if you know anything that might help…”

Tim bites his lip, watching his father still staring at the photo as if it holds the secrets of the universe. “I wish I did,” he says quietly. “But I don’t. I’m sorry, Agent Burke. I wish I could help.” There’s an undercurrent of emotion to the words, something deep and complicated, and Peter believes him.

It had been a long shot anyways.

“Thank you anyways,” he says, trying not to sound too defeated. He reaches into his pocket for a business card and a pen. “I was asked to let you know that you’re free to return to Gotham and we’ll contact you if there are any updates, but just in case, I want you to have my personal number. If you think of anything . Please. Reach out anytime.”

Tim takes the proffered card carefully. “I will.” He holds out a hand and Peter shakes it, mildly surprised by the strength in his bony grip.

He turns to the boy’s father. “Mr. Wayne?”

“Hmm?” He’s still holding the picture of the two of them in their tuxedos, smiling at the camera.

“I’ll need that back,” Peter says, trying to make it sound casual, lighthearted.

“Ah. Yes. Of course.”

For a second, he thinks that Wayne isn’t going to let go of the picture and it will just tear right in two. 

But then his grip relaxes and the photo slips through his fingers.

Peter makes the mistake of glancing up as he tucks the photo safely back in his wallet, and to his surprise, there’s something dark in the man’s expression. Something almost agonized.

And then he catches Peter looking and the moment of vulnerability is buried under a bland smile so familiar that the hair on the back of Peter’s neck stands on end.

Blue eyes, dark hair, a liar’s smile, it’s almost too much to be a coincidence… Is it possible that…? But no, Peter had seen the picture from the circus, and Neal hadn’t been lying about that, he’s sure of it… 

It’s Gotham. Somehow this—all of this—circles back to Gotham. Peter just can’t figure out how .

But there is one thing he’s sure of; he will find Neal. And when he does, his partner’s going to have a hell of a lot of questions to answer.

The investigation stalls.

Because of course it does. This is Neal ; he’s too good to leave tracks. Airports, train stations, ports— not a wink or a whisper. Not that Peter had ever expected anything.

When Peter’s team starts to receive new cases, he doesn’t argue. Just packs his notes into the trunk of the Taurus and sets up a new base of operations in his living room.

(El sighs, occasionally, when her dining room table disappears under files and maps and day-old coffee cups, but there’s no heat in it— she wants to see Neal home safe as much as any of them.)

Jones and Diana are invaluable beyond all measure; the first night, Peter doesn’t even have to ask. They show up together less than an hour after Peter leaves them at the office, bearing crime scene reports, corkboards, and cherry danishes. It’s nothing at all like the first time Peter spent chasing down Neal Caffrey, and yet it is because it’s Jones and Diana and they’re his people. The best people he could ever have asked for.

And really, it isn’t even the manhunt that’s the most frustrating part.

Even with Kramer out of the picture, the Walters case is still a snarl of red-tape, questionable forensics, and no answers. There were no witnesses who saw him leave his building, no physical evidence other than the single, carefully-placed sample of Neal’s DNA, no known enemies or grudges. No connection to Neal, either, as far as anyone can tell.

Except that Peter knows better— they’d ‘run together’, Neal had admitted as much. And when Peter had snuck a look at Walter’s file, his first stint in the pen had been in Gotham .

(It always comes back to Gotham.)

But that little detail of Neal’s past had never ended up in any official records. And for once, Peter thinks it might just be for the best.

And then there’s Wayne.

Officially, he is not a person of interest in Neal’s escape.

Officially, he is back in Gotham, doing whatever it is that airheaded playboy billionaires do .

Officially, digging into him any further than he already has would be very hazardous for Peter’s future with the FBI.

Officially.

Sometimes Peter wonders if Washington’s been pestering Hughes about retiring again— he hasn’t seen Reese this scrupulously deaf and blind to the goings-on in his own division since the Sumerian antiquities incident of ‘07.

The problem with Wayne is not a lack of information, but rather a deluge of it: financials from his dozens and hundreds of companies and subsidiaries and affiliates and investments; tabloids and newspaper articles and interviews and puff pieces; contracts and patents and paternity suits (all unsuccessful, Peter can’t help but note).

The oldest is a police report from almost forty years ago. Peter reads it carefully, and then places it aside. Sometimes even all the money in the world can’t shield someone from tragedy.

Peter is almost at the point of thinking that Bruce Wayne might actually be exactly what he seems—a rich, impulsive, but not completely inept businessman—when he finds the document buried among a stack of minor legal documents.

Petition for Adoption .

The name is not one he’s familiar with, but it strikes a chord nonetheless, as if he’s seen it somewhere before… he digs through the files with renewed zeal, searching, searching, until—

— there . A newspaper clipping about some gala or other that he’d just skimmed before, but it’s accompanied by a captioned photograph of Wayne waving vaguely towards the camera, his arm around the shoulders of a slight, dark-haired figure whose face is turned away.

Bruce Wayne attends Gotham Winter Gala with foster son! the caption exclaims.

Peter’s mouth feels dry. A memory jabs at him, insistent: the Burmese Ruby case, Wilson and his estranged son, Neal saying there was this guy, he was there when my parents died, he offered to foster me .

He—

Could—?

Peter opens his computer browser and types in Jason Wayne .

A few hours later, he wants to be sick.

It’s not Neal. Peter has never been so grateful that it’s not Neal.

The timeline’s off, for one; Jason Wayne, whoever he’d been, had been at least five or six years younger than even the most conservative estimates of Neal’s age (Peter knows better than to trust his birth certificate).

Jason Wayne is also very conclusively—and very gruesomely—dead.

Murdered, as part of a kidnapping-gone-wrong. Normally, the closed-casket funeral might have raised his eyebrows, but Peter makes a call to an old buddy who has a friend who knows someone whose sister has heard a few things, and apparently, this time there was no paid-off medical examiner or fake death certificate. There was an autopsy. Pictures. All the indisputable evidence a competent investigator could ever want.

Christ. He’d been fifteen .

Peter keeps reading. In addition to the coroner’s report, there are a handful of files from what seems to be Jason Wayne’s social worker, dating back from the day that the boy had been placed with Wayne as a temporary emergency foster placement. Peter’s attention is caught by a brief, oblique note questioning the appropriateness of the placement— some sort of issue with Wayne bypassing the usual procedures, a few heavy-handed hints that a jet-setting bachelor couldn’t possibly provide an appropriately stable environment for such a “volatile” child. 

Peter rolls his eyes at the note and turns the page with more force than strictly necessary.

Minutiae, minutiae… and then, buried among the chaff, a single passing comment. 

…considering previous foster experience, Mr. Wayne’s willingness to work with the Department of Child Services is somewhat surprising, but may have positive implications for…

The vagueness is infuriating. Implying that Wayne had had a previous foster kid? Or that Wayne himself may have briefly been involved with the foster system, possibly after his parents’ death? It’s impossible to tell, and if Peter didn’t know better, he’d swear that the glaring gaps in the records seem very much intentional.

But this time, no matter how many calls he makes, how many favors he calls in, there are only more dead-ends.

And in the end, there’s nothing to do but wait.

He’s in the car home after a long day of insurance fraud, fighting his way through rush-hour traffic, when Jones calls.

“There’s been an update,” he says.

“Neal,” Peter guesses, a surge of hope in his chest as his hands clench on the steering wheel. Neal’s too smart, too skilled, he hadn’t really had much hope, but—

“No,” Jones responds, and Peter’s heart drops, the little flare of hope flickering out. Of course not. That would be too easy. “It’s the Walters case. There’s been a new development. Peter, you sitting down?”

Doesn’t that sound promising.

“I’m sitting in my car, in the middle of traffic,” Peter hedges, tapping on the brakes just in time to avoid running over a little silver-haired babushka who’d decided that it was perfectly fine to jaywalk across four lanes of jam-packed traffic. 

“Can you pull over?”

“Not really.” Someone honks at him impatiently, and Peter forces himself to smile and raise a hand in acknowledgement as he maneuvers through the intersection.

He pulls his attention back to the conversation. “Is it really that bad?” he asks, only half-joking.

There’s a moment of very concerning silence and then, with a hint of gallows humor, “I suppose that depends on how you look at it.”

It’s bad.

Very bad.

Jones’ voice washes over him as Peter clenches his hands on the steering wheel and tries not to scream.

They’d found a connection to two more bodies, both unsolved, over the last eight months. Same M.O., but somehow even more gruesome— bodies left impaled on poles and fence posts to rot under the summer sun. Minimal defensive wounds, as though the victims had barely even had the chance to fight back. Signs of torture.

And each and every one fit the exact same profile: male, early- to mid-twenties, criminal record, all either born or raised in Gotham City, NJ.

(Peter tries not to think about who else fits that profile.)

One body is a tragedy. 

Two, a message.

Three, a serial killer.

“There’s more,” Jones says. “First couple cases were NYPD jurisdiction. Well, I got a buddy on the force, and he says about a month ago, a couple of capes show up asking about the case. Said they thought there might be a connection to something they’d been investigating.”

“Justice League?” Peter says, shocked. Again? The odds of getting involved in a Justice-League-level case once were astronomical— but twice?  

That’s a hell of a coincidence to swallow. Even for someone with Neal’s particular knack for trouble.

“Not them,” Jones says. “Birds of Prey. Independent team, showed up about four, five years ago. Women only. Diana’s a big fan. My buddy said they were pretty polite about it, asked to look around the crime scenes, but nothing much happened after that.”

Peter’s honestly not sure if that’s better or worse. “Did they say who it was? Any recognizable names?”

There’s a pause as Jones presumably shuffles through notes. “Here— he said it was ‘some purple chick with a crossbow, a really hot orange alien, and the girl Batman’ . Mean anything to you?”

Yes. No. Maybe.

“Batgirl was the one who helped rescue El from Keller,” he recalls, knuckles itching at the memory. “Could be a coincidence.”

“Lot of those going ‘round,” Jones comments grimly, and Peter can’t help but agree.

The only bright side—if it can even be called that—is that even Kramer’s people have admitted that Neal is no longer the primary suspect, given that the first two murders took place outside of his radius during periods in which he was under the direct supervision of the FBI in general and Peter in specific.

It would be more reassuring to know that Neal’s name is being cleared if it weren’t for the fact that it means he’s most likely the real killer’s next target.

The rest of his drive home is brooding and distracted, and it’s only pure luck and years of making this drive on autopilot that keeps him from driving off a bridge.

The house is empty when he walks in; it’s El’s turn to take Satchmo in to the vet for his yearly check-ups, and knowing how much of a scaredy-cat Satch is when it comes to shots, the appointment will probably end up taking twice as long as it’s supposed to.

He throws his jacket across a chair and wanders over to peek in the refrigerator. No sign that El had started something for dinner yet. Peter considers calling out for Thai—maybe that place with the good satay, El loves the yellow curry…

He’s just going for the drawer where they keep the take-out menus when his elbow bumps the stack of mail that El must have left on the counter before leaving with Satch. He manages to catch most of it before bills and flyers go flying across the kitchen floor, but one piece escapes him and flutters down to rest on the hardwood.

Peter bends down to pick it up and frowns. Strange. He can’t think of anyone who’d be sending them a postcard recently.

On one side is a print of an oil painting that Peter doesn’t recognize—a still life, but one of the disturbing ones, with a little songbird hung up by its foot and a handful of red berries like drops of ruby blood. Unsettling.

The back of the postcard has no return address, no signature, no sign of who might have sent it. Just a single string of characters printed in bold black ink:

14°55′N 23°31′W

Coordinates. Latitude and longitude.

Peter knows enough off the top of his head to recognize that it’s not a location in the Americas, but for anything more than that, he has to pull up an atlas.

There. Fourteen degrees, fifty-five minutes north, twenty-three degrees, thirty-one minutes west. Cape Verde, off the coast of Africa. 1,500 square miles, population of about half a million people… and no extradition treaty with the U.S.

A fugitive’s paradise.

Neal .

He thinks again of that first moment where Neal could have run and didn’t . Sharing his past when he could have left it a mystery. 

Is that what’s happening here? Is this Neal, extending a hand? Could it be that for once in his life, Neal Caffrey is actually asking for help?

And if he is… how bad is it, really? How deep does this mess go, and how is Neal tied up in it?

Always questions. Never answers.

Peter pulls out his phone.

“Jones? How fast can we get me a flight to Africa?”

Chapter Text

He learned to fly before he learned to walk.

The smooth flex of his fingers against the bar, the faint grittiness of the chalk on his palms that radiates all the way up to his teeth— these things are as familiar to him as the breath in his lungs.

It’s easy as thought to mount, kicking up until he’s holding himself up on straight arms, bar pressing against the jut of his hips.

He takes a moment to breathe, there. Breathing is important, his dad had taught him. Control your breath, control your body.

Push backwards; for a moment, you’re a perfect right angle in midair and then gravity kicks in and swings you down and out in a long, smooth arc. Follow that momentum; swing up, up, over the top of the bar. Again. Hold at the apex.

Legs spread out in a horizontal splits (a good stretch, but Holy Hamstrings, Batman, he’s out of practice) and then tuck and swing, at the top of the arc, release and double somersault in midair—catch the bar on the way back down.

Now, reverse grip. Think Ginger Rogers; backwards and in heels . Add some flair— a twist here, a flip there. Listen to the crowd roar. Smile. Make it look easy .

There’s sweat plastering his shirt to his sides, his arms are screaming at him with the strain, but he breathes through it because this is what it means to be alive .

Still, every show must come to an end. And there’s only one grand finale that could ever be worthy.

He lets himself swing, building momentum. He needs every ounce of inertia he can get.

His pulse beats in his ears like a full house on opening night. This is it. This is his blood and breath and bone. His DNA. Here, in this moment.

He releases at the very top of his swing, tucks his body in as tight as it will go for maximum altitude, and lets himself spin.

One—

Two—

Three—

Four .

The Grayson signature. The quadruple somersault.

He sticks the landing.

For a moment there’s nothing in the world but the trembling of his muscles and the ragged heave of breath in his lungs. Then, slowly, he becomes aware that the sounds of his own head are echoed in the real world— a single set of hands, clapping exaggeratedly.

“You know,” Mozzie says from the cabana’s door, “when most people retire to tropical paradises as literal millionaires, they take it as an opportunity to relax . Not start flipping around like Nadia Comaneci.”

Neal straightens up slowly, keeping his face tilted away so that Mozzie can’t see the grin twitching at his lips. A month ago, when he’d first had the bars and equipment installed in the villa over Mozzie’s bemused protests, he wouldn’t have been able to land a double somersault dismount, never mind the quadruple. Now—

Well, he may not be ready to start backflipping off rooftops, but he’s getting there. Slowly.

After all, he has plenty of time to practice, out here in this tropical paradise, no more cases or cons or crime sprees to distract him. Just endless, unbroken time to relax .

(He’s not sure he’s ever tried relaxing before. Not like this, with no end in sight. It’s… an adjustment.)

It’s been a little more than a month now, since they arrived in Cape Verde. Or rather, since “Barry” and “James” had arrived in Cape Verde, two rich American expats who’d decided to cash in on their financial success and live out the rest of their days with white sand and island breeze.

“You know, your little pastime is endangering our covers,” Mozzie complains, topping up his mimosa’s two tablespoons of orange juice with a good half-cup of champagne.

Neal—James—shoots him an amused look. “Are you telling me I’m too weird for an eccentric millionaire?” he asks.

Mozzie waggles a paper umbrella at him demonstratively. “‘No one,’” he pronounces solemnly, “‘can be profoundly original who does not avoid eccentricity.’ Andre Maurois.”

“‘A civilized society is one which tolerates eccentricity to the point of doubtful sanity,’” Neal shoots back. “Robert Frost.”

Mozzie harrumphs , draining his glass. “Civilized society is overrated. And anyways, if you need a hobby so badly, why don’t you pick up your painting again?”

Neal makes a face. He doesn’t know how to explain the sick swoop that clutched his stomach every time he’s tried picking up a brush or a pencil since they’d… left New York.

Maybe it’s not so surprising. Painting—art—had belonged to Neal Caffrey and his Devore suits and $2 million loft and the smell of New York City in the summer.

But he’s left that mask behind; no more conman extraordinaire, no more FBI consultant. Now he’s just James Maine, eccentric millionaire with a passion for gymnastics, living only to please himself in the cradle of paradise.

(except that he hasn’t quite been able to break the habit of thinking of himself as ‘Neal’)

(except that he still catches himself looking over his shoulder to share a knowing glance with his partner, only to find that no one is there)

(except that he’s barely touched a bar in ten years, and he still isn’t sure what possessed him to install a full gym in a beachside villa and work himself until his arms are jelly)

(they say that stress is the number one trigger for relapse— is that what this is? Is he falling back into old habits? Seeing Him there, in person, less than a dozen meters away— maybe it’s not so surprising after all that he’s running old patterns.)

“Maybe I’m just waiting for inspiration,” Neal deflects.

“Right,” Mozzie says, unconvinced. “And I’m sure this little fitness kick has nothing to do with catching the eye of a certain señorita down at the café?”

Okay, now that one actually is unfair.

“I’m not working out for a girl,” he denies, indignant. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh?” Mozzie says, raising an exaggeratedly challenging eyebrow. “So you’re not off to the café to show off your post-exercise orgasmic glow?”

As a matter of fact, he had been thinking he might head over to the café for something cool and refreshing to drink, but—

“Post-exercise orgasmic glow’?” he echoes, somewhere between horrified and dumbfounded. “I’m literally dripping with sweat right now.”

“Oh, trust me, they notice ,” Mozzie intones with a hint of pouting jealousy, tipping back the rest of his mimosa.

Neal can’t help but laugh, and a bit more of the dark cloud shifts from his heart. Mozzie is a good friend— the best. When Neal had shown up at his door, shaking, anklet-less, and said that they had to run now , Mozzie had already had their go-bags in hand. He hadn’t said a word about Neal’s sudden paranoia, his insistence on switching planes twice, the way he’d flinched every time a stranger came too close.

Not a word.

Because for Mozzie, it doesn’t matter . It was time to run, so they ran. Mozzie is a survivor. He’s had to run as many times as Neal, if not more; he knows what it feels like, that desperation. When you run, you run . You don’t look back.

That’s how they catch you.

Mozzie has his glass tipped practically upside down now, shaking out the last drops of champagne. For a moment, it looks like he might go back for a top-up, but the champagne bottle is empty. He humphs at the injustice of such a thing.

“You know, if you’re so worried about me blowing our cover and seducing innocent café girls, you could always come with,” Neal offers, amused.

Mozzie affects a superior expression, but his rings clink-clink-clink against the side of his empty glass. “I could do that,” he allows. “It’s my responsibility to make sure our covers are secure, after all.”

“Of course,” Neal says with all due graveness. “Give me two minutes to clean up, and we can head down.”

He’s true to his word; it takes him little time to clean off the worst of the sweat and swap into a light linen shirt and capris— it feels almost strange not to wear a suit anymore, but a full three-piece (with vest) would stand out on a tropical island like Cape Verde. So resort-casual it is.

(He’s not sure he likes how young it makes him look— He’s been suave, mature Neal Caffrey for so long that sometimes he forgets that Dick Grayson is only halfway through his twenties. If he forgoes the hat, ruffles his hair down a little bit, he could pass for an undergrad. It’s uncomfortable.

The hint of scruff he’s been growing helps somewhat, but— Well. It is what it is.)

The café is an open, airy refuge from the encroaching midday heat. Mozzie positions himself at a table right in front of one of the asmathically whirring fans and immediately orders himself a daiquiri with extra ice.

Neal, however, chooses to make his way to the bar, where a particular dark-eyed señorita is attacking glasses with a well-worn rag.

“ Buenos días, Maya,” he says charmingly, leaning an elbow on the bartop. “ ¿Cómo estás? How’s business?”

The café’s proprietress glances up at him, making a good show of disinterested surprise. “Oh. It’s you again.”

Neal leans farther across the bartop, pulling out his most heartbroken look. “That’s all I get? Not even a hello?” He widens his eyes pathetically.

Maya returns the look from beneath dark lashes, her lips pulling up in reluctant amusement. “Hello, Olympics.”

Somewhere behind them, Mozzie snorts, and Neal scowls at him briefly. Turning his attention back to Maya, he says, “You know, you could just use my name. You don’t always have to call me Olympics.”

“Why not?” Maya raises an eyebrow. “All I know about you is that you’re from New York, and the first thing you did when you got here was build yourself a gymnastics room fit for un olímpico . So why shouldn’t I call you señor Olympics? It’s honest, at least.”

“I’m honest,” Neal protests. “Open book. Ask me anything.”

Maya levels him with a look. “Why did you leave New York?”

Ouch, bad place to start. “To live here,” he says easily. “In paradise.”

It’s not untrue , after all.

Maya scoffs, flicking her rag. “I'm sorry, Olympics. Your open book is a work of fiction.”

“Maya,” he wheedles, but she’s already stepping away to fetch a new round of glasses.

“One moment of honesty,” she says as she passes him by. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Neal watches her go with mixed feelings. On the one hand, it really isn’t a good time to go looking for a relationship— he’d meant what he’d said to Mozzie, it’s really not like that between him and Maya.

But at the same time… He can’t help but like her. And besides, that’s the way that he relates to pretty much everyone, by flirting. It’s just instinctive. A knee-jerk reaction.

(Although he is usually accustomed to a slightly more… receptive response.)

It’s harmless, is the point. 

Mozzie still gives him a very superior, told-you-so look when Maya finishes dropping off his refilled daiquiri. 

All in all, it’s shaping up to be just another typical day in paradise. And it might have stayed that way if little Hector hadn’t chosen that moment to come rushing into the café, crying, “ ¡Señor Maine! ¡Señor Soetoro! ”

“Hector?” Neal says, surprised. “What’s happened, are you alright? ¿Estás bien? Did Brody do something again?”

It had been a few weeks since Neal had quietly dealt with the jerk who’d found it funny to steal fruit from an eleven-year-old’s fruit stand without paying, but he hadn’t thought that the man would come back. If he’s harassing Hector again—

“No, no!” Hector is breathless, like he’d run all the way here, but he doesn’t seem particularly upset. More excited than anything, in the way of little boys on a mission. “There is a man! I see him in town, he is asking for you— just like señor Soetoro says! Un americano. ”

Neal freezes.

Shit.  

It’s— He’s not supposed to be able to find them here, they’d taken every precaution, they have no digital presence, no links to their pasts, there’s no way —

“Where is he now?” Mozzie demands, and then Hector is dragging them both by the sleeves, out of the café—Neal manages to remember himself long enough to throw down some money for their drinks—and down towards where the market is always held on weekends.

“How do you think he found us?” Mozzie says, panting slightly as they dash down the winding alleys and sidestreets in Hector’s wake. “You’re sure he hasn’t injected you with some kind of subdermal tracker? I’ve heard Langley is developing some that are completely undetectable, all they have to do is stick you and, bam , you’re permanently tagged. Do you think the Suit had access?”

“You think it’s Peter? ” Neal says disbelievingly. “No way. Peter’s good, but even he’s not that good.”

“You think it’s someone else?” There’s an edge of nervousness to the words, and Neal is reminded again that they haven’t really… talked… about what had sparked their sudden flight from New York. Not about Bruce Wayne, or Kramer, or the dead V.A. members that Neal hasn’t really let himself think about much.

Really, he’d been careless; he’d become so used to thinking of running as the answer to every problem, that he hadn’t considered what would happen if those problems followed him. In doing so, he’s left Mozzie ignorant of the dangers.

“Moz,” he says, guilt tingling like a collar around his neck. “I should have told you before. There was— Something happened, before the commutation. I didn’t mean to keep it from you, it was just that with everything that was happening— It was all so fast, and then we were here , and I didn’t want to… But I really should have told you, because we—”

“ ¡Señor Maine, señor Maine! He is there! ¡Ese es el hombre!”

Hector’s voice pierces through his concentration and Neal whips around, focusing on—

Brown hair. Strong jaw. Broad hands that Neal knows almost as well as he knows his own. An expression of slightly overwhelmed determination, like he’s not quite sure how he got here, but he knows what he’s not leaving without.

Peter.

“I guess he really is that good,” Mozzie says, sounding almost indignant about it. “How’d he find us? Did you tell him?”

“What? No!” Neal says, not quite over his own shock. “I’m not stupid!”

Peter can’t see them from his position in the middle of the square. He seems to be deep in conversation with Ana Luísa, the sweet old lady who runs the local tailor shop with her wife and three daughters. He’s showing her a picture of something, and even though Neal can’t make it out from this distance, there’s only one person Peter possibly could be looking for, here of all places.

“Great,” he says out loud. “There goes our retirement.”

“Ana Luísa’s no snitch!” Mozzie protests. “I already agreed to loan her and Marianita the guest house for their anniversario, there’s no way she’d give us up!” 

As he speaks, Ana Luísa smiles widely and reaches up to pat Peter’s cheek once before pointing down towards the beach— and their villa.

“So much for loyalty,” Neal mutters, but he can’t feel any annoyance towards the old woman. He knows from experience that she hasn’t got a mean bone in her body. He’s not sure what Peter would have told her, but he can imagine she would be only too pleased to answer his questions if she thought that she was helping that nice young señor James reunite with an old friend.

Well. If a reunion is inevitable, might as well have it on their terms.

He turns to the kid.

“Hey, Hector. ¿Sabes cómo pickpocket ? ”

— — —

One stolen wallet, foot chase, and surprisingly teary hug later, Neal and Mozzie find themselves once more seated around a table at Maya’s café, albeit this time with a third—and rather unexpected—member to their party.

“Not that it’s not great to see you, but how did you even find me?”

Peter looks surprised. And… confused. Like it’s a strange question to ask. “You told me.”

“What? No, I didn’t!” He’s definitive on that— he’d been so careful not to leave any kind of trail. No clues for the Detective to follow.

But Peter… Peter’s brow is carving deeper and deeper furrows. “You sent me a postcard,” he says, and it’s almost a question.

“No, I didn’t,” Neal says again, but this time, it’s tempered with uneasiness. “Peter, I never sent you anything.”

Peter looks at him for a moment, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out something in a thin plastic sleeve. Neal takes it from him without prompting.

The card is on the smaller side, heavy card-stock whose edges have already started to wear smooth from nervous handling. The front is a still-life in mostly neutral tones, with brief splashes of bright color to draw the eye. The reverse has printed lines for a return address, but they sit empty; the only writing on the card is Peter’s address and two words: Cape Verde .

He doesn’t recognize the handwriting, but that doesn’t mean much.

“No postmark,” he observes. “This was hand delivered.”

“I thought maybe you asked June or some other… friend to drop it off,” Peter says, watching him like a hawk. “For plausible deniability.”

That did sound like something he might do, but—

“I didn’t,” he says, turning the card over to reveal the painting once more. It’s one that Neal recognizes, though the artist is likely not as well known to someone like Peter. Jean-Baptiste Oudry’s Nature morte avec oiseaux morts et cerises .

Or, in English: Still life with dead birds and cherries.

A chill runs down his spine.

“If this wasn’t you,” Peter says, “then who?”

“I don’t know,” Neal admits.

“Who knew where you were?” Peter presses.

“No one.”