Chapter Text
Peter headed up to Neal’s flat and looked down at the tracking information displayed on his phone for the seventeenth time since the incident last night. Nothing had happened. Neal left the office, went home--presumably in a cab if the speed at which he traveled was any indication--and stayed there all night. Nothing weird had happened at all. Not even the slightest flicker. Neal got home, tracker moved around the house for a couple minutes, and then it settled in the middle of the property and hadn’t moved since. There wasn’t anything to be worried about, right?
But Neal never stayed that still for that long… Due to the late night, they were coming into work late as well. It was 10:30 in the morning and Neal still hadn’t moved. It’d been nearly twelve hours. And the last time Peter saw Neal he had been acting weird and walked out of the building with a known and dangerous vigilante .
What if the vigilante needed something from Neal? What if they’d found a way to get the anklet off without tripping any alarms or causing any flickers? The man had mentioned he had a history involving hacking government systems, what if he looped their tracking feed and cut the anklet?
...what if they hadn’t?
What if the reason Neal hadn’t moved in twelve hours was because this masked man had killed him and left his body for the feds? The tracking device didn’t need to be on a live ankle to work. It could be on a corpse just as easily.
Peter felt the blood drain from his face at the thought and quickened his step. He reached Neal’s door a moment later and rapped three times, praying for an answer from his friend before it was too late. If it wasn’t already. All of the horrible scenarios he’d thought of involved not getting an answer to his knock.
He couldn’t wait. He grabbed the handle and pushed the door open, pulling out his gun in the same movement--just in case.
The kitchen was empty, no signs of breakfast being made or having been made like normal, no dishes poking out of the sink or cups on the table. The closet door was closed like he hadn’t been in there yet today--and that was so unlike Neal, Peter wanted to puke. Neal had never failed to be fully dressed and ready by the time Peter arrived.
He took another step into the flat, spinning toward the empty living area and the bed beyond it when he froze.
There was a lump in the bed.
And it was breathing.
Peter let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and lowered his gun. Breathing didn’t mean he wasn’t drugged or this wasn’t some kind of trap--especially if he didn’t know where the vigilante was--but it at least meant he was alive and here. And Peter could be grateful for that. Though he still had no idea why Neal would still be asleep by now, he’d never slept in this late before. Even on Saturdays when Peter stopped by, the man was always longsince up and offering Peter food. But at least he was alive.
Peter moved closer to the bed, pushing his panic down far enough to clear his head and get a good look at his friend.
Only now it was obvious the lump on the bed wasn’t just one body.
One was obviously Neal, though he looked so much younger than he normally did, almost like Peter had never really seen his face before. Makeup, maybe? That would explain why Neal was never around him without being totally ready for the day. Though Peter felt like the world’s worst detective and worst friend for not noticing if that were the case. But Neal had his arms wrapped around a second figure--a boy, he couldn’t be over eighteen yet, just a child. And the kid was practically drowning in Neal’s bulkier form, almost totally hidden where he laid between the man’s shoulders, his head on Neal’s bicep instead of a pillow.
That couldn’t be the vigilante from last night, could it? He was so young. So small. The vigilante was renowned for his work with and for the Justice League, he had led the Teen Titans for years and was even rumored to have brought Batman back from the dead. At least that’s what Peter’s late night internet search had told him after he got home last night. But this… This was just a child. A literal child. The vigilante was powerful and commanding, respected by every member of the JLA and one of Batman’s most trusted partners, this kid was just… Small. He looked tired. Sad, almost. He couldn’t be the same person, there was no way.
But Neal… Neal was curled protectively around the kid just like he had with the vigilante last night. As if the non-violent Neal Caffrey could protect such a daunting vigilante should anything happen.
Peter glanced back up at Neal’s sleeping face and nearly jumped out of his skin when he caught Neal’s eye.
The con-man was glaring at him.
When had he even woken up?! There had been no shift, no stirring, no indication of any kind that the man had gone from unconscious to alert. And what was with the look in his eyes? Like Peter shouldn’t be here and would be dead if he took another step forward. Whatever it was, it was making Peter second guess his stance on Neal being helpless to protect the kid in his arms.
He started to open his mouth to tell Neal he needed to get up so they could get to work but Neal cut him off, so quiet Peter could only just barely make out the words.
“I’m not moving, Peter. Not until he wakes up.”
And that didn’t sound like the voice of someone who had just woken up.
“He’s not waking up alone.”
And that… There was something chillingly final about the words. Like there was absolutely nothing Peter could threaten Neal with to make him bat an eye. And there was something else in his voice that was heartbreakingly sad. Like there was far more to this than Peter could imagine. Maybe the kid really was the vigilante. Behind all the badass and responsibility, maybe he was just a touch starved, suicidal kid.
And for some reason, that kid had trusted Neal with that information. That piece of his soul. For some reason he’d come to Neal--even if by accident, he’d still accepted the help the CI offered--instead of anyone else in the kid’s life. These two either had a history longer than anything Peter had dared to imagine or the kid had a heartbreaking number of people in his life who loved him.
Maybe it was both.
Peter sighed and holstered his gun before sitting down on the couch to wait. Neal clearly wasn’t moving or giving any sort of explanation until the kid woke up so Peter didn’t see as he had much of a choice but to wait. Even if Neal was throwing him a murderous look for sticking around. Neal was making him late for work and his friend busted up their conference room window, even if he had led them straight to their target. Peter was owed an explanation and he wasn’t leaving til he got it.
He didn’t have to wait long though, he’d barely finished sitting down before the kid shifted and Neal finally pulled his murderous eyes away from Peter to turn a soft look down at the kid.
The kid rolled over--Neal loosening his grip just enough to allow mobility--before he blinked his eyes open and looked up at the CI.
“Morning, Baby Bird,” Neal smiled and muttered softly, barely loud enough for Peter to hear. And that smile… It wasn’t the signature Neal Caffrey grin or the smirk he sometimes wore when pulling off a particularly satisfying con, no, this was genuine. As if it held more of Neal’s soul than the man had ever let him see before.
The kid shifted to rub a hand over his face, blinking several times and looking like a zombie compared to the man beside him. “Jason…?” he mumbled in question after a long moment.
And Peter froze. Jason . The vigilante had called Neal “Jay” last night. Maybe it was a nickname. Maybe Jason was his real name. It felt so impossible to hear the con-man’s real name, after all this time it went against every instinct Peter had. Like Neal’s real name would be one of those things that followed him to his grave.
Peter was so shocked he nearly didn’t catch the next thing the teen mumbled.
“What’re you doing back home? Thought you were undercover in New York...”
Home? Did they live together? What were they to each other? And wait, undercover? Undercover where? Neal was working with the FBI, sure, he ran undercover missions on a monthly basis, but that wasn’t like he was constantly undercover like the question suggested. And besides that, what did being in New York have to do with being undercover? As if the only reason he was in New York was because he was undercover. But he was an informant for the FBI, that was why he was in New York. That and being on leave from prison . It wasn’t like he’d just come here on a whim, he hadn’t left the state in nearly six years.
Unless…
Unless for some reason, somehow , he was in New York because he was undercover. Unless, somehow, all of his jail time had been a ploy to get into the FBI. Peter had always suspected there was another angle to his escape besides Kate. And the thought that he was only here to infiltrate the Bureau made Peter sick. He trusted Neal. It had to be something else. It had to be.
Neal laughed at the kid’s words, light and fond in a way Peter had never heard.
“Wow, Replacement, you’re still asleep.”
Neal shifted, sitting up and gathering the kid in his arms, but Peter was still catching up. Replacement. Wasn’t that what Neal had called the vigilante last night? That and “Baby Bird,” which had also been repeated this morning… The kid really was the vigilante…
Neal was pulling back the covers and standing, the kid still half asleep in his arms. They were both shirtless, but Neal wore a pair of sweatpants and the kid had a pair of basketball shorts that looked several sizes too big. But as Neal shifted past Peter on the way to the kitchen, all thoughts of their clothing slipped from Peter’s mind.
They were scarred. Both of them. Every bit of exposed skin was covered in white jagged marks. Bullet holes and knife wounds. There had to be hundreds. Some of the kid’s scars looked more recent and in various stages of healing, but all of Neal’s had turned fully to scars.
The vigilante made sense. Horrifying, and it made Peter want to puke, especially seeing that on a body so young, but it made sense. The kid had been doing this for years, not all fights ended without a scratch. But Neal? Where had Neal gotten his scars? Why had he gotten his scars? It explained why Peter never saw the con-man without his suits, sleeves all the way down to his arms. And maybe it explained why Neal was non-violent, but it was sickening nonetheless.
Just when Peter thought it couldn’t get worse, Neal passed him, leaving his back exposed, and revealing a labyrinth of scars spanning his shoulders and dripping down his back. It looked like a whip. And there wasn’t a single patch of unmarred skin. Exactly what had Neal gone through…?
Neal made it to the counter and shifted his cargo, setting the kid down on his feet, but he kept one arm wrapped around the kid’s shoulders, keeping him close.
“So what’ll it be? Eggs and bacon? Pancakes? Biscuits and gravy?”
The kid just grunted, burying his face in Neal’s torso. “Coffee.”
Neal stopped what he was doing at the counter and turned a totally unamused expression toward the kid. Not that the latter could see it with his face buried. Peter could barely see it from his place on the couch. Neal continued to stare for several more moments before sighing and pulling out the coffee grounds.
“I know, Replacement. That was a given. But what do you want for food ?”
The kid only grunted again like he didn’t care at all and Neal just sighed. He stood still for a moment as he decided before pulling out a frying pan, eggs, cheese, and some chopped peppers and bacon. He proceeded to make an omelet, entirely one handed--including cracking the eggs, which Peter had to admit was impressive--as the other hand was busy hugging the kid.
It would take him several minutes before anything was done, but Peter couldn’t bring himself to move. There was far too much to unpack here. Far too much to catch up on and Peter’s mind was reeling. Neal’s name was Jason. The vigilante from last night was literally a child and he was touch starved and suicidal. Neal was absolutely covered in scars that he’d somehow hid from Peter for years. There was also a chance Neal had been playing Peter and everyone in the FBI and was working for someone else. And Neal knew the vigilante. Somehow. They were close. The vigilante trusted Neal. Apparently with his life. And the vigilante was also covered in scars.
Wait, what if they were connected? The kid had mentioned “home” like they shared it. What if Neal was a vigilante too and the reason he was covered in as many scars as the kid was because they ran similar lifestyles? And none of Neal’s scars were as recent, what if he was non-violent because he got tired of that life and wanted something more peaceful? Maybe that’s what being “undercover” meant. Maybe he was just looking for a new life.
“Peter?”
He snapped back at Neal’s question, realizing he must have zoned out. The kid was sitting at the table with a steaming cup of coffee and a so far untouched omelet in front of him with another omelet and a glass of juice beside him as Neal pulled yet a third omelet off the frying pan and turned off the heat.
“You hungry?”
Right. A third omelet. Neal must have made one for him.
He wasn’t sure if he could stomach anything after the rollercoaster this morning had been, but El had left earlier this morning as he was going in late and he’d forgotten to grab something out of worry on his way out. Besides, it would be rude to pass up.
“I… Yeah,” he sighed, running a hand over his face as he stood. “That’d be great. Thanks, Neal.” He moved toward the kitchen, pulling a chair away from the table in the seat across from the kid--who was staring at him from over his coffee mug. Peter tried to ignore it and looked up when Neal set the omelet and another mug of coffee in front of him, but as his eyes trailed over his friend’s torso, he froze.
Not only was Neal’s chest and abdomen every bit as scarred and torn up as his back, but there was a Y shaped scar from his shoulders to his navel. Even in the White Collar division, Peter had seen enough bodies and autopsy reports to recognize the scar. And he’d never heard of it being done to a live subject. Which meant Neal had either been horrifically tortured, or he’d died . If Peter was right about him being an ex-vigilante, death and resurrection wasn’t as far-fetched as he’d like it to be.
“Peter,” Neal smirked, tearing Peter’s attention from the scars across his friend’s body. “My eyes are up here.”
Right, of course. Neal had spent years hiding this from Peter, it was extremely unlikely he appreciated staring. Though a second glance at the man’s face made it clear it was more of a joke than anything else. Unsurprisingly, Peter couldn’t find it in himself to laugh.
Neal pulled his chair out from the table and scooted it closer to the kid’s before sitting down and draping his arm over the kid’s shoulder, pulling him into his side. The younger melted the smallest bit into the touch, but continued glaring at Peter as he slurped at his coffee. Which, judging by the slightly more alert look in the kid’s eyes, may or may not have been his first cup… But Peter had zoned out and couldn’t tell for sure.
No one spoke for the next several moments as Neal ate his omelet and Peter tried to work up the appetite to stomach his. And the kid just kept staring. So Peter stared back. Whether out of a challenge, fear, or some sort of hypnotism, Peter wasn’t sure he could tell…
Neal finally drew his attention as he laughed, taking a sip of his orange juice. Wait, when had he not been a coffee drinker? Was that another thing Peter hadn’t noticed? Exactly how terrible of a friend, handler, and agent was he?
Neal smiled and shook his head as he set the glass down. “So, Peter.”
He finally broke the silence, for which Peter was immensely grateful.
“I’d like you to meet my little brother, Tim. Tim, say hi to Peter.”
“Tim” did nothing of the sort, only narrowing his eyes and glaring harder. As if he could see straight through to Peter’s soul. It was extremely unnerving and almost made Peter forget that Neal had introduced the kid as his little brother.
Brother.
Peter didn’t know Neal had family. Though if his family were all vigilantes that would kind of make sense that he didn’t want them known. But this was his brother. Supposedly. There was so much to unpack there. Were they related biologically? Was this some sort of gang type situation where they were all “brothers”? How many others were there? Was Tim even his real name or was that some sort of alias? It had to be fake, the Red Robin would never just let his name be thrown out there like that.
...right?
Well he needed to say something, the silence was stretching. This seemed like as good a question as any.
“You’re just… Giving me the name of a Gotham vigilante?”
Neal gasped in shock and spun around as if looking for something. And nearly giving Peter a heart attack at the thought of more danger he missed.
“A Gotham vigilante?! Where?!”
What was he, twelve?
Peter forced his panic down and leveled Neal with a look. “Come on, Neal, how stupid do you think I am?”
The kid quirked an eyebrow as if to say something, but Neal poked him to shut him up before answering himself, mustering all the fake sincerity he could. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Peter. This is my little brother, Tim, and there’s no one else here. I don’t see any vigilantes, do you, Timmy?”
He turned to look down at the kid as he asked the question and the kid slowly shook his head, his eyes never leaving Peter from over the top of his mug as he did.
Fine. Peter could play along with this. He didn’t have any solid evidence proving the kid was the vigilante, even if it was obvious. Obvious without proof wouldn’t hold in the eyes of the law, even if there was anything Peter could--or wanted to--bring the kid in on. He was just a kid, after all, and he’d saved the world from countless threats. Being an alleged vigilante was a law Peter could overlook for now.
He sighed and finally took a bite of his omelet. And wow, that was good. He kept forgetting just how great a cook Neal was. Good thing, too, as it helped him stomach the food when a minute ago he hadn’t been sure he could bring himself to swallow. He let himself focus on the food for a minute, noting every flavor and trying to pick out what sort of spices Neal had used. Salt, pepper, maybe a bit of paprika and something else he definitely couldn’t place his finger on. Tasted vaguely familiar but he couldn’t quite remember…
He knew he was just avoiding the issues currently sitting across from him but he needed time to think and every time he tried to think sitting in this apartment across from a child vigilante and an ex-child vigilante, something else came up to knock the air out of him and stop him in the middle of his thoughts.
“Little Wing!!”
As if on cue, someone shouted from behind him--even though the doors to the balcony were shut a few minutes ago and he hadn’t heard them open--and nearly gave him a heart attack. Peter started to turn but before he could so much as pull his fork away from his mouth, a black and blue blur dove over his head and across the table, headed straight for Neal.
Everything seemed to slow down for a moment and Peter saw Tim shift, pulling just far enough away from Neal to be out of the path of the oncoming blur, as Neal himself scrambled for safety right before being hit square in the chest and falling backward behind the table out of Peter’s view.
Great, now Neal was being attacked by a flying blur. It was only 11:00AM and this day couldn’t get any weirder.
Peter jumped to his feet anyway, hand on his gun, peering over the edge of the table. Neal was sprawled over the floor frantically smacking at what was apparently the black and blue blur but was actually a man in a skintight suit and mask, clinging to Neal with every limb he had and grinning like a lost puppy.
“Ge’ off of me, Dickface!!” Neal shouted at the figure--Nightwing, if Peter was remembering correctly from his research last night--and attempted to squirm out of his grasp. Which was proving more difficult than it looked as the man had one and a half of Neal’s arms pinned to his sides and his legs locked together.
And Peter found he couldn’t move, unable to figure out if he should be helping or not. He couldn’t even figure out what was going on.
Tim spared a total of one glance at the men wrestling on the floor before grabbing a newspaper from the end of the table, rolling it up, and handing it down to Neal’s one partially free hand. Which Neal used to repeatedly smack the older vigilante over the head as Tim went back to sipping his coffee and eating small bits of his omelet as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening at all.
And that’s when it clicked.
They--all three of them--right here right now, were acting like brothers. The two rolling on the floor as one hurled insults and the other supplied unwanted affection while a third brother ignored them neither offering help or hindrance. Neal said Tim was his little brother, and Red Robin and Nightwing were rumored to be brothers. Neal called Tim “Replacement” several times since last night. Nightwing had shouted the name “Little Wing” as if it were some affectionate nickname. Much like “Baby Bird” if Peter was being honest. And according to Peter’s search last night, Nightwing had been the first Robin, Red Robin had been the third, but the second Robin, the brother between them, he had died . And Neal had an autopsy scar.
Neal wasn’t just some ex-vigilante.
“You were the second Robin.” Peter stood in shock, practically whispering, but all heads turned to him despite the low volume of the not-question. Tim blinked at him like he hadn’t said a word, Neal grinned proudly, and Nightwing looked impressed.
“Huh,” Nightwing smiled and poked his brother. “You did say he was smart.”
Peter wasn’t sure if he should smile at being right or be sick at all the implications of what his friend had gone through. So he stood in stunned silence instead.
Tim just snorted and downed the rest of his coffee. “He had enough information to figure it out ten minutes ago.”
“You’re never impressed, Replacement,” Neal laughed, resuming his failing attempts to get out of his brother’s grasp and stand. Nightwing just cuddled tighter until Neal finally gave up and settled into his new place on the floor.
Peter honestly didn’t know how long it had taken before he gave up, his brain had stopped following the laws of time, but by the time he sat back down and resumed eating his omelet, it was cold and Tim had finished his.
“Alright, Dickface,” Neal eventually sighed from somewhere under the table, accompanied by several slapping sounds. “Ge’ off of me, Baby Bird needs hugs.”
There was a dramatic gasp and a scrambling noise in which Tim’s eyes barely had time to grow to the size of golf balls before he was tackled out of his chair by the same flying blue and black blur that had taken out Neal.
“Jason!!” the kid screamed in the direction of the con-man freshly brushing himself off from the floor. “Traitor!!”
Neal just laughed and whipped up another omelet before sitting down to finish his. Tim, when Peter looked over, had the most deadpan, annoyed, and betrayed look on his face as he was trapped in as much of an octopus hug as his brother had been a minute before, but if Peter looked closely, the kid was totally relaxed. So much so it almost looked like he wouldn’t have been able to fight it even if he tried.
Definitely touch starvation.
Neal pulled the fourth omelet off the stove a minute later and set it on a plate with a mug of hot chocolate and whipped cream before stepping over to his brothers.
“Yo Dickhead,” Neal nudged the eldest with his foot as Peter realized just how out of place that name seemed. “Come eat something and gimme the kid.”
Tim scowled and muttered something along the lines of not being a kid and not needing this much attention, but he didn’t fight it as he was passed off from one brother to the next. Nightwing bounced up to the table to immediately dig into his food and sugar while Neal took a few extra seconds to make sure the kid was comfortable in his arms before sitting down and tucking the kid under his chin like he’d always belonged there.
And Peter? Peter’s brain could not catch up to the present. He knew it would happen eventually. Neal would do something and leave him utterly brain dead. But he never expected it to be something like this.
There was some sort of quick introduction between Peter and Nightwing--though Peter was fairly certain Neal just called him a dick--before all three brothers broke off into their own conversation which Peter couldn’t bring himself to follow. There were too many things he didn’t understand. Mentions of people he didn’t know, places he didn’t recognize and things he swore were codes but didn’t even want to try cracking. Before he knew it, Tim had disappeared and Red Robin and Nightwing were standing out on the balcony telling Neal he better visit soon. And then just like that, the two jumped off together and disappeared into the city, leaving Peter and Neal to go into work like nothing had ever happened.
And by the time Peter’s brain caught up enough to ask Neal, the con-man gave him the most confused look Peter had ever seen and asked if he was feeling well.
Fine. Neal could have his secrets. If he were some hero shooting for a quieter life, there was no harm in that. Neal deserved a quieter life after what he’d been through.
Besides, who would believe Peter anyway?