Work Text:
It was just another day for Neal in his impeccable suit. He stood in his apartment at June’s house, staring out the window at the bustling streets below. The city was vibrant full of life, but it wasn't home. Not really. He longed for Gotham, for the shadows that cradled the city in a constant embrace, the pitch-blackness with flecks of light piercing through. It was never bright in Gotham; the clouds ensured that, shielding them from their most hated enemy: the sun.
Neal sighed, adjusting his cuffs. He wasn’t Neal Caffrey, not truly. He was a clone, a nearly perfect replica created in a facility he barely remembered. He had woken up alone, disoriented, and terrified around with the body that seemed to be the age of five. He had escaped, but the memories of his early years were a blur of fear and confusion. He had found solace in one of his brother's many safehouses, where he discovered an artifact—a piece of ancient craftsmanship that could glamour him and protect him from most damage. It was his only link to his past, a past he could hardly recall but deeply yearned for. Instead of looking at the age of 5, he looked like his 18-year-old counterpart.
He missed Gotham's gothic architecture, the gargoyles watching over the city, and even the violence that seemed to pulse through its veins. Like Neal Caffrey, he embraced a nonviolent life, mastering the art of the con and learning to charm and manipulate. Yet, beneath the surface, he was Damian Wayne—Al Ghul, or at least a version of him. He carried the memories of his former self, but he wasn't that person anymore. He had changed, become more in tune with his emotions, and become more human in many ways.
The desire to run away from his problems had always been there, a constant companion. He had run from the facility, from Gotham, from Batman, from being Robin. All he wanted now was to go home. But the fear held him back. Would his brother accept him? Would Dick give him those bone-crushing hugs he remembered so fondly? Would Tim want to spend time with him, strategizing and planning? Could he get a hug from his father? Damian would never have allowed such vulnerability, but he wasn’t Damian anymore. Not fully.
He dreamed of riding with Jason, feeling the wind rush past them as they tore through the streets. He wanted to dance with Cass, her movements a graceful blur of strength and beauty. He longed to read with Barbara, her intellect a comforting presence. He wanted it all so badly, but the fear was like a weight on his chest, pressing down and keeping him rooted.
Why was he made into a clone? The question haunted him. It wasn’t his family who had done this. It had to be his grandfather, Ra’s al Ghul. But why? Why create a clone of Damian? Was it a backup plan, a way to preserve the legacy of the League of Shadows? Or was there another, darker purpose behind it?
Neal shook his head, trying to dispel the thoughts. He had to make a decision. He couldn’t stay in this limbo forever, torn between two identities, two lives. He had to face his past, confront his fears, and find a way to reconcile who he was with who he had become. Why was that first step so hard? Damian was never one to falter, ready to make decisions. He isn’t like that because he isn’t Damian.
“Neal,” he heard Peter looking at him impatiently from the doorway. The fed reminded him of his father some days. He was steadfast in his ideals and was incorruptible. Much like his father, he was stubborn and very bad at communication.
“Sorry, Peter, I just got lost in thought,’ he said before grabbing his wallet. Slipping it into his pocket, he turned to see Peter looking at his watch with a frown.
“Come on, and no complaining,” snapped Peter before walking out the door. Neal sighed before putting on his Caffrey smile and grabbing his fedora. It fit perfectly on his adult head—it was just too perfect.
The ride to the office was tense; instead of picking on Peter, as his brother would have done, they sat silently. Dick is the one Caffrey is mainly based on, anyway, a real-life golden retriever as a person. He was staring out the window of a journey he had taken too many times. Peter was concerned because he was looking over at him several times.
They got to the office, and Neal sat at his desk and looked down at the people walking down the street. These people walked down the street without a care in the world. He wanted to see the paranoid people of Gotham, who were always cautious and checked to see if they were being followed everywhere. Where you spot their weapons, they keep hidden to protect themselves.
Instead, he looked for people who didn’t see threats around every corner. He wasn’t worried about Rouges breaking out of the Asylum threats from the local gangs. People believed the system would keep them safe and defend them when needed. The system wouldn’t help anyone. Gotham was mostly considered its own country, loosely based in the United States. They didn’t claim Gotham as part of the US, either.
He looked up at Peter, who was in Hughes's office. The two of them argued, their animated gestures visible through the glass walls. Peter's face was flushed red, clearly indicating he was extremely upset. It was rare for the usually composed FBI agent to lose his cool, which meant the situation was serious. On the other hand, Hughes wore a mask of exasperation, the kind of look that said he had no patience for this dispute. Neal wished he could see their lips; his skill in lip-reading would allow him to understand the heated exchange.
Peter suddenly straightened up, indicating that he was reluctantly acquiescing to Hughes's demands, though his tight-lipped expression showed he was far from happy about it. A moment later, Peter exited the office, the glass door swinging shut behind him. He stood at the railing, his hands gripping it tightly as he took a few deep breaths, visibly trying to regain his composure. Neal could sense the tension radiating from him; whatever had transpired in that office weighed heavily on Peter.
“Everyone in the briefing room, now,” Peter commanded, his voice firm and authoritative as he looked down at the team scattered across the bullpen.
Neal exchanged glances with Diana and Jones, who were already rising from their desks. There was no room for questions or hesitation in Peter's tone. Neal followed the others, the air in the office thick with anticipation. Whatever was going on, it was significant enough to warrant an immediate meeting.
As they filed into the briefing room, Neal couldn't help but feel a twinge of unease. Peter was usually the rock of their team, the one who kept everything steady and under control. Seeing him this rattled was unsettling. The team took their seats around the large table, and Peter closed the door behind him with a heavy thud.
“Listen up,” Peter began, his voice steady but carrying an edge of urgency. “We’ve got a situation. Hughes and I just received intel on a high-priority target connected to one of our ongoing cases. This isn’t just any criminal—we’re dealing with someone who has the potential to disrupt the entire operation.”
“We have reason to believe that our target is planning something big that could put many people at risk. We need to act fast and smart. We’ve all been working hard, but I need you to dig deeper and work harder. We can’t afford to miss anything.”Neal leaned forward, the gears in his mind already turning. Peter’s briefing was light on specifics, but it was clear this was more than just a routine bust. This was a game-changer, and the stakes were higher.
“We’ll divide the tasks,” Peter continued, assigning roles with precision. “Jones, I need you to liaise with our tech team and get surveillance up and running. Diana, coordinate with the organized crime task force to ensure a backup is ready. This is going to be a co-op between us and the Organized Crime. I am not happy about it either.”
Peter’s eyes held Neal’s for a moment longer, the weight of the assignment clear between them. “Neal, I need you to go undercover with the Organized Crime Division. There’s a big meeting coming up between the heads of the underworld, including the mob families. This is our chance to gather intel and maybe even bring some of these guys down. Now on the surface this is just going to be a Gala in town. We have big guys coming in from multiple states for this event. We need to be prepared. ”
Neal nodded, the gravity of the situation sinking in. He would have to rely on all his skills to navigate this dangerous terrain. “Any specific targets or information we’re after?”
Peter handed Neal a dossier. “We’re particularly interested in Carlo Rossi and Salvatore Marconi. Rossi’s been expanding his operations into new territories, and Marconi’s been rumored to be planning something big. We need to know what they’re up to and who else is involved.”
Neal flipped through the dossier, familiarizing himself with the key players and their known associates. “I’ll get you what you need.”
“Just be careful, Neal,” Peter said, his voice softer now. “These guys play for keeps. If anything feels off, get out of there. Your safety comes first.”
Neal gave a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, Peter. I’ve got this.”
—--------------
Peter's briefing concluded, and the team dispersed to tackle their assigned tasks. Neal lingered for a moment, catching Peter’s eye as the others filed out. He had a really bad feeling about this.
“Peter, why are we getting involved with Organized Crime on this one?” Neal asked quietly, knowing that their division typically focused on white-collar crimes like fraud, art theft, and forgery.
Peter sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s more complicated than that, Neal. We’ve discovered that several high-profile financial crimes—embezzlement, money laundering, securities fraud—are all linked to major organized crime syndicates. It’s not just about stolen money; it’s about how that money is being used to fund more sinister activities.”
Neal’s interest piqued. “You mean the mob families are using white-collar crime to bankroll their operations?”
“Exactly,” Peter replied. “And it’s not just any operations. We’re talking about human trafficking, drug smuggling, arms deals. The money trail leads back to some of the biggest names in organized crime. That’s why Hughes is so adamant about this. It’s a chance to hit them where it hurts—their wallets.”
“So, this isn’t just about bringing down a few mob bosses. It’s about dismantling an entire network,” Neal said, starting to see the bigger picture. Neal wouldn’t know this like he does, so this is mostly him just playing the part of a nonviolent con artist, who doesn't deal within those lines.
Peter nodded. “And that’s where you come in. Your skills, your connections, your ability to think like a con artist—they’re all essential for this operation. We need someone who can navigate both worlds and gather the intel we need to make a real impact. This is a high-stakes game, and we need your A-game.”
He looked at Peter, giving him the Caffrey ego look, and said,” Don’t worry, Peter; I got this.” However, something about this just felt off to him.
—----------------------
As Neal stood before the mirror, adjusting the collar of his suit one final time, a sense of foreboding washed over him. It was a subtle but insistent feeling, like a dark cloud lurking at the edges of his consciousness. He'd been undercover countless times, faced down danger with a smile and a clever quip, but this felt different. The stakes were higher, the risks greater. The thought of walking into a room filled with some of the most dangerous criminals in the city, where one misstep could mean his life, gnawed at him. He took a deep breath, trying to shake off the unease, but it clung to him like a shadow, whispering that this time, the game he was about to play might be his last.
At times like this he really missed his… no Damian’s Katana. In a sense, it was a teddy bear to him. It was something that ground him in that moment. He doesn’t have that now. This mirror in the building that the FBI is holding up is interesting. The gold plating on it is new, but the mirror has to be at least 100 years old.
“Ready to go,” he heard behind him, seeing Diana in a beautiful gold dress. He smiled at her before she rolled her eyes at him. They came to the main apartment to see everyone standing in their gear. Ruiz came forward standing in front of everyone. Neal hated that smarmy bastard.
“We got you in under your alias, Nick Halden. Now, you won't be able to get into the meeting with the heads, but you should be in the main gala. We aim to get these bugs on at least two men in that meeting. We need to get this right. This is a golden opportunity; let's not lose it,” said Ruiz, giving Neal a pointed look. Neal just took it with a smile before turning to Diana.
She handed him the bugs, their small size betraying the crucial role they were to play. There were four of them, sleek and inconspicuous. "We've got two chances to get at least one of them on," Diana said, her eyes reflecting the seriousness of the mission. Neal nodded, pocketing the bugs. He could feel the weight of the devices, both literally and figuratively. Each one represented a slim chance to infiltrate the inner sanctum of the criminal empire they were targeting. He met Diana's gaze, a silent understanding passing between them. "I’ll get it done," he assured her, though the knot in his stomach tightened.
As he walked away, Neal couldn’t shake the feeling that this mission was teetering on a knife’s edge. The sense of foreboding from earlier returned, more pronounced now, whispering warnings he tried to ignore. He forced a confident smile, masking the unease beneath the surface. This was the kind of high-stakes play he thrived on, yet something about tonight felt particularly perilous. He took a deep breath, pushing the doubts aside. Failure wasn’t an option. They needed this win, and he was determined to deliver, no matter the cost.
—---------------
Getting into the gala was the easy part. Diana and he moved around the floor easily, their practiced smiles and casual elegance blending seamlessly with the opulent surroundings. They had arrived relatively early before many of those waiting for them even showed up. The hall was not quite Gotham extravagant, but it looked amazing. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a warm, golden light over the room. The walls were adorned with rich tapestries and ornate mirrors, reflecting the event's grandeur.
Neal adjusted his cufflinks, the bugs securely hidden in his pocket, and scanned the room. Waiters moved gracefully among the guests, offering champagne flutes and hors d'oeuvres trays. The air buzzed with muted conversations and the soft strains of a string quartet playing in the corner. It was the perfect setting for blending in and gathering intel.
Diana nudged him gently, her eyes flicking toward the entrance. "Heads up, looks like the first wave is arriving," she murmured.
Neal followed her gaze and saw a group of men entering the hall, their presence commanding immediate attention. Among them were Rossi and Marconi, the key targets for the evening. He felt his pulse quicken, the sense of foreboding from earlier creeping back into his mind. He forced himself to stay calm, reminding himself of the plan.
"Let's split up," Neal suggested. "We need to cover more ground."
Diana nodded. "I'll take the left side. Keep an eye on Rossi and Marconi. If you get a chance, plant the bugs. But be careful."
"Always," Neal replied with a confident grin, though the seriousness of the task was not lost on him.
They moved apart, each slipping into the crowd with practiced ease. Neal kept Rossi and Marconi in his peripheral vision, waiting for the right moment to make his move. He navigated through conversations and introductions, keeping his demeanor light and engaging. He chatted with wealthy investors and influential socialites while inching closer to his targets.
Finally, an opportunity presented itself. Rossi and Marconi paused near a grand fireplace, conversing quietly. Neal saw his chance. He approached casually as if he were simply part of the crowd, and with a practiced sleight of hand, he managed to slip one of the bugs into the lining of Rossi's jacket.
His heart pounded, but he maintained his calm exterior. One down, one to go. As he moved away, he caught Diana's eye across the room. She gave him a subtle nod, indicating she was ready to move. With grace and precision, she made her way over to Marconi and, with perfect timing, stumbled into him. They both stumbled a bit, and she patted his shoulder while apologizing, slipping the bug into his pocket.
“I am so sorry,” she said, looking him up and down to ensure he wasn't hurt.
Marconi, ever the opportunist, used the moment to his advantage. He took a second to get a feel for Diana, his hands grasping her buttock and pulling her closer. Diana's discomfort was palpable, but she maintained her composure, pushing against him with her arms. Marconi held her tighter, whispering something unpleasant in her ear, judging by the explosive chatter in his earpiece.
A hand landed on Marconi’s shoulder, gripping tightly. Marconi turned, ready to lash out, only to freeze at the sight of the intimidating man glaring down at him. Instantly, Marconi released Diana, who stayed in character, trembling as she moved away and came over to Neal. Her hand gripped his arm tightly, seeking both comfort and escape. Neal put his arm around her, guiding her away, his mind racing. He couldn't ignore the piercing blue eyes that had locked onto him, eyes that recognized him immediately. Though his face didn’t show it, Neal knew his time left as Neal Caffrey was ticking away.
“Are you okay?” Neal asked Diana, her shaking hands betraying her anger, though it appeared as fear to others.
“Did we get them all placed?” Diana asked, her voice steadying as she focused on the mission.
“Yep. Come on, let's get out of here,” he offered her his hand. She took it with a smile, a brave front masking her underlying emotions before they started to head toward the doors.
As they walked, Neal kept his arm protectively around Diana, guiding her through the crowd with purpose. He could feel the weight of the evening’s events pressing down on him, the foreboding sense that their success had come at a cost. The recognition in those blue eyes meant trouble, and Neal knew it was only a matter of time before the delicate balance of his dual identity was shattered.
They made their way out of the grand hall, stepping into the cool night air. Neal took a deep breath, the tension in his chest easing slightly. He looked at Diana, her face set with determination despite the encounter with Marconi.
“You did great in there,” he said, his voice low and reassuring.
“Thanks,” she replied, managing a small smile. “We couldn’t have done it without you.”
Neal nodded, his thoughts already racing ahead to the next steps. They had the bugs in place, but now came the hard part—extracting the intel without tipping their hand. As they moved away from the gala, Neal couldn’t shake the feeling that their night was far from over and the real danger was only beginning.
They were heading to the Limousine that was waiting to pick them up. A butler rushed over to them and stopped them from getting into the car.
“Pardon me, Sir, one of our really important guests is requesting to see you in the upstairs parlor,” said the butler with a barely concealed stutter. Neal looked at Diana, who looked to be getting out of the limo.
“Only the gentleman,” the butler said before looking over his shoulder. Diana froze before looking at him with concern.
“I would like to reschedule with him some other time,” Neal said with a smile. Another Butler came up to his side. Neal noticed him right away, but Diana didn’t.
“I am afraid we must insist,” said the older butler before gesturing to several men standing in the shadows. He recognized them as several of Jason’s thugs dressed up nicely in suits. Those suits showed off their muscles. How hard has Jason been working them? Diana noticed them, too, and went pale.
“Very Well, my love. I shall be home later tonight,” he said before gesturing Diana into the car.
“Neal, this wasn’t part of the plan,” she hissed at him as she slid into the limousine.
“We don’t have the choice right now,” he said before closing the door. He tapped the top of the Limo twice and moved up to where the men were.
“Neal, what is going on,” demanded Peter in his ear. He ignored the shouting before one of the men started to move. The other bigger man gestured for him to follow the man. He fell in line behind the man leading him upstairs and to one of the many parlors.
They came upon a very detailed mahogany door. The first thug opened the door to show exactly who he saw stopping Marconi—except it was just Matches Malone. There were five people in the room. Four of them had bad blue eyes, and one had green. All of them had deep black hair, just like his. The thugs immediately start to frisk him, and the smaller one is the one who notices the earpiece in his ear. They pulled it out and immediately stepped on it.
The thugs found his two knives before leaving the room with them in hand. Matches Malone was sitting with his legs crossed and leaning back like a king. Robbie was leaning against the chair with a lazy but deadly look. Petey was standing threatening against the wall with his arms crossed. The one who looked the most crossed at him was Lil Matches, glaring at him with enough hatred in his eyes.
“So Nick Halden,” said Matches, looking at him with intrigue.
“Hello, Matches Malone,” Neal said with Dicks grin on his face. Petey and Damian noticed immediately. Their expressions didn’t change, but he knew his family well enough to know how they processed information. Bruce got this glint in his eyes. It was the same look Brucie did when he got an idea.
“Is that really what you want to call me?” asked Bruce before standing and walking toward him. The man still towered over him, looking down at him with a threatening look. Neal knew that this was one of the rooms they could sneak cameras into. He knew it was over in that plant by that bookcase to his right.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, keep giving his Neal persona, which is just how Dick acts with a flare of Alfred in there. Matches gave him the bat glare, but that didn’t work on him. He just smiled back up at his father. How was he going to play this without alerting the FBI?
Matches's hand came under his chin, gripping it slightly, making them make eye contact. Their eyes were the same. It was one of the few things he was surprised with when he woke from his birth. Would you call it that? Instead of having green eyes like Damian, he had his father’s blue eyes.
“How are you here,” his father asked.
“Well, you see, my friend Conner was once in a similar situation as me and needed me to cover him for this party. That is how I am here,” said Neal with a smile on her face. Brice instantly got the message. He was a clone of one of his children. That is when he felt subtle touches on his chin.
Do you want to go home?
Gently grasping the wrist to remove the hand from his face, he tapped yes back to Bruce. He expected more questions from his father, but he probably knew this place wasn’t secure. He didn’t want to focus on Damian, who was no longer glaring at him but staring at him as if he didn’t know what to think. Dick was about to bounce out of his persona because he had a new little brother. Jason had a smirk on his face.
A second later, a punch landed on his stomach. He gasped and placed his hand on his stomach as Matches punched him across the face. He fell to the ground right beside the plant with the camera. He understood immediately what was happening. Matches was known for brutally punishing his children when they disobeyed him. He would never kill them. Matches proceeded to land several kicks on him. While hurting slightly, it mostly made an excellent view for the camera. So, without a doubt, Barbara was in their ear.
Matches then turned and returned to his throne-like chair, the grandeur of his seat accentuating his imposing presence. He settled into it with a deliberate calm, resting his elbow on his knee and intertwining his fingers. His piercing eyes never wavered from Neal, who was still on the ground. The room was thick with tension, palpable in the charged silence that followed.
Understanding the gravity of the situation, Neal composed himself with deliberate stillness. He did not groan or whine; instead, he rose to his feet with a practiced quietness, his posture of subdued defiance. The moment's weight pressed heavily upon him, and the air seemed to hum with unspoken threats.
“I see your mother was more devious than previously thought,” Matches said, his voice cold and measured. “So I give you one week. Cut all your ties here, and you will come to Gotham.”
Neal’s gaze was unyielding as he stared blankly at his father. The ultimatum was clear, but his resolve was equally firm. “If I don’t?”
“Oh, Neal, you clearly know what will happen if you don’t,” Matches replied, his tone edged with sinister amusement. The use of Neal's chosen name was deliberate, a calculated reminder of his vulnerability. Neal flinched slightly, a reaction that was both involuntary and purposeful. It was clear that Barbara had done her homework, hacking into the FBI and uncovering every piece of information about him—his contacts, his connections, everything that made up his world.
Neal’s voice was steady despite the turmoil inside him. “I refuse to harm the innocent.”
Matches leaned forward slightly, a dark smile curling on his lips. “Ah, the noble sentiment. But you should know, Neal, that in this world, innocence is a luxury you can’t afford. Every decision you make has repercussions, and every tie you cut will come with its price.”
The room seemed to close in on Neal, the implications of Matches’s words sinking in. The choice was not just about his safety or freedom but about protecting those he cared about from the fallout of his defiance. The thought of innocent lives being caught in the crossfire tightened the knot in his chest. That is how it must come across to those watching the video.
Neal swallowed hard, trying to steady his breathing. “I won’t be a part of your schemes, and I won’t let you use me as a pawn. If it means risking everything, so be it.”
Matches’s eyes gleamed with a mix of admiration and menace. “Pawn? Oh no, Neal. You are far more precious to me than a pawn to be thrown away. A pawn is a goon, only as useful as they come. You’re family, and you are mine.”
The word “mine” echoed through the room with a chilling finality, its resonance akin to a chain tightening around Neal’s chest. It was a claim more constricting than any tracker the FBI had ever placed on him. Matches’s possessive tone reminded him of Gotham’s inescapable grip on him, an inextricable link to its shadows that ran deeper than he had ever wanted to admit. He acted like he was weighing all his choices, which seemed very limited.
Neal's shoulders slumped slightly, the weight of his father’s words sinking in. The sense of being trapped, of being an intrinsic part of Gotham's dark underbelly, was overwhelming. His previous defiance seemed to dissolve into a resigned acceptance, the emotional cost of the ultimatum weighing heavily on him.
He took a deep breath, his expression subdued and looked directly at Matches. “Yes, Father.”
The words came out with a tone of defeat, each syllable laced with a resignation that mirrored the gravity of the situation. The stark reality of his predicament overshadowed Neal’s resolve to fight. With that, he turned slowly, the full weight of the burden he now carried pressing down on him.
Matches’s face lit up with a sinister satisfaction, the corners of his mouth curling into a self-satisfied smirk. He leaned back into his throne-like chair, the air around him seeming to crackle with victorious energy. His gaze followed Neal with a mixture of triumph and cold calculation.
“Very well,” Matches said, his voice dripping with a dark, commanding authority. “You have your week. I expect nothing less than complete compliance.”
He raised his hand dismissively, signaling the end of their conversation. Neal felt the motion's finality like a cold gust of wind, sealing his fate.
“Leave me now,” Matches continued, his tone brooking no argument. “I have other matters to attend to.”
Neal nodded once, a gesture of reluctant obedience. He turned and walked towards the door, each step heavy with the weight of his decision. The grandiosity of the room, once a symbol of power and control, now felt suffocating, the opulence a stark contrast to the inner turmoil roiling within him. He wanted so badly to look excited because he was going home. However, he had a role to play. The path ahead was clear and undeniable: the ties to Gotham and the shadows that came with them were now tighter than ever.
He was going home.
—--------------------------
Neal was met with an unexpected silence as he stepped through the temporary headquarters doors. Peter and Agent Ruiz stood in the center of the briefing room, their expressions a volatile mix of anger and confusion. The tension in the room was palpable, and it was clear that Neal’s demeanor had shifted dramatically since his departure.
Neal’s face was a storm of anger and frustration as he stormed in, his voice rising in a sharp, accusing tone. “You knew the Malones were going to be at the gala. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Ruiz’s expression was a mask of guarded professionalism, though a flicker of cruel pleasure passed through his eyes. “We didn’t have confirmation until just before the event. We were waiting for more intel. Why were you acting so buddy-buddy with the Malones?”
Neal’s fists clenched at his sides, his anger barely contained. “You should have told me. I was walking into a situation without knowing who I was dealing with. I have strictly avoided Gotham for a reason. The Malones have agendas, and you’ve put me in an impossible position. Peter, El, Diana, and Jones will all be in danger if I don’t comply!”
Peter’s face paled as he took in Neal’s words, his eyes widening with betrayal and disbelief. “You lied to me,” he snapped, his voice sharp and wounded. “You’ve been playing both sides this whole time. How could you keep this from us?”
The accusation cut deep, and Neal flinched as if physically struck. He struggled to maintain his composure, the weight of Peter’s betrayal evident in his stance. “I wasn’t lying. I was trying to protect everyone. I didn’t know the Malones would be there, and if you’d told me sooner, I would have refused to even step into that Gala. I would have even chosen to return to jail. We might have been able to avoid this whole mess.”
Ruiz’s expression shifted from guarded to smug, clearly enjoying the discord. “So you’re saying it’s our fault you didn’t prepare properly? You’re the one who decided to step into this world. Maybe you should have been more careful.”
Neal’s jaw tightened, the frustration boiling over. “It is not my fault that man is my biological father. My mother did everything to make sure that I grew up away from him and outside his control. You have undone 19 years of hard work keeping me out of Gotham’s underbelly and mob life. I’m doing everything possible to protect everyone, but this isn’t just about me anymore. This ensures Peter, El, Diana, and Jones don’t become collateral damage. I have no choice but to comply with Matches’ demands now, which puts everyone at risk!”
Peter’s anger seemed to recede slightly as he processed Neal’s words, his face a mixture of hurt and concern. “Alright, we need to figure out what to do next. But you have to be honest with us from now on. We can’t afford any more secrets or misunderstandings.”
“We are going to take you home for June’s for the night, and tomorrow, we are doing everything you know,” snarled Peter before walking out of the room and slamming the door. Neal just sat on the nearby chair, put his head in his hand, and ensured he looked defeated.
—--------------------
The week flew by. The interrogation was hard on all of them, especially Peter. Neal had demanded Diana of Jones interview him after Peter snapped at him about every answer he gave. Neal came into work with the guise of looking like he was 19 instead of 35. He claimed he had been using makeup to look older.
So, he gave them the fabricated backstory. He was a twin of Lil Matches, but his mom held off on labor enough to get out of Gotham and brought him to her father’s place to live with him, which isn’t much better because she also came from a very influential family outside the country. Neal refused to tell them, which didn’t give him many favors. He mostly raised himself until he turned 8 when his mother decided he was a burden and sent him to live with a nanny, who taught him the world's ways. He got to live a lonely, rich life and not be a kid because he was too busy to do anything fun. He ran away at 12 and started to forge under his new name, leading to his capture at 13 and his four years in prison.
Peter blew up when he admitted that he was the twin of Lil Matches, who was just under 21. He was upset that a child went to prison because of him. Peter and the gang were trying to think of a way to keep him from getting taken, but he was resigned to his fate. It was becoming a hassle. Everyone took the news about as well as they could. June just gave him a knowing smile and a hug. Mozzie was prepared to make a connection with him with the Gotham underground. Others figured it would be best if he went into protective custody.
The goal is on Friday he is going to be leaving to have another life somewhere else.
So when he drove home on Tuesday, he noticed a very particular black car down the road. Peter was talking to him when he saw something thrown into the car. Blue canister, which means knockout gas. He had to stop himself from reacting as a hand went over his mouth, and something pricked his neck. He saw Peter’s eyes widen just before the gas canister exploded. He let himself be dragged to the car and thrown in the back. Once the door was closed, he let lay down by looking up to see Tim, aka Jackie Malone, staring down and smiling at him.
He smiled back up as the car started to move at the speed limit.
“Hello, new little brother. The solution we pumped into your neck was saline, and I would stay lying down until we got outside city limits. As we knocked your buddy out as well as your detail, they shouldn’t be able to call this in until we get back to Gotham, and you know once it's Gotham, it's all hands off,” Tim said with a smile.
Neal smiled before sitting up enough just to be out of sight barely. He moved next to his brother and leaned against the thin young man. Deciding to just go for it, he wrapped his arms around Tim and held him close. Tim stiffened at the contact before relaxing. Neal just breathed in his brother’s scent, his body relaxing. Tim smelled like saltwood, ink, and the smog of Gotham. He smelled of home. He barely noticed when his hands started to slide through his hair. It was like being lulled into a relaxing sleep.
—---------------------
When he awoke again, he felt warm and covered. He groaned, not wanting to get out of this cocoon of comfort. For the first time in a long time, he felt truly safe. The surface he lay on vibrated with a soft, familiar chuckle. Blinking his eyes, Neal looked up to see his father's face gazing down at him with a warm, relieved smile. The world seemed distorted for a moment, and Neal's mind struggled to comprehend why Bruce’s face seemed so enormous.
“Hey, kiddo, I see you’re awake. You gave us quite a scare there. Abusing magical items is not healthy.” Bruce’s voice was gentle but carried an unmistakable note of concern. “The item you took kept you at the same age physically while you were in your adult form.”
Neal's mind raced, piecing together the fragments of his memory. The artifact he had found that promised protection and glamour had indeed done its job—perhaps too well. The realization hit him like a wave, the implications settling in.
“I... I didn’t know,” Neal mumbled, his voice small and bewildered. He struggled to sit up, feeling the disorientation of his body’s sudden regression. “How long was I...?”
“Long enough,” Bruce said, his expression softening. “You’ve been out for a few days. We’ve been monitoring you closely to make sure you are alright. The magic in that artifact was more potent than we realized. You will be fine in the long run, but Constantine says you will start aging normally now. Your growing pains are going to be ten times worse when they happen. He says to expect big jumps, but they should seem relatively normal.”
Neal glanced down at his hands, now smaller and less sure than he remembered. The childlike appearance was jarring, and the weight of his predicament settled heavily on his shoulders. He felt a rush of emotions—fear, confusion, and a strange sense of relief.
“So I am currently a five-year-old, and I will age normally now,” he muttered, a habit he picked up from being Neal that he should break.
“You are about four, Neal,” Bruce corrected gently. “So until you are ten, you will not be Robin. You need time to grow and adjust, both physically and mentally.”
Neal's heart sank at the realization. Robin's identity had been a significant part of who he was, and the thought of being sidelined for so long was disheartening. “But what about everything I’ve learned? Everything I can do? I can help with IDs, documents, and small things.”
Bruce's gaze was steady and reassuring. “You won’t lose that, Neal. Your skills, your knowledge—they’re all still there. But right now, you need to focus on being a kid. We’ll find ways for you to train and stay sharp, but your safety and well-being come first.”
Neal took a deep breath, trying to process the reality of his new situation. The prospect of growing up all over again was daunting, but the unwavering support in Bruce’s eyes gave him a measure of comfort. “I understand,” he said quietly, though the disappointment was clear in his voice.
Bruce gave him a small, encouraging smile. “We’ll get through this together. You’re not alone in this, and we’ll ensure you have everything you need.”
Neal nodded, his relief mingling with his apprehension. Despite the uncertainty of his future, his father's presence and the promise of support provided a glimmer of hope. He leaned into Bruce's embrace, allowing himself to find solace in the strength and love that surrounded him. He looked up at his dad, giving the biggest puppy eyes, and asked,” Can I have a sword at least? It always made me feel safe, and it still feels weird not having one on me.”
Bruce looked in his eyes and laughed. “Of course, bud,” he said. Neal smiled as he curled into his dad’s chest. It felt right, and he was home.
—------------------
No one told him releasing the guise would put such a strain on his body. He spent most of his time sleeping like a newborn baby—not just for a day or two, but for a whole month! When he awoke on someone else's chest, he was flabbergasted! Sure, his family would hold him, but it even happened with members of the Justice League. Zatanna was a frequent visitor, always checking on him magically, and Mrs. Thompson ensured he was comfortable.
Then, Tim was in one of his zombie modes, forgetting that the wider world didn’t know about him. Tim took his picture while he was lying on Bruce’s chest, with an IV in his arm, and when he didn’t look well enough. It might have been one of the times he was out for a week. He had been majorly dehydrated and in need of a feeding tube. The result was a media storm that demanded to know who the latest Wayne was and if he was okay. When he was Damian, he would have been horrified at the sentiment sent his way, but it showed him how much Gotham cared for their most prestigious family. In response, Bruce decided that Brucie needed to lighten up on his shenanigans, at least while the media thought he had a sick child.
Cornelius (Neal) Thomas Wayne was revealed to the wider world. They kept his medical information on the down low, but the public cried out for more, which his siblings had no problem posting on social media. They gave him a plushie sword, for crying out loud!
Every time Neal woke up, there seemed to be a new toy, gift, or a new well-wisher from the public. Alfred had to gently remind the household to maintain a semblance of privacy, though the kids’ excitement was palpable. Gotham’s reaction was a mix of concern and adoration. The city, often shrouded in darkness, showed a softer side, rallying around the newest member of the Wayne family.
Bruce’s decision to tone down his playboy persona and focus more on his family image resonated well with the public. The media painted a picture of a devoted father and a family united in their care for Neal. Despite the circumstances of his revelation, Neal found a strange comfort in the outpouring of support. It was a far cry from the harsh training and strict expectations he had known as Damian.
One particularly touching moment was when Clark Kent, in his civilian guise, visited with a stuffed Superman doll, much to Neal’s embarrassment and secret delight. Even Diana brought Amazonian remedies, teasing that they were to keep him strong and spirited. Though sometimes overwhelming, these gestures reinforced the bond between Neal and the broader superhero community.
Neal’s transition into the public eye was not without its challenges, but the warmth and support from his family and Gotham’s citizens made it a little easier to bear. Each day, he grew a little stronger and more accustomed to his new reality. With Bruce’s steady presence, his siblings’ playful encouragement, and the unexpected kindness from strangers, Neal began to carve out his place within the Wayne legacy.
If only his sibling would stop taking his sword and giving him the plushie.