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Lesley and every other one of his doctors had been very clear, and in some cases extremely explicit, as to why he should not jump (from buildings), climb (buildings), lift, or really do anything more strenuous to his back than walking and sitting. Really, it had been a miracle and a half that he was able to walk at all. Alfred and Tim watched him like a toddler around an open pool. And now Dick and Clark were ganging up on him.
Dick patted him on the shoulder, his rat-faced little hyena grin filled with fake commiseration. Bruce could almost not be happy about the fact that Dick was talking to him again right at that moment.
“No, no, really—you make a great brunette,” that traitorous wench cooed at his annoyance.
Bruce eyed his disguise critically. Simple, yet effective. A bit of hair dye, a different style of clothing, the twenty pounds he’d lost while bed-bound and neck-deep in one of the worst depressive episodes of his life. And the crowning piece: the little glamour charm Diana had dropped off.
Staring his reflection in the eye, he let the role of confidence man Neal Caffrey wash over him. Raising his head, loosening his shoulders into relaxed, almost overconfidence. Loosening his facial muscles and putting on the smooth, open smile, shifting his stance.
“It still freaks me out when you do that,” Dick remarked, now leaning in the doorway—despite the fact that Dick was also immensely proficient in acting, able to slip in and out of personas in the blink of an eye.
“Why, I have no idea what you mean,” Bruce retorted with a guileless smile, affecting the higher, smoother voice he’d chosen for Caffrey.
Dick shook his head with a—dare he think it—fond smile.
-
Bruce was loath to admit it, but he was almost having fun. In Gotham, he seldom concerned himself with white-collar crime for its own sake. At the end of the day, the serial killer dragging people into the sewers to eat them was more pressing a concern than the guy running a phishing scheme out of the office on Sixth and Corner. The most he had to do with it was following the money of Penguin’s operations to figure out the next dastardly plan waiting for him.
Tipping off the GCPD to corrupt officials rarely saw any real results. At that point, he would find the person and use his great persuasive skills (aka threats of financial ruin and bodily harm) to shut it down. But here in New York, they took that sort of thing seriously. Bruce’s brain enjoyed puzzles—more so when the weight of human lives wasn’t immediately attached to them.
He had created the identity initially, but over the years, the effort put into it had dwindled until he had frozen it in prison. With all that had happened since then, he had almost forgotten why he had enjoyed it.
Peter Burke was a sort of pleasant surprise. A principled man, not too stuck in his ways as to be unable to take Bruce’s suggestions—though Bruce was mildly disgusted by his blind trust in the U.S. government.
Against common impression, Bruce was actually a great fan of due process—just that those processes often took too long or were too inefficient. In Gotham, no one played by the rules. And the unfortunate fact was that due process was often more or less fair depending on the depth of one’s pockets.
—
It was now four months into his undercover stay as Neal Caffrey, and Bruce had found somewhat of a rhythm. He hated that the sunshine, mostly harmless cases, and uncomplicated camaraderie actually made him feel better. His back was healing well, and missing Jason had turned from an infected, raw open wound into tentative scabs—enough that he could finally remember the good times again.
In the time between his work for the FBI and the uncovering of corrupt agents, he kept up with the Justice League and the cases out of Gotham. He eased himself back into training and painted. The last time he had actually done art was when Alfred had sent him to art therapy for four months after Bruce had refused to talk to the regular therapist. In the end, art therapy didn’t help him open up, but it was where Bruce discovered his disinclination towards art—not that he couldn’t paint or sculpt, but that he learned it like a technical craft: methodically and fast. Bruce could look at an art piece, analyze it, and dissect the methods of its creation within minutes, then create an exact reproduction. It was why he lent himself to the role of art forger so well.
Producing original art in any meaningful way had always been beyond him, even if he had the technical skill.
---
Sometimes even the FBI cases got intense in their workload, which was how he and Peter found themselves in Neal’s apartment at eleven p.m. on a Friday, poring over sheets and sheets of data and evidence, searching for a common thread.
Bruce’s workflow was interrupted when he picked up footsteps outside that were too light to be June’s. The knock on the door a few seconds later was in Dick’s code.
“I’ll get it, Peter,” he said loudly, not making a secret of the fact that he was alerting the person at the door to Peter’s presence. Now what was Dick doing in New York—especially without forewarning? Peter was already standing up, suspicion entering his eyes. Forcing himself not to catastrophize too much, Bruce cracked the door open.
He was greeted by the sight of both Dick and Tim at his doorstep in civilian clothes, Dick holding Tim in place by the back of his shirt collar. Tim had a blooming bruise on the side of his face, one arm in a cast, and an obstinate expression on his face. That look at least meant Tim hadn’t been hurt too badly, and Bruce could calm down—though he should double-check for a concussion.
“What are you doing here?” he pressed out, scanning Dick for any sign of injury. The boy seemed fine, though he was ignoring Bruce in favor of looking Peter—who had come to peek over Bruce’s shoulder—up and down critically.
“Oh, you have company,” Dickie smiled slightly, wanly. Out of Peter’s field of vision, Bruce raised a severe brow, demanding Dick explain himself. He wasn’t supposed to make contact with Neal at all. Dick’s smile grew tight, and he pulled Tim into the foreground.
“Ah, you see, Alvin here picked a fight at school—again. And now his arm is broken. So I thought I’d remove him from the situation until things cool down a little.” Tim scowled at Dick with a betrayed expression. “So he doesn’t go picking fights until his arm is healed,” he added pointedly in Tim’s direction before shoving the boy toward Bruce with an expression that seemed to say 'you deal with this'.
“Can you watch him for a few days? I’m sure he won’t get in trouble with you around.” It was easily translated to: Tim was hurt on patrol and refused to be benched.
“Sure,” he said lightly for Peter’s sake. Dick grinned quick and bright—fake.
“Great, always knew why you’re my favorite cousin.” A duffel bag was shoved at Bruce as Dick quickly turned heel and was gone around the corner in the next moment, leaving their group of three to stand in the doorway.
“Come in, then,” he urged Tim, closing the door behind him. Tim looked a bit more chagrined now, shoulders sagging.
“He didn’t send you to your parents?” Bruce asked half-heartedly, though he honestly didn’t expect much of the Drakes, from the little time they seemed to spend with Tim.
“They’re on a business trip,” Tim murmured with a little shrug. Bruce didn’t sigh, though he wanted to. His boys were out fighting crime multiple times a week; he really didn’t have a leg to stand on when it came to judging other people’s parenting—especially not after—
“Have you had dinner yet?” A silent shake of the head.
“There are some leftovers in the fridge. Peter and I have to finish up some things.” With a squeeze to his good shoulder, he sent Tim off to the kitchenette.
When he turned around, Peter was looking mostly befuddled.
“Who’s that?” he gestured helplessly at Tim.
“My kid cousin,” Bruce smiled winningly, in the way he knew Peter found irritating. Going along with the story for now, his mind was already working ahead, fitting Alvin and his brother into the history of Neal Caffrey.
Peter started multiple sentences, then cut them off. “Why is he here?”
“You heard what his brother said.”
“I didn’t know you had cousins,” Peter hissed, in a clear attempt to keep his voice down.
“Most people do.” Bruce shrugged him off and returned to their files.
Peter would go digging into Alvin as soon as the offices opened tomorrow, so Bruce would have to make arrangements—make sure there was nothing to find.
“And they just drop a kid off with you?” Peter whisper-yelled as he sank back into his seat.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I am a trusted adult.” The amount of disbelief this statement was met with was, frankly, borderline offensive.
“You’re a felon,” Peter reminded him flatly.
“My alleged criminal acts do not disqualify me as a babysitter.” His actual track record of violent assault would—but that was beside the point.
“And what, he’s just going to stay here for a few weeks? I’m pretty sure that’s not legal.” Bruce resisted the urge to pinch his nose by reminding himself that Peter was just being responsible.
“His parents know me,” half-truth. “I’ve taken care of him for longer stretches of time before,” another half-truth—since really, it had been Tim taking care of him more often than not. “He can take his courses remotely for a few weeks, it’s fine. Look, my houseplants are still alive.” He gestured at the cactus on the bookshelf.
That drew a snort from Peter and earned him a few moments of silence.
“Where’s he going to sleep?”
“I’ll ask June if he can take up one of her guest rooms. If not, then he can sleep on the couch.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “And why don’t you sleep on the couch?”
Bruce returned a flat look. He couldn’t imagine a scenario in which Tim would allow Bruce to sleep on a couch where his legs stuck out over the end while his back was still healing.
Ten minutes later, Tim appeared at Bruce’s side and wordlessly scooted onto the couch beside him to peek at the files. An affectionate flicker of exasperation bloomed in Bruce’s chest, but he did shift in a way that allowed Tim to read as well.
Two minutes of quiet page-shifting later, Peter looked up and noticed. “Neal,” he reprimanded. With an innocently confused expression, Bruce looked up to see Peter staring pointedly at Tim.
“Those files are confidential.” Then Peter’s expression grew softer at whatever look Tim was giving him, no doubt, and he shook his head.
“It’s late. We’re not making any more progress today. Let’s pack up.”
Bruce was displeased with pausing the case, but Peter did need to go home at some point—or Elizabeth would not be pleased with either of them.
After Peter’s steps had receded out of hearing distance, he finally turned to Tim.
“You know, making his CI work overtime on a Friday night at home is, like, super sketchy,” Tim noted.
Bruce didn’t let himself be distracted. “What happened?”
Tim clucked his tongue and looked away before admitting, “I might have been a bit inattentive when fighting Riddler goons. I’m fine though—it’s just my arm.”
“And your head?” Bruce moved to take a closer look at the sizable bruise at Tim’s temple.
“It’s fine. No concussion. Lesley already did a check,” he said, dislodging Bruce’s hands with a flick of his head. Sighing, Bruce let him be.
“How’s the city?”
“As always.” After a look, the kid shrugged again.
“You know I’m not supposed to tell you.”
Bruce grit his teeth. *Curse Clark. Curse Alfred.* He had a right to know what was going on in his own damn city, even if he couldn’t go out.
“You’re on leave,” Tim reminded him. “Because you had your back blown out.”
Bruce grimaced at both the memory and the unfortunate phrasing.
“Yes, thank you, I had almost forgotten.”
Tim’s raised brows put him in mind of Alfred—how they seemed to say, 'don’t get sarcastic with me now.'
It took him by surprise how comforting it was to go to sleep to the sound of Tim’s quiet breathing on the other side of the room. Usually, Tim returned to his parents’ house to sleep—and even if he didn’t, he would sleep in his own room at the manor.
Bruce stared at the ceiling in the dark even after Tim had fallen asleep, and let the feeling of helpless fear and affection roam free. Tim was entirely too much like Bruce—it scared him sometimes.
—
“Look who decided to show up,” El remarked from the sofa, evidently watching TV with Satchmo taking up the rest of the space.
“Sorry—this case is time-consuming.” He went to give El a proper apology kiss. He had texted her earlier not to expect him for dinner, with a bit of a guilty conscience.
“Yes, yes, busy with the other woman,” El joked, and then laughed at the face he pulled. She patted his shoulder in forgiveness. Occasionally she would joke about Neal being 'the other woman'—with how often chasing after Neal and now working with Neal had cut into their time together, it never failed to make him uncomfortable. Which was why she did it. At least she knew she wasn't actually bitter, since she and Neal got along just fine.
“I actually expected you to be longer,” she remarked. Peter grimaced guiltily as he stowed away his suit jacket.
“I would have been longer, but Neal had a surprise visit.”
“Oh?” El inquired.
“Yeah, apparently he has cousins that live within driving distance.” If the boy hadn’t had a noticeable resemblance to Neal, Peter would have never believed they were actually his cousins at all.
“Really?” El sounded intrigued, and the noise from the TV stopped. When he returned to the room in sweatpants, the TV program was moving silently, and Satchmo trotted over to say hello.
“Apparently. They did look like him. The older one was about twenty or so. He looks remarkably like the few pictures we have of Neal at that age. He’s even got the smile.” He shook his head at the memory of the young man. He was aware he might be prejudiced, but an energetic kid with a smile like that could only be trouble.
“They came by unannounced. Apparently, the younger brother started a fight at school. The kid looked pretty banged up, had his arm in a cast, and the parents are ‘on a business trip,’ so the older one dumped the kid at Neal’s apartment.” Peter tentatively had to give it to them—that it was a simple and plausible story. But with Neal, things were seldom as simple as they seemed.
(The kids didn't act like they were actively running from something. They were, both of them dressed in clean, well fitting cloths that Peters trained eye identified as good quality of the more understated but expensive brands.)
“How old is he?” Peter was exceptionally bad with kid-ages.
“About twelve to fourteen, I think.”
“Well, I’m glad to know he does have family out there,” El said. Peter nodded along vaguely. He had never been able to pin down any family for Neal and had started to suspect that there simply was none, sad as that may be.
“It’s just strange how they popped out of the woodwork like that,” El hummed vaguely.
“So the younger one is staying with Neal for a few days?”
“Sounds like it. I’m not sure Neal is the best influence for a kid that already seems to get into a lot of trouble.” It was nothing against Neal—just a dubious parenting choice.
“Well, Neal certainly isn’t one to start a fistfight. At least in that regard, he could be a good influence.” The mental image of Neal Caffrey, in a full three-piece suit and tie with perfect hair, in a fistfight forced an amused huff of laughter from him.
“I’ll give him that, but you didn’t see him in that room full of criminology students. He would love to have a minion, and he was certainly excited to teach me lock-picking.” El snorted, having been regaled with that story in detail.
“You’ll continue with the case tomorrow, won’t you?” she asked, eyes sparkling in the way Peter loved.
“Why don’t you invite both of them over? I’d love to meet another Caffrey—and he can help me taste-test the new caterer.”
—
Waking up meant pain—almost every day since he’d started his crusade. But more so after Bane. It was better now than it had been. There had been weeks in which he had woken up in the mornings paralyzed with pain.
Since the surgery, it had gotten better with every week that passed. Only in the mornings, when he woke up and the last dose of meds had worn off, was it really bad still.
A pill bottle attached to a small hand appeared in his field of vision, the pills rattling around as Tim gave it a little shake. Hand feeling very heavy, he took it from Tim as he sat up. It hurt—his entire back lit up with a bone-deep pain. He did his best not to let it show for Tim’s sake.
Though he suspected it was a pointless endeavor. Tim handed him a glass of water and watched with eagle eyes as Bruce washed the pills down. Entirely too much like Alfred.
He heaved himself out of bed and helped Tim put a plastic bag over his cast so he could go shower. Peter called to ask him about coming over for the case while Tim reemerged.
“You can bring your cousin; he shouldn’t be alone all day,” Peter was saying. Bruce considered—Tim could take care of himself for a few hours.
“El is testing out hors d’oeuvres from a few different new caterers. I’m sure she would appreciate a second opinion.”
—
On the way to Peter’s house, the two of them had time for one slightly stilted conversation about how Tim’s actual school was going: fine. And how his friends were doing: fine. And for Bruce to realize that Tim was turning into a real teenager. The feeling that there was something occupying Tim that he wouldn’t talk about persisted.
El greeted them at the door, fussing over Tim, who put on a sweet and friendly kid act as El whisked him off into the kitchen to help her with the tasting, while Bruce found Peter upstairs, staring at one particular sheet with his thinking frown.
“Neal,” he waved him over as soon as he noticed him. “Look at this. It’s the same allotment to gas, electricity, etc., etc., but they bought this—” he pointed at one column. Bruce took a look.
“Unless the paint was liquid gold, that’s not right,” he agreed. A satisfied smile spread over Peter’s face.
“Gotcha.” He colored the numbers with yellow highlighter.
On his computer in the cave, Bruce could’ve scanned the pages in, and filters could’ve done what was taking them hours. The museum’s strategy seemed to simply have been drowning any investigation in physical paperwork. They just hadn’t accounted for someone as unrelenting as Peter.
Bruce was thirteen sheets deep into spotting irregularities when Tim snuck up the stairs, his presence noticeable by the crunching noise of the hors d’oeuvre he was munching on.
“You two look so alike right now,” he remarked.
Peter looked up, then at Neal, with a brow raised in confusion.
“I do think he just complimented you,” Bruce told Peter, assuming a vain expression. For his part, Bruce assumed Tim was referring to the way they were both focused on the work—their thinking expressions, at least Bruce’s natural one, looked somewhat alike.
“Already done with the tasting?” Bruce checked the time on the laptop. It had been almost an hour; he had expected it to take a bit longer. But Tim nodded and looked around the shelves curiously.
“I looked into the caterers for her. Turns out one of the businesses is owned by a racist lady, so we were able to decide quickly.” Of course, it was actually a thorough thing to do—a thing he did on occasion when he found the time. Such things did tend to reflect on a company. Also, just on principle.
“How about your homework?”
Tim rolled his eyes at him (teenagers). “Did that already.” Somehow, Bruce doubted he had done all of it. But because those tasks were meant for the entire two weeks he was excused from school, he couldn’t insist on that without sounding unreasonable.
“What are you guys doing?” Tim asked, slinking closer in an obvious ploy to distract from the topic of homework.
Peter quickly moved to cover his files. “That’s really not your business, kid.” He made a little shooing motion that wouldn’t work on Tim—experience speaking.
Since he was Neal, Bruce thought about what sixteen-year-old Dick would say. “Come on, Peter, he’s clearly bored. Let him have a look. Six eyes are faster than four,” he wheedled. If allowed to, Tim would actually be very helpful. He had an eye for numbers and patterns—and experience with embezzlement. Of course, there was almost no chance Peter would let himself be convinced.
“No.”
“What’s he going to do with the information here?” Bruce pushed it a little further. (Tim would scoff at both the sloppy trails left behind and how long those trails had remained undiscovered.)
Peter’s expression turned long-suffering. “Knowing you, probably get inspired.” He gathered the scattered pages into a neat stack and used it to point at Tim. “Kid, whatever you do, don’t use this guy as a role model,” he said, pointing the stack at Bruce.
Bruce could almost physically taste the words *too late* hanging in the air between the two of them as they side-eyed each other.
Because he was Neal, he put on an overly dramatized offended expression. “I am taking offense. I’m offended.”
Tim snorted quietly while Peter suppressed a smile.
“You are an offender—you don’t get to act offended,” Peter retorted with a smug air.
Bruce raised an unimpressed brow. “You’re really proud of that one, aren’t you?”
Peter didn’t deign that with a reply, but his expression said it all.
“Please don’t phrase it like that,” Tim pulled a disgusted face. “You make it sound like he got done in for luring kids into his basement.” With the last word, he stared pointedly at Bruce. Honestly—Bruce fought to not let his amusement show. The inside joke luckily flew right over Peter’s head.
“See, being a felon is really uncool,” Peter said half-heartedly, sounding like he had already given up on Tim’s judicial integrity.
“Obviously,” the obnoxious 'duh' tone promised a punchline. “It means you got caught. Pretty lame.” Peter suppressed another smile at Neal’s expense, visibly charmed by Tim against his will.
“Alvin, right? What grade are you in?” And there Peter went, rather inelegantly digging for information.
“Eighth.” Tim’s expression was knowing.
“So you were still in elementary school when Neal was arrested. You can’t have met him often, with how much he liked to travel.”
“We met often enough.”
“Enough to become the favorite cousin?” Tim smirked. “Favorite cousin, only cousin—semantics.” Peter’s brow quirked, aware that he was being indulged and amused nonetheless.
“Paternal or maternal?”
Tim made a motion of zipping his lips.
———
The kid stuck around for another few days and had Neal clocking out on time more often than not. Peter couldn’t really get a read on the twerp.
Neal and the kid seemed very familiar, and Peter was positively surprised to see Neal behave in a weirdly paternal manner. It was pretty obvious that he adored the kid—probably because he took after Neal almost a bit too much for comfort.
"How the fu—frick did you get here?" he exclaimed, clutching his chest. Smooth as anything, the boy took a few steps away.
"Elevator," he shrugged nonchalantly, then obnoxiously slurped at the straw of some sort of milkshake. "Anyways, you guys are on break, right? I was gonna order takeout. What do you want?" With one hand, the boy had produced a newest-gen Wayne Tech smartphone from his pocket and was now peering expectantly at Neal.
"Is this your cousin?" Diana’s eyes bounced between Neal and the kid. Neal’s expression looked almost like a glower for a split second before the impression disappeared. Must have been the light.
Neal smiled a smile that Peter was about sixty percent sure was fake. "You don't see the family resemblance?"
Diana squinted with a considering hum. "You both have the same sly air about you. Plus, he's already messing with Peter. I see it."
Neal returned her a winning smile.
"What would you like?" he asked the kid, who shrugged.
Tapping away at the phone, the boy nodded absently. "Guess we're having Chinese then. Your usual?"
Neal only hummed in agreement.
"Who else wants Chinese?" Alvin finally really looked up at the gathered group.
That was how the entire team ended up outside collecting their food.
—
"So your name is Diana?" the kid asked Diana as they dug in. "That’s Agent Barrigan for you, kid," her tone was playful. She was charmed. Damn you, Caffrey Junior.
"Uh-huh, and—" the kid slurped some noodles mid-sentence, which earned him a light swat to the cap from Neal. "Are you a raging lesbian?" Clinton blanched into his chicken rice beside Peter, then spluttered, trying not to laugh.
"What makes you ask?" Diana’s composure was remarkable as always.
"Just statistics. All the Dianas I know are, so…" he looked at Diana expectantly.
"Well, I suppose that is what someone might call it."
Alvin nodded to himself like he was indeed mentally charting this information.
—
Later, Peter reviewed the security footage to find out how the hell the kid had snuck in. With chagrin, he got to watch how the kid inconspicuously tailed an adult in such a way that made it seem like he belonged to that person. To make it more infuriating, not once did any camera get a good full image of his face. No, Neal Junior was too good for that.
And then, a week later, the kid was just gone. At least, to Peter, it was obvious that Neal wasn't exactly happy about it. He played at unaffected, but his smiles seemed a little less genuine, and there were faint shadows under his eyes.
—
Bruce needed to get back into fighting form. Gotham needed him. Tim needed him, and Jean Paul was proving increasingly unfit. With Tim keeping an eye on Jean, there was some time until he had to reconsider allowing Dick to take the cowl. With the threat of Bane eliminated, it was less dangerous, but still. With a sigh, he forced himself to follow the kata slowly, even though all he wanted was to go faster, harder.
Having Tim missing from his side grated on his nerves in a way he hadn't expected. As much as he enjoyed his time with the FBI, the feeling of urgency nipping at his heels made it difficult to rest.
Something would have to give, sooner rather than later