Chapter Text
The office felt wrong. The absence of Caffrey had extended far past the ‘See you all on Monday’ he’d promised when he left the office with his brothers. Hughes hadn’t said anything so Peter knew it was cleared time off, but something was wrong. It had been weeks and the whole team had felt it.
Diana was jumpy and tense. Clint had stopped complaining about mortgage frauds. Peter couldn’t stop himself from turning to ask for his opinion during cases and had learned to fake a sneeze each time he glanced over his shoulder.
Each day was longer than the last and every evening Peter was glad to return home to his wife and dog. At least he was until he walked in to find El sitting on the couch watching a live interview.
LIVE: Bruce Wayne: Gotham’s Billionaire Declared Missing and Presumed Dead
“ -the Wayne family released a statement this morning confirming that billionaire Bruce Wayne has been declared legally dead after two weeks missing-”
The image cut to an interview feed. Four boys sitting on a couch across from a reporter. Damian Wayne, 14, sat by the edge of the couch, back still and straight. Tim Drake-Wayne, 16, was sitting similarly though his right arm was in a cast and faint bruising showed where his suit sleeves had ridden up. Jason Todd-Wayne, 17, was more sprawled than sitting on the couch, his arm tossed over the back. Dick Grayson, or Neal, as Peter knew him, sat all the way back, arms crossed with an ankle propped on his knee.
“Is that Neal?” El asked and Peter nodded before sitting down next to her.
The reporter smiled wide as she leaned forward a bit. “Thank you, gentlemen, for agreeing to this. The world’s been concerned for your father. Of course, everyone’s been following the story. How are you holding up?”
Jason leaned forward, voice rough. “We’re managing.”
“That’s good to hear.” The reporter shifted her notes. “Mr. Grayson, you were his ward the longest though the only one not formally adopted. Some say you were closest to him. What’s this been like for you?”
Dick’s hands folded neatly in his lap. “Losing anyone you’ve known your whole life hurts. We’re focusing on keeping the family stable.”
Peter heard the lilting inflections in his voice, the regulars behind the words. Heard the lie for what it was.
“Stable,” the reporter repeated. “That’s an interesting word. Given your family’s … history.”
Tim glanced up from where he’d been picking at the edge of his cast, eyes narrowing slightly. Damian shifted forward, tense.
The reporter pressed on, shifting her attention. “Mr. Drake. Sources at Wayne Enterprises say you’ve taken over some of your father’s corporate duties. How is that transition going? Is it hard, being 16 and running a company?”
Tim’s mouth opened but Dick answered smoothly, smile sharp. “He’s doing excellent work. The company’s in good hands.”
“And you, Mr. Wayne,” She turned to Damian, “Your relationship with your father was … complicated. Is it true that he didn’t know you existed until you were eight?”
Damian glared at her. “That is correct.”
“Were you close before he disappeared, Mr. Wayne?”
Dick cut in again, “We were all close. We’re family ma’am.”
She turned back to him with a sharp look.
“So you say. What’ll happen now Mr. Grayson? Your father is gone. What will you do when your brothers are sent into the foster system now that they don’t have a guardian? Will you return to your roots? Find a caravan of gypsies to take you in?” Her smile was a sick kind of sweet.
El went rigid and Peter sat up straight.
Dick blinked once and matched her grin. “I’ll take care of us, ma’am. We’re staying together. We’re moving cities. That’s all you need to know.”
Jason stood and moved to leave the interview, Tim and Damian behind him as Dick shook the reporter’s hand and followed them out.
The news switched to commercials as El slumped backwards on to the couch.
“Will we see Neal again?”
Peter rubbed his face with one hand and pulled El to his side.
“I don’t know.”
***
The house didn’t feel like Gotham. That was the first thing that Dick noticed when the door swung open. No damp concrete, no stale smoke, no copper-tinged air lingering in the house. Just the faint scent of new paint, sawdust, and the hint of lemon cleaner.
Park Slope was quieter than he expected for Brooklyn. Rows of houses pressed into each other, their stoops lined with flower boxes. There were bikes chained to the stair rails and people jogging. The kind of place where people said hello and had neighbors over for dinner. The kind of place Bruce Wayne wouldn’t have ever lived.
He loved it.
Jason set a duffel down in the hall and blew out a slow breath. “We’re doing this.” It was an assurance, not a question.
Dick smiled faintly. “Yeah. We are.”
Gotham was gone. The manor, the lies, the capes, all of it. Alfred had refused to come with them and Dick hadn’t argued. The man deserved peace.
He stepped inside, followed by his three brothers. Legal sons now, technically. Adopting them was the best and quickest way to keep the boys in his custody. It felt lighter, like he could breathe here.
The living room rose into vaulted ceilings. By the next afternoon, ropes and rigging hung down from reinforced beams. Silks in deep blue and red, a narrow trapeze bar, a few suspended grips and a removable raised bar. Jason had muttered something about turning the place into a circus, but Dick had caught the faint smile he tried to hide.
The kitchen came next. Jason took to it like a man on a mission. New cabinets, a full set of kitchen knives with a magnetic strip on the wall, and moving steel islands. The first night with the new setup was silent. Every night after that had a speaker hooked to his phone.
Tim quickly disappeared into the house network, dragging cables through crawl spaces and cornering Damian to help install motion sensors. A custom system by the end of the week, camera feeds tied to their phones, automated locks, encrypted routers. It was overkill, but no one said anything about it.
The garage became a training room. Damian handled the set up, picking and choosing everything himself. Reinforced mats, adjustable weapon racks, mirrorless walls, he’d found space for a cot in the corner and set up a dog heaven for Ace and Titus, though neither ever left his side. Jason’s and Dick’s motorcycles stood next to Tim’s skateboard and Damian’s bicycle.
By the end of the week, the house looked less like a house and a lot more like a home.
On the third night, Dick found Tim crisscross on his bed, screens casting a pale light over his face. The kid was typing fast, expression blank, and several empty cans of Bang next to him.
“You should sleep,” Dick said from the doorway.
“Almost done,” Tim murmured.
Dick leaned against the frame. “You’re doing it?”
Tim nodded. “Neal Caffrey resigned from the Bureau, effective two days ago. His files are gone, both the ones from working for the FBI and everything prior. He simply doesn’t exist anymore, though he did buy a plane ticket to Paris before he disappeared.” His fingers hadn’t stopped moving. “And Richard Grayson transferred from Blüdhaven Police Department to the White Collar division of the New York offices. Referred by Chief Rohrbach. I called her and she agreed completely, I didn’t even have to forge her signature.”
Dick smiled a little. Amy was a good cop. “How’s it feel, committing federal fraud?”
Tim’s mouth twitched. “Fun.”
The computer pinged, it was done.
Dick crossed the room and set a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Thanks, Tim.”
He shrugged, eyes still on the screen. “Hope you’re ready for this. You start tomorrow Detective Grayson.”
Outside, the city hummed softly, different from Gotham’s constant growl. The air carried laughter, distant sirens, and shouts of neighbors. Dick stood a while longer, the weight of everything both gone and beginning settling against his ribs. Then he turned off the light and left Tim to sleep…or not, seeing as the computers were still on.
***
The elevator dinged.
Peter looked up automatically from his desk, half expecting the sound to be muscle memory playing tricks on him again. But this time, someone actually stepped out.
Neal.
Perfectly pressed shirt, a slim tie, and fluffy hair. He walked through the bullpen with an easy confidence and a genuine smile on his face.
“Neal!” Peter stood.
Every head turned toward him. Diana straightened in her chair. Clint blinked once and frowned. There was something off about Neal. The way he walked, carried himself, smiled. None of it was Neal.
The man stopped mid-stride, brows knitting slightly in confusion. Then he smiled, “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.” His voice carried an accent Peter couldn’t identify. A weird blend of almost Slavic mixed with the heaviness of Gotham. “I’m Richard Grayson. You can call me Dick.”
He extended a hand and Peter took it with slight hesitation. He knew Neal was really Dick Grayson, but he’d never expected to actually meet Dick.
Hughes came out of his office with an amused grin that made the office freeze. They’d never seen Hughes smile, even slightly. He came down the stairs with his usual calm authority and shook Neal–no-Dick’s hand without pause.
“Detective Grayson,” Hughes said warmly. “It’s good to have you join us.”
The room seemed to catch on at the same moment even as Hughes clapped Dick on the shoulder and turned him to face the bullpen.
“Everyone, this is Detective Dick Grayson from Blüdhaven PD. He’s been undercover for the last eight years.”
Eight years. Timed exactly to when Neal Caffrey popped up on their radar.
Diana got up from her desk and with a grin thrust her hand forward to be shaken. “Well then, Detective Grayson. May I be the first to welcome you to the White Collar office.”
A gentle laugh echoed in the silence. “Thank you very much, and please. Call me Dick. All my friends do.”