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Neal Caffrey had led the FBI to believe he was thirty-two. It was quite impressive, in his opinion — and maybe it did inflate his ego a little, knowing how well his makeup concealed his young features. His dad hadn’t believed he could pull it off, so of course Neal had to prove him wrong.
His dad hated it now, though.
None of the others were any the wiser, although there had been a few instances where Neal may have let his youthfulness show in the way he handled things. That was harder to hide. Still, he wasn’t a master con artist by fluke.
Mozzie had warned him to be careful, of course — that the truth was bound to come out at some point. Neal knew that too. It would have to come to light eventually. But he could afford to be ignorant in the meantime.
The case they were working on involved a diamond forger who was embedding kryptonite into the stones. The forgeries were nearly flawless, but because of the kryptonite, they’d had to request a representative from the Justice League to assist.
Neal had been making guesses as to who it might be, and most of the White Collar office had started placing bets.
“Maybe it’ll be Superman,” Jones said, leaning back in his chair and tossing a ball into the air.
“Please. They’re not going to send one of the Big Three for this,” Diana replied. “Batman, Wonder Woman, and Superman are all out of the question.”
They only had to wait a few more minutes before the League member arrived. The suspense in the bullpen was almost tangible.
The elevator doors dinged.
Everyone waited with bated breath.
A man at least six-foot-five stepped out, built like a tank, adorned with guns, a red helmet concealing his face.
Red Hood.
The Red Hood’s gaze immediately locked onto Neal.
“Neal.”
Peter shot him a look — the kind that screamed, Neal, what did you do now?
Several agents instinctively reached for their holstered guns. Red Hood had been on their Most Wanted list for years before the League had pardoned him.
Neal groaned inwardly. So much for keeping secrets.
Red Hood tilted his head and opened his arms. “What? No welcome hug, buddy?”
Neal rolled his eyes at his dad’s theatrics. He stepped forward and gave him a brief hug.
“Hi, Dad.”
Red Hood didn’t let go immediately.
Neal stiffened. That was deliberate.
When he finally pulled back, Red Hood kept his hands on Neal’s shoulders, helmet
tilted slightly as if examining him.
“You look older,” he said.
There was a beat.
Neal smiled tightly. “That’s… generally how time works.”
Peter stepped forward, diplomatic but coiled. “Neal. You want to explain why an armed vigilante from the Justice League just walked in and greeted you like a Hallmark card?”
Red Hood’s helmet turned toward Peter slowly.
“Vigilante?” His voice dropped half an octave. “I’m officially sanctioned.”
“On probation,” Diana muttered under her breath.
Neal cleared his throat. “Peter, this is… complicated.”
“That’s my favorite word,” Peter replied flatly.
Red Hood crossed his arms, guns shifting against tactical straps. The motion made half the bullpen tense again.
“You his handler?” Red Hood asked.
“Yes,” Peter answered evenly. “Supervisory Special Agent Peter Burke.”
A pause.
Red Hood stepped closer.
Neal sighed. “Dad—”
Peter blinked. “Dad?”
The bullpen collectively froze.
Jones stopped mid-catch with his stress ball.
Diana mouthed Dad? in disbelief.
Red Hood removed his helmet.
There were audible gasps.
Neal looked painfully resigned.
Peter looked like someone had just handed him a 400-page report written in a foreign language.
The man beneath the helmet was younger than expected — sharp features, a white streak cutting through dark hair, eyes that were covered by a mask but the resemblance Neal had with the man was unremarkable.
“You didn’t tell them?” Red Hood asked Neal.
“You’re on several international watchlists,” Neal shot back quietly. “It didn’t come up at brunch.”
Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. “Neal. How old are you?”
Neal hesitated.
Red Hood smirked. “Go on. Tell him.”
Neal exhaled.
“…Twenty.” The bullpen erupted.
“You said you were thirty-two!”
“That explains the wine preferences!”
“I owe Diana twenty bucks!”
Peter didn’t raise his voice. Somehow that was worse.
“Everyone out,” he said calmly.
The bullpen cleared in seconds.
Red Hood leaned casually against a desk like he wasn’t responsible for detonating the room.
Peter locked eyes with Neal. “You forged your age.”
Neal winced. “In my defense—”
“You forged your age,” Peter repeated.
Red Hood chuckled. “That’s my kid.”
Peter turned slowly. “You are not helping.”
Red Hood shrugged. “Didn’t raise him to think small.”
“For now,” Peter said evenly, “we have a case involving weaponized kryptonite embedded in counterfeit diamonds. If you two are done with the family reunion, perhaps we can focus.”
Red Hood’s demeanor snapped back to professional.
“They’re not just embedding it,” he said.
“They’re stabilizing it. That’s new.”
Neal’s eyes sharpened. “So whoever’s making them understands advanced
materials science… and alien radiation.”
“And has access to black-market League intel,” Red Hood added.
Peter looked between them.
Neal straightened slightly — more focused now, less rattled.
“Okay,” Neal said. “So this isn’t about fake diamonds.”
Red Hood nodded once. “It’s about bait.”
Silence fell again.
Peter folded his arms. “Bait for who?”
Red Hood’s eyes flicked briefly to Neal. “…That,” he said carefully, “is what we’re here to figure out.”
The bullpen slowly returned to motion, though far less confidently than before.
Agents typed. Phones rang. Papers shuffled.
But every single person was listening.
Inside the conference room, the atmosphere was tight.
Peter stood at the head of the table. Diana and Jones were seated on one side. Neal leaned back in his chair like this was just another Tuesday. Red Hood stood instead of sitting, looming more than necessary.
A few additional agents lined the walls, pretending not to stare.
Red Hood reached into one of his jacket pouches.
Three people flinched.
He pulled out… A small packet of makeup wipes.
Neal froze. “Don’t.”
Red Hood ignored him, stepping forward.
“Dad—”
Red Hood grabbed Neal by the chin like he was still fifteen.
“You look ridiculous,” he muttered. “Get that stuff off. You’re aging yourself a decade.”
The room went dead silent.
Red Hood began wiping foundation from Neal’s cheek.
Neal squirmed. “Dad, stop.”
Peter blinked.
Jones’ mouth fell open.
Diana looked like she was trying very hard not to laugh.
Red Hood leaned back to inspect his work. “There. That’s better. You’ve got good skin. Stop suffocating it.”
Neal groaned and slumped in his chair. “I am in federal custody.”
“And?” Red Hood said flatly. “Moisturize.”
One of the younger agents whispered, “Is… is this real?”
Jones whispered back, “I think we crossed into another dimension.”
Peter cleared his throat, attempting to salvage authority. “Are we done?”
Red Hood tossed the wipe into the trash with precise aim. “For now.”
Over the next few days, the bullpen adjusted.
Adjusted was a generous word.
Agents were wary. Careful. Slightly pale.
Red Hood had once been on their Most Wanted list. The fact that he now stood near the coffee machine discussing
Colombian blends with Diana was deeply unsettling.
He didn’t hover.
He didn’t threaten.
He didn’t even posture.
He just… existed.
Like a heavily armed, six-foot-five father chaperoning a field trip.
Neal, however, became a menace.
He leaned back in his chair and tipped it dangerously far just to see if his dad would
react.
Red Hood: still as a statue.
Neal swiped one of Red Hood’s spare magazines off the table and inspected it like a toy.
Red Hood: slow inhale.
Neal smirked.
“Put it back.”
“Or what?”
Every agent within earshot stopped breathing.
Red Hood looked at him.
Not threatening.
Not violent.
Just Dad.
“You know what.”
Neal muttered something under his breath and put it back.
Diana leaned toward Jones. “I’ve seen him stare down intergalactic warlords.”
Jones whispered, “Yeah, but has he handled a bored Neal?”
On day three, Neal stole Red Hood’s helmet and set it on his own head while sitting at Peter’s desk.
“Burke,” Neal said in a distorted voice, feet up on the desk. “I’ve decided to take over the FBI.”
Peter didn’t even look up from his paperwork. “Neal, give your father his murder bucket back.”
Across the bullpen, Red Hood stood very still.
Agents braced.
Red Hood walked over calmly.
Removed the helmet from Neal’s head.
Bonked him lightly on the forehead with it.
“Don’t touch my gear.”
The bullpen collectively exhaled.
Later that afternoon, an agent dropped a stack of files near Neal.
Red Hood’s head snapped up.
Neal didn’t even flinch.
“Told you,” Neal said smugly. “He’s house-trained.”
Several agents choked.
Red Hood narrowed his eyes. “Keep talking.”
But there was no heat behind it.
Just warning.
The kind that came with history.
By the end of the week, the fear had shifted.
They were still wary.
Still careful.
But now?
They were watching with bated breath for a different reason.
Not because Red Hood might shoot someone.
But because Neal might.
Emotionally.
Psychologically.
Relentlessly.
And Red Hood, terror of Gotham’s underworld, sanctioned operative of the Justice League…
…was literally just a dad.
He reminded Neal to eat.
He criticized his posture.
He told him to stop drinking terrible wine.
He threatened, quietly, to “have a conversation” with anyone who overworked him.
Peter watched it all with narrowed eyes.
Because beneath the humor, beneath the domestic absurdity—
Red Hood tracked every movement in the room.
Every exit.
Every threat.
And every time Neal laughed too loudly or leaned too far back in his chair—
Red Hood’s gaze softened in a way that made Peter understand something very important.
This wasn’t a visit.
This was protective surveillance.
And whatever this kryptonite forger was planning—
Red Hood wasn’t here for the FBI.
He was here for Neal.
The conference room door was half open.
Inside, Peter stood at the board, crime scene photos and financial trails mapped out in tight clusters. Diana leaned against the table, arms crossed. Jones flipped
through a file.
Red Hood stood near the wall, arms folded, listening.
“We’re close,” Peter said. “The transfer happens at midnight. Private gallery event. Invite-only.”
“We need someone inside,” Diana added.
“Someone who can pass as a buyer.”
There was a brief silence. Then—
The door creaked open.
Neal stepped in, adjusting his cuffs. “What starts at midnight?”
Everyone turned.
Red Hood didn’t miss a beat.
“Your bedtime.”
Neal stopped mid-step and glared at him.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
Jones coughed to hide a laugh.
Peter pressed his lips together.
Neal walked fully into the room, ignoring the board for a moment. He reached for the metal water bottle sitting on the table next to Red Hood.
He twisted the cap and lifted it to his mouth—
It was gone.
Snatched cleanly from his hand before he even registered the movement.
Neal blinked. "Dad, what the hell?”
Red Hood took a slow sip from the bottle. “That’s spicy water.”
Neal stared at him like you're joking.
“You’re too young.”
Neal made a noise of pure offense. “Dad. Seriously. I have had spicy water before.”
Red Hood raised an eyebrow. “When?”
Neal hesitated for half a second too long not wanting to say "when" lest he get in trouble for it.
Red Hood narrowed his eyes "we are talking about this later".
Diana turned slightly away, shoulders shaking.
Jones leaned toward another agent and whispered, “Is he seriously getting carded right now"?
The height difference didn’t help.
Neal, did not inherit his dads height and stands at 5'9, looks compact standing next to a six-foot-five armored vigilante built like a tank. Red Hood loomed effortlessly, broad shoulders blocking half the board.
Neal jabbed a finger upward. “I am an adult.”
“You forged your age,” Red Hood replied calmly.
The room went silent again.
Neal froze.
P
eter’s eyes lit up just slightly. “Oh, we’re circling back to that.”
Neal shot him a betrayed look. “You are enjoying this.”
“Immensely,” Peter replied.
Red Hood set the bottle safely out of
Neal’s reach on the far end of the table.
Neal looked at it. Looked at his dad.
Looked back at it.
Red Hood slowly slid it even farther away without breaking eye contact.
Jones lost it and had to turn fully toward the wall.
Neal huffed and finally glanced at the board. “Midnight. Gallery. Invite-only buyers. Let me guess — smug, absurdly wealthy, terrible taste in art?”
Peter nodded once. “Sound like anyone you know?”
Neal straightened slightly. “I love that you need me.”
Red Hood immediately cut in. “No.”
All eyes shifted to him.
Peter folded his arms. “We do.”
Red Hood’s gaze locked onto Neal. Assessing. Calculating.
“You don’t go alone,” he said.
Neal rolled his eyes. “I never go alone.”
“You do,” Peter and Red Hood said at the same time.
There was a beat.
Diana muttered, “This is surreal.”
Red Hood stepped closer to the board. “If the exchange is at midnight, security will tighten at eleven-thirty. Whoever’s running this knows the League is sniffing around.”
Neal tilted his head. “You think they’re expecting you?”
“I think,” Red Hood replied evenly, “they’re expecting someone.”
His eyes flicked to Neal for half a second too long.
The room noticed.
Peter noticed most of all.
Neal, oblivious or pretending to be, leaned back in his chair again — tipping it dangerously.
Red Hood’s hand shot out automatically, steadying the chair before it could fall.
The motion was pure instinct.
The agents all saw it.
Not tactical.
Not strategic
Just Dad.
Neal looked up at him. “…I had it.”
Red Hood didn’t remove his hand for a moment. “Sure.”
The room was quiet again — but this time not from fear.
From understanding.
Because the terrifying Red Hood, former
Most Wanted, League operative—
Was watching Neal like he expected the world to try and take him.
And at midnight?
It just might.
Midnight came quickly.
Too quickly for Red Hood’s liking.
The surveillance van was parked half a block from the private gallery — an old industrial building refitted with polished concrete floors, dim lighting, and curated “minimalist” sculptures that probably cost
more than the van itself.
Inside the van, monitors flickered.
Diana tracked exterior movement. Jones monitored comms. Peter stood near the open doors, arms crossed.
Red Hood sat — barely — on the reinforced bench, helmet back on, arms folded so tightly the armor creaked faintly.
On one of the screens, Neal adjusted his cuffs as he approached the entrance.
Designer suit. No tie. Hair styled just messy enough to look expensive.
He looked at ease.
Red Hood knew better.
“You’re tense,” Peter said quietly.
Red Hood didn’t look at him. “There are twelve visible guards.”
Jones glanced back. “You counted that from one camera sweep?”
“Four at the door. Two on the mezzanine. Six circulating.”
Diana checked the feed. “…He’s right.”
Peter studied him. “You don’t trust this.”
“No,” Red Hood said bluntly.
“Neal’s done this before.”
Red Hood’s helmet turned slightly toward him. “That’s the problem.”
On-screen, Neal passed the velvet rope with a charming smile and a forged invitation that would’ve impressed half the Treasury Department.
Inside the gallery, champagne flowed. Diamonds glittered under careful lighting.
And guns.
Neal saw them immediately.
Not obvious — not to civilians.
But the guards weren’t just armed. They were military-trained. Earpieces. Formation spacing. Trigger discipline.
This wasn’t about selling fake diamonds.
This was a fortress.
Neal’s smile never faltered as he accepted a glass of champagne.
In the van, Red Hood leaned forward
slightly.
“He sees it,” Diana murmured.
“Of course he does,” Red Hood replied.
Inside, Neal drifted deeper into the gallery — closer to the back office corridor.
A man stepped into his path.
Older. Tailored suit. Silver at his temples. Calm eyes.
Power radiated off him without effort.
“Mr. Calloway,” the man said smoothly, using Neal’s alias. “I was hoping you’d attend.”
Neal tilted his head, easy grin in place. “When I hear ‘rare stones’ and ‘discretion,’ I clear my calendar.”
The man’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“Of course you do.”
In the van, Jones frowned. “We didn’t feed him that alias directly.”
Red Hood went very still.
Inside, Neal’s instincts began to hum.
“You’ve done remarkable work,” Neal continued casually, gesturing to a display case. “Stabilizing the lattice structure like that? Impressive.”
The man studied him carefully.
“Yes,” he said softly. “It is.”
A pause.
Then—
“And you’re remarkably young for someone with your reputation.”
In the van, Peter stiffened.
Red Hood’s hand tightened on the edge of the console.
Inside, Neal laughed lightly. “Flattery will cost you extra.”
The man stepped closer.
Too close.
“I don’t think you’re here to buy diamonds,” he said quietly.
Around them, the guards subtly adjusted positions.
Neal felt it. Shift in weight. Hands nearer to weapons. Exit routes narrowing.
In the van, Diana’s voice sharpened. “They’re closing in.”
Red Hood was already reaching for the door handle.
“Not yet,” Peter ordered. Red Hood didn’t move.
But the air inside the van changed.
“You said you needed someone inside,” Red Hood said, voice low and controlled. “He’s inside.”
“And we’re monitoring—”
“If one gun lifts,” Red Hood interrupted calmly, “I go through the front door.”
Peter met the dark visor of the helmet.
“And then what?”
There was no hesitation.
“I take him out.”
Peter held his gaze. “The suspect?”
Red Hood’s voice dropped half a degree.
“Anyone.”
Silence filled the van.
Peter absorbed that.
Then, evenly: “You don’t get to start a war in Manhattan.”
Red Hood turned fully toward him now.
“This ends tonight.”
Peter narrowed his eyes. “You’re talking about the case.”
“Yes.”
“But you’re also talking about Neal.”
A pause.
Red Hood didn’t deny it.
“When this is over,” he said evenly, “he’s done.”
Peter’s jaw tightened. “That’s not your call.”
“It is if I make it one.”
Jones slowly looked between them like he was watching a live grenade discussion.
Peter stepped closer. “You think you can just extract him? Wipe his deal? Walk him out?”
“Yes.”
The certainty in that single word was terrifying.
Peter studied him.
“You have something,” he realized.
Red Hood didn’t answer.
Peter exhaled slowly. “You’ve been planning this.”
“I don’t leave my kid on a leash,” Red Hood replied.
Inside the gallery, the mastermind smiled faintly at Neal.
“You’re not FBI,” the man said softly.
Neal kept his expression loose. “I’m wounded.”
“No,” the man corrected gently. “You’re bait.”
In the van, Diana’s screen flickered.
A new feed appeared. Infrared. From inside the building. Red Hood’s doing.
Peter noticed.
“You hacked their internal system?”
“I don’t like blind spots.”
On-screen, one guard’s hand shifted fully onto his weapon.
Neal saw it.
His smile dimmed just slightly.
“You’ve embedded more than kryptonite in those stones,” Neal said quietly. “Haven’t you?”
The man’s expression changed.
There it was. Confirmation.
“You’re very perceptive,” the man replied.
Neal’s comm crackled faintly in his ear.
Peter’s voice: “Neal, we’re moving.”
Red Hood was already out of the van.
Peter swore and followed.
Inside the gallery, the mastermind leaned in slightly.
“You should never have come tonight,” he said.
Around them, safeties clicked off.
Neal’s pulse spiked —
But his voice stayed smooth.
“Oh,” he said lightly, eyes flicking toward the nearest exit.
“I didn’t come alone.”
And somewhere outside—
A very large, very armed father was about to make an entrance.
Neal didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t even look at the guns now very subtly trained on him.
Instead, he took a slow sip of champagne.
“You’re making a mistake,” Neal said conversationally.
The mastermind smiled faintly. “No, Mr. Caffrey. I’ve been making preparations.”
Neal’s stomach dropped.
Not Calloway.
Caffrey.
Ah.
So that was how tonight was going to go.
“You’ve been embedding kryptonite in counterfeit diamonds,” Neal continued smoothly, as if they were discussing investment portfolios. “You built a distribution network flashy enough to attract federal attention. Loud enough to
attract the League.”
“Yes.”
“You wanted him here.”
The mastermind’s eyes flicked briefly toward the front entrance.
“Not him,” he corrected softly.
“You.”
Neal’s pulse ticked up.
In the van’s abandoned parking spot, Peter and Red Hood were already moving fast down the sidewalk.
Inside, Neal set his champagne glass down carefully.
“I’m flattered,” he said lightly. “But I’m more of a behind-the-scenes admirer.”
The mastermind stepped closer.
“You are the son of a man who has made powerful enemies,” he said quietly. “You are leverage.”
There it was.
Neal felt the shift — not fear.
Understanding.
This wasn’t about money.
Or diamonds.
Or even kryptonite.
This was a message.
“And you think grabbing me will bring him to heel?” Neal tilted his head. “You don’t know my father very well.”
“I know exactly what he’ll do.”
Around them, guards tightened formation.
Neal raised both hands slightly, casual surrender.
“Gentlemen, before we escalate this into something that requires drywall repair, can we discuss logistics?”
The mastermind blinked once.
Neal pressed the advantage.
“You went through extraordinary trouble to orchestrate this. Military-grade personnel. Stabilized alien material. A private venue. And for what?” Neal’s expression sharpened just slightly. “To grab me in a room full of witnesses?”
The mastermind’s smile thinned.
Neal took a slow step sideways — repositioning himself subtly so that two guards were now blocking each other’s
clean shot.
“You don’t want a shootout,” Neal continued. “You want a trade. A negotiation. A spectacle.”
A faint crack appeared in the man’s composure.
“You think you’re irreplaceable?” he asked.
“No,” Neal said honestly.
“I think I’m useful.”
Silence.
Then Neal delivered the hook.
“If you kill me, he burns your world down.”
A beat.
“If you keep me alive,” Neal continued softly, “you get a conversation.”
The mastermind studied him.
Calculating.
Neal could feel the seconds stretching thin.
He needed more time.
Outside—
A loud metallic crash echoed through the front of the building.
Several guests screamed.
Every guard in the room flinched.
Neal smiled faintly. “Oh,” he murmured.
The mastermind’s jaw tightened. “You signaled him.”
Neal’s eyes sparkled. “I didn’t have to.”
The front doors exploded inward.
Not dramatically.
Not theatrically.
Just violently efficient.
Red Hood stepped through the settling dust like something out of a nightmare.
Helmet on.
Guns drawn.
Controlled.
Precise.
Two guards moved. They were disarmed before they could finish the motion.
A third went down from a non-lethal round to the shoulder.
Peter stormed in behind him, weapon raised. “FBI! Drop it!”
Chaos erupted.
Guests scrambled.
Guards tried to reposition.
Neal didn’t move.
He held the mastermind’s gaze.
“You miscalculated,” Neal said quietly.
The mastermind reached for a concealed weapon—
Red Hood saw it.
Three steps. One brutal, controlled strike to the wrist.
The weapon clattered across the floor.
Red Hood grabbed the man by the collar and slammed him against the nearest wall hard enough to rattle the frame.
The room went dead silent.
Red Hood leaned in close, voice low and lethal. “You don’t use my son.”
The mastermind wheezed slightly but managed a faint smile.
“I already did.”
That was when Neal felt it.
A subtle weight shift.
A pressure against his lower back.
He glanced down slightly.
A blinking device taped beneath the display pedestal behind him.
Infrared trigger.
Linked to proximity.
The kryptonite-laced diamonds in the room weren’t just bait.
They were amplification.
Neal looked up slowly.
“…Dad?”
Red Hood’s helmet snapped toward him instantly.
The mastermind laughed weakly. “You came exactly where I needed you.”
Peter swore. “Bomb squad. Now.”
Red Hood released the man instantly and crossed the room in two strides.
Neal kept very still.
“Don’t move,” Red Hood ordered.
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
Red Hood knelt, scanning the device.
His voice shifted — tactical now. Focused.
“Pressure trigger. Linked to radiation spike.
It’s calibrated to me.”
Peter’s blood ran cold. “It’ll detonate if you get too close?”
“Yes.”
Neal swallowed. “That feels personal.”
Red Hood didn’t respond.
He was calculating angles.
Timing.
Risk.
The mastermind, pinned by two agents now, smiled faintly through split lips.
“I told you,” he rasped. “Leverage.”
Neal met his father’s visor.
For the first time that night, the humor was gone.
“Hey,” Neal said softly.
Red Hood looked up.
Neal gave him a small, steady smile.
“I’ve got this.”
Red Hood’s voice was steel. “No.”
Neal’s eyes sharpened.
“Trust me.”
A beat.
Peter watched the exchange — something unspoken passing between them.
Neal slowly crouched.
Careful.
Measured.
“You built it to respond to him,” Neal said calmly, studying the wiring. “You didn’t build it to respond to me.”
Red Hood’s fists clenched.
“If this goes wrong—”
“It won’t.”
Neal glanced up briefly, a flicker of his usual confidence returning.
“You didn’t raise an idiot.”
The room held its breath.
Neal reached for the casing—
And began to work.
Outside the gallery, the night air hit Neal like a welcome wave. He leaned against the side of the van, letting the adrenaline ebb. The device was still inside, inert for now, waiting for the bomb squad to deal with it. Guards were being herded away, and agents were securing the perimeter.
Red Hood crouched beside him, scanning him from head to toe. “You okay?”
Neal waved him off. “Dad, I’m fine. I promise.”
Jason didn’t budge. Instead, he pulled Neal into a tight, steady hug. Neal stiffened for a fraction of a second, then relaxed. He didn’t say anything; just let it happen.
“I just… I just wanna go back to the apartment,” Neal murmured.
Red Hood’s helmet tilted slightly as if nodding to himself. “Come on, bud. Let’s go.”
Peter approached, hands raised in caution but no longer tense. “You’re allowed to leave, but I want you both in the office first thing tomorrow morning. Understood?”
Neal and Jason exchanged a glance. Neal nodded, and Jason’s tone was calm but
firm. “Understood.”
With that, the two slipped away into the quiet streets of Manhattan.
Back at June’s apartment, Neal kicked off his shoes and went straight for a fresh set of pajamas. Jason, now stripped of all his tactical armor, sank onto the couch in soft, comfortable clothes, and pulled Neal down beside him. Neal rested his head against Jason’s shoulder, finally letting the tension of the night melt away.
His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. Dick.
Neal groaned softly but answered,
FaceTime flicking the screen to show
Dick’s smiling face.
“Oh, hi, Uncle Dick,” Neal said, trying for casual but failing to hide the exhaustion.
Dick’s smile softened. “Hey, my favorite nephew.”
Neal rolled his eyes, huffed a laugh. “I’m your only nephew.”
Jason smirked, leaning closer. “Do you have them?”
Dick’s expression turned serious. He nodded. “Yeah, Jay, I do. B’s lawyer is
sending them over as we speak. By tomorrow morning, it should be all sorted.”
Jason exhaled slowly, relief evident even through the shadows of his hoodless face. “About time.”
The call ended, leaving a comfortable quiet between them. Neal tilted his head up to look at Jason. “Dad… what was that all about?”
Jason smiled down at him, brushing a stray lock of hair back. He pressed a gentle kiss to Neal’s forehead. “You’re coming home, bud.”
Neal’s shoulders relaxed entirely for the first time all night. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice low. “Home.”
Jason wrapped an arm around him again, snug and protective, and for the first time that night, Neal let himself just… be a kid again.
And tomorrow he gets to see his whole family again, he gets to go home.
Back to Gotham