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Neal was happy to be back home with his dad. It was nice to be back and Gotham after running for so long.
Neal ran when he was 16 to move onto bigger heists. He first started young, his grandmother taught him the sleight of hand and how to pull it off when he was three. His grandfather wasn't impressed but he couldn't do anything.
Neal pulled off his big proper heists when he was thirteen and it was successful and oh how he enjoyed the adrenaline rush and the thrill. He was great at forging and so when he was 16 he decided he was going to move to New York.
It took a lot of convincing on his part to sell it to his dad. It initially started out as "just a few friends going away for a few days". That quickly turned into more and when his dad found out he was on his own he was not happy.
Which meant he had to explain everything and well, Jason was surprisingly supportive. His dad was proud even that Neal had pulled off these heists to a very high skilled level.
His dad allowed him to go about and do that stuff cause one, he found it funny that none of Neals uncles or grandfather could figure out who was behind these heists. And two, he was always keeping tabs on him.
When Neal got to New York at the beginning, he met Mozzie and well, the rest is history.
Now Neal finds himself in the passenger seat on his way to his Pops house.
Wayne Manor.
Jason drums his fingers against the steering wheel of the car and glances sideways at him.
“Alright, bud. You’ve officially been requested to attend the Manor.”
Neal groans dramatically and tips his head back against the seat. “Dad. They are all going to smother me.”
Jason snorts. “You survived the feds. You survived New York. You survived me finding out about half your ‘creative accounting.’ I think you can handle a few
hugs.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Neal mutters. “It’s the lectures. Grayson’s disappointed face. Tim’s suspicious face.
Damian’s stabby face.”
Jason smirks and reaches over at a red light, ruffling Neal’s hair until it’s a mess. “You’ll live.”
Neal bats his hand away, but he’s smiling. He hasn’t let himself feel this—this steady warmth in his chest—in years. Gotham’s skyline cuts across the horizon, all sharp edges and familiar shadows. It feels like coming home in a way New York never
quite did.
The gates of Wayne Manor loom ahead, iron and imposing. Neal whistles low. “You’d think Grandpa could tone down the dramatic billionaire aesthetic.”
“He could,” Jason replies dryly. “He won’t.”
The car rolls up the drive, gravel crunching beneath the tires. Neal barely has time to swing off before the front doors fly open.
They come rushing.
“Neal!” That’s his uncle Dick, all bright grin and open arms, already halfway down the steps.
Behind him, his uncle Tim hangs back but his eyes are sharp, cataloging every detail. Damian stands rigid at the top of the steps, arms crossed, pretending he’s not staring.
And then—
Neal barely has time to brace before Dick slams into him in a full-body hug.
“Oof—okay—hello to you too,” Neal wheezes, though he’s laughing.
“You idiot,” Dick says into his shoulder.
“You absolute idiot. Do you know how many heart attacks you’ve caused?”
“Statistically? At least three,” Neal replies.
“But in my defense, I look good for it.”
Jason rolls his eyes but there’s something softer there as he watches.
Tim steps forward next, offering a hand instead of a hug. “You dropped off the grid twice.”
Neal shakes his hand, smirking. “And yet you still found me. I’m impressed.”
Tim’s mouth twitches. “Don’t be.”
Damian approaches last. He studies Neal like a puzzle he’s trying to solve. “You look thinner.”
“That’s your hello?” Neal raises a brow.
“You were reckless,” Damian says flatly. “It was inefficient.”
Neal smiles faintly. “Missed you too, Dami.”
There’s a shift in the doorway, and suddenly the air changes.
Bruce Wayne stands there, composed as
ever, hands folded behind his back.
“Neal.”
The single word carries weight.
Neal straightens automatically. For all his bravado, for all the years away, that tone still does something to him.
“Pops.”
Bruce steps forward. For a heartbeat, Neal thinks he’ll get a firm handshake or a measured nod.
Instead, Bruce pulls him into a tight, deliberate embrace.
“You’re home,” Bruce says quietly.
And just like that, the smothering Neal had feared doesn’t feel suffocating at all.
Jason watches the whole thing with a small, almost disbelieving smile. When Bruce finally releases Neal, Jason claps a hand on his son’s shoulder.
“See?” Jason mutters. “Told you you’d survive.”
Neal exhales, looking around at all of them—his chaotic, overprotective, dramatic family.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I think I will.”
They didn't stay long at the Manor. Both father and son still a bit tired from the last few days. Jason had noticed his sons tired expressions and neal was suppressing his yawns. The kid tried to sneak away to get coffee every few minutes. After Jason had banned him from anymore after his 2nd cup in forty minutes.
Note to self the kids coffee intake could rival Timbos.
That's how Neal found himself in the passenger seat of his dads car again on the way to the safe house.
The safehouse is exactly how Neal remembers it.
Minimal furniture. Reinforced windows. Enough weapons hidden in the walls to start a small war.
Homey, in a Jason sort of way.
Jason tosses the keys onto the kitchen counter.
“Alright,” he says. “You’re crashing.”
Neal opens his mouth. Jason points at him.
“Don’t.”
“I was going to say I’m not tired.”
“You yawned seven times in the car.”
“Five.”
“Seven.”
Neal sighs dramatically. “You wound me.”
Jason gestures toward the kitchen.
"Food, then bed.”
Neal shuffles off but pauses halfway to the kitchen table.
“Hey, Dad?”
Jason looks up from the coffee machine.
“Yeah?”
Neal hesitates. It’s a strange feeling — being back here after years of independence.
After running.
After almost getting caught more times than he’d like to admit and then getting caught.
“…Thanks for letting me come back,” Neal says quietly.
Jason stares at him like the statement is ridiculous.
“Kid,” he says. “You never had to ask.”
Neal smiles faintly and sits down.
Jason gets something whipped up quickly and gives it to Neal as he sits opposite him at the table with his own plate.
After Neal mumbles a goodnight and heads down the hall to bed.
Jason waits for the bedroom door to click shut.
Then he mutters to himself,
“God help Gotham.”
Because his son is home.
And Neal Caffrey bored in Gotham?
That’s a problem waiting to happen.
Jason moves quietly down the hallway, the floorboards barely creaking under his weight. Old habits die hard.
The door to Neal’s room is cracked open.
Jason nudges it wider with two fingers.
The sight inside stops him for a second.
Neal is completely out.
Curled slightly on his side, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other half hanging off the bed. His hair is a mess and he’s still wearing the same shirt from earlier, like he laid down for “just a minute” and never made it any further.
Jason steps into the room, softer than he’d ever move on patrol.
For all Neal’s confidence, for all the smooth talking and impossible heists, moments like this remind Jason how young he still is.
Twenty.
Too young to have spent four years running halfway across the country pulling cons big enough to make federal agents chase him.
Too young to look this tired.
Neal shifts a little in his sleep, brow creasing faintly before he settles again.
Jason exhales quietly and sits on the edge of the bed.
The mattress dips slightly but Neal doesn’t wake.
Jason studies his kid for a moment.
The sharp cheekbones. The familiar stubborn line of his mouth. The same black hair Jason remembers from when Neal was a kid running around Wayne Manor causing chaos with his uncles.
Four years.
Four years of watching from a distance, checking reports, keeping tabs through contacts and security feeds, making sure
Neal never got in too deep.
Jason had always told himself it was enough.
Seeing him here now proves it wasn’t.
Neal makes a soft, half-asleep sound and shifts closer to the pillow.
Jason reaches over without thinking and brushes a hand lightly through Neal’s hair, pushing it away from his face.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jason murmurs quietly. “Sleep it off, kid.”
Neal doesn’t wake.
Jason sits there a little longer than he means to.
Just listening to the slow rhythm of Neal’s breathing.
Just making sure he’s really here.
Finally Jason stands, careful not to jostle the bed.
He pulls the blanket up over Neal’s shoulder, something he hasn’t done since Neal was small enough to fall asleep on the couch during movie nights.
At the doorway he pauses and glances back once more.
Neal hasn’t moved.
Still curled up. Still out cold.
Jason huffs a quiet breath. “Missed you too,” he mutters under his breath.
Neal sleeps for almost twelve hours.
When he wakes, the safehouse is quiet.
Jason’s gone.
Neal lies there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening to the soft hum of the building. His brain is already waking up faster than the rest of him, gears turning the way they always do.
Gotham. The city is full of art, private collections, museums, exhibitions—
And security systems designed
specifically to stop people like him.
Neal’s mouth curves slowly.
It’s been a while since he’s done a proper job.
Not the rushed, cross-country cons he’d pulled while running. A real heist. One with planning and precision and a little bit of theatrical flair.
More importantly— He wonders if any of them would notice.
His dad.
His uncles.
His Pops.
After all the stories about how unstoppable Gotham’s protectors are…
Neal pushes himself upright.
“Well,” he murmurs to the empty room.
“Let’s find out.”
The exhibition opens two nights later.
A private gallery in downtown Gotham showcasing pieces on loan from international collectors. Security is impressive—motion sensors, pressure alarms, cameras, guards rotating every ten minutes.
Neal strolls through the exhibit earlier that afternoon looking like he absolutely belongs there.
Tailored suit. Easy smile. A forged invitation tucked neatly in his pocket.
He pauses in front of the painting he’d chosen days ago.
A small but priceless landscape from the 1800s, rich with color and delicate brushwork.
Perfect.
The forgery sitting back at the safehouse is nearly indistinguishable.
Neal had spent hours on it the night before, working quietly at the kitchen table while Jason was out on patrol.
Every stroke carefully matched.
Every crack in the aging varnish replicated.
By the time he was done, even Neal had to lean close to spot the differences.
He smiles faintly at the memory.
“Let’s see if the Batfamily does any better,” he murmurs.
The heist itself is almost disappointingly easy.
Midnight.
A short blackout triggered from a junction
box half a block away.
Three minutes of darkness.
Three minutes is more than enough.
Neal moves through the gallery like a shadow, calm and efficient. The forged painting slides into the frame with practiced precision while the original disappears into the protective case hidden under his coat.
Lights flicker back on.
Security systems reset.
Nothing appears disturbed.
Neal walks out five minutes later with the same relaxed confidence he’d entered with.
No alarms.
No capes.
No suspicious billionaires dropping from the ceiling.
He laughs quietly to himself as he turns the corner.
By the time Jason returns to the safehouse hours later, the city is still wrapped in the quiet gray of early morning.
Jason steps inside, pulling off his helmet and dropping his jacket over a chair.
The smell hits him first.
Coffee.
Fresh coffee.
Jason frowns.
He walks into the kitchen to find Neal standing at the counter, leaning against it casually while the coffee machine finishes brewing another cup.
Jason stares.
“…Why are you awake?”
Neal glances over his shoulder, looking entirely too cheerful for someone who supposedly just woke up.
“Morning"?
Jason checks the clock.
It’s barely five.
“You are drinking coffee,” Jason says slowly, “at a ridiculous hour.”
Neal shrugs and reaches for the mug. “It’s a lifestyle.”
Jason narrows his eyes and folds his arms.
“That doesn’t explain why you’re up before the sun.”
Neal takes a sip of coffee, completely unfazed.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
Jason stares at him for another moment.
Neal looks relaxed. Maybe a little smug—but Neal always looks smug.
Still.
Jason’s instincts twitch faintly.
“…You didn’t go out, did you?”
Neal raises an eyebrow. “Dad.”
Jason waits.
Neal just shrugs again.
Jason sighs and runs a hand through his hair.
“Kid,” he mutters, grabbing his own mug from the cabinet, “one of these days you’re going to give me gray hair.”
Neal smiles innocently into his coffee.
Across Gotham, a gallery curator is about to discover that a priceless painting has been replaced with a perfect forgery.
And not a single member of the family currently hunting criminals across the city has the slightest idea who did it.
Neal takes another sip.
God, it feels good to be home.
Jason figures it out three hours later.
Not because of Neal.
Because of Tim.
The call comes through Jason’s comm while he’s sitting at the safehouse kitchen table watching Neal flip through an old magazine like the most innocent man alive.
“Hey, Jason,” Tim’s voice crackles through the speaker. “Question.”
Jason already doesn’t like the tone.
“What.”
“There was a theft last night. Downtown gallery.”
Jason glances at Neal.
Neal doesn’t even look up.
“What about it,” Jason says carefully.
“It’s weird,” Tim continues. “No forced entry. Cameras glitched for three minutes. Security didn’t notice anything until this morning.”
Jason watches Neal sip his coffee.
Still not looking up.
“And?” Jason prompts.
“…And the painting was replaced with a forgery,” Tim says. “A really good forgery.”
Jason slowly closes his eyes.
Across the table, Neal continues scrolling on his phone.
“Bring him down here,” Tim says.
Jason sighs.
Twenty minutes later Neal finds himself being escorted into the Batcave.
The elevator doors slide open and Neal immediately stops walking.
“…Wow.”
The cavern stretches out before him—platforms, computer stations, vehicles, the massive computer screens glowing in the dim light.
Neal turns slowly in a circle.
“This,” he says appreciatively, “is class.” He turns to his dad and says "how come you never took me down here when I was younger"?
He wanders off.
Jason pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Kid—”
Neal is already inspecting the Batmobile.
“Is this carbon fiber? Oh wow—”
Dick appears out of nowhere and gently grabs Neal by the shoulders.
“Nope,” says Dick Grayson cheerfully.
“Stay.”
He steers Neal back toward the group.
“We need to lecture you.”
Neal looks between them.
“What about?”
Tim gestures toward the giant screen displaying the stolen painting.
“The heist last night.”
Neal blinks. Then he tilts his head slightly.
“Alleged heist.”
Jason coughs suspiciously into his fist.
Dick shoots him a look.
Jason immediately schools his face but the corners of his mouth twitch. Only his kid.
Bruce is standing at the computer looking deeply exasperated.
Bruce Wayne sighs. “Neal.”
“Yes, Pops?”
Bruce gestures to the screen.
“You replaced a nineteenth-century landscape with a museum-quality forgery.”
Neal folds his arms. “That’s a strong accusation.”
Tim points at another screen showing microscopic scans of the painting.
“You used three layers of varnish to replicate aging.”
Neal shrugs. “Coincidence.”
Jason turns away so no one sees him grin.
Across the room, Damian is staring at Neal with something that looks dangerously like respect.
“…Impressive,” Damian mutters.
Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Regardless,” Bruce says, “we need to reintroduce the fact that you’re back in Gotham.”
Neal immediately looks suspicious.
“…What does that mean.”
“There’s a gala next week,” Bruce says calmly. “It would be the perfect place.”
A chorus of groans fills the cave.
“Seriously?” Tim mutters.
“Oh come on,” Dick says.
Neal looks horrified. “You can’t do that.”
Bruce raises an eyebrow. “And why not?”
Neal gestures vaguely.
“Because think about the future cons.”
Jason snorts.
Everyone stares at Neal.
Neal scowls. “Mimi would get it.”
Bruce’s mouth twitches. “Well,” Bruce says mildly, “too bad Selina isn’t here.”
Neal’s head snaps up instantly.
“Wait—where is she?”
Bruce answers casually. “Paris.”
Neal’s eyes light up. “Oh?”
Everyone in the cave notices immediately.
Neal leans forward slightly.
“What’s she doing there?”
Jason grabs the back of Neal’s hoodie and drags him backward.
“Okay, bud,” Jason says dryly. “That’s enough.”
Neal protests. “What? I’m just asking!”
Jason shakes his head. “Nope. I know that look.”
Neal grins.
Jason sighs.
Because if Neal Caffrey is already interested in whatever Selina Kyle is doing in Paris…
Gotham might not be the only city in trouble.
The gala is exactly as unbearable as Neal expected.
Crystal chandeliers. String quartet.
Gotham’s wealthiest people pretending they enjoy small talk while pretending not to stare at the infamous return of Jason Todd’s son.
Neal stands beside his father near the ballroom entrance, wearing a perfectly tailored suit and the polite smile he usually reserves for high-value marks.
“I hate this,” Neal mutters under his breath.
Jason barely glances at him. “You look great.”
“That’s not the issue.”
Across the room, Bruce is deep in
conversation with several donors while
Dick and Tim circulate through the crowd.
Damian stands near the staircase like a very judgmental gargoyle.
Neal sighs.
“This is a mistake.”
Jason raises an eyebrow.
“Being welcomed back by your family is a mistake?”
“No,” Neal says patiently. “Announcing to all of Gotham society that I exist is a mistake.”
Jason smirks.
Neal scans the room again.
A dozen wealthy socialites. Several priceless watches. At least three handbags worth more than most cars.
His fingers itch.
Maybe just a small con.
Nothing dramatic.
Just enough to keep the night interesting.
Neal excuses himself with a charming smile and drifts deeper into the crowd.
Ten minutes later his plan is almost in motion.
A distracted collector. A very expensive watch. A carefully timed bump—
And then the windows explode.
Glass rains across the ballroom as smoke floods the room. Guests scream and scramble for cover.
A loud manic laugh echoes through the hall.
One of Gotham’s rogues has decided to crash the party.
Neal immediately ducks behind a marble column as chaos erupts around him.
“Seriously?” he mutters.
Across the room, he catches a glimpse of Dick already slipping out a side exit.
Translation: Nightwing incoming.
Neal moves quickly, helping pull a stunned guest away from falling debris. A stray piece of glass catches his arm as he moves, slicing through his sleeve.
He hisses quietly but keeps moving.
Within minutes the fight is already ending.
Nightwing drops from the balcony like a blur of black and blue, shutting the whole thing down with professional efficiency.
Neal leans against the column, breathing out slowly.
“Well,” he mutters.
“That escalated.”
Jason finds him about thirty seconds later.
The second Jason spots the blood on
Neal’s sleeve, his expression darkens.
“Kid.”
“It’s fine—”
Jason grabs his arm anyway.
Neal sighs. “I’m fine.”
Jason doesn’t even respond. He just steers Neal toward the exit.
Bruce and the others meet them halfway, quickly confirming Neal isn’t seriously hurt.
Once they’re satisfied, Jason wastes no time getting him out of there.
Back at the safehouse, Neal ends up sitting on the kitchen counter while Jason digs out the first aid kit.
“Dad,” Neal says patiently. “I swear I’m fine.”
Jason grabs his arm. “You’re bleeding.”
Neal shrugs. “Minor detail.”
Jason cleans the cut and wraps a bandage around Neal’s forearm with practiced efficiency.
Once he’s finished, he pauses.
Then he pulls Neal into a sudden hug.
Neal blinks in surprise as Jason presses a quick kiss to the top of his head.
“Kid,” Jason mutters, voice rough with concern, “how is that another near-death experience you’ve had in the last two weeks?”
Neal huffs a quiet laugh.
“Hey, I dunno. Not like I go searching for them.”
Jason pulls back slightly and raises an eyebrow.
Neal sees it.
“…Okay,” Neal admits. “Not anymore.”
Jason keeps the eyebrow raised.
Neal sighs.
“I try not to?”
Jason snorts.
A little while later they both change into comfortable clothes and migrate to the living room.
The TV flickers quietly in the background while Gotham’s late-night news recaps the gala incident.
Neal stretches out on the couch and leans comfortably into Jason’s side. Jason throws an arm around his shoulders automatically.
Within minutes Neal’s eyes are drooping.
Jason glances down.
“Bub,” he murmurs.
Neal hums sleepily.
“Kyle and Roy are visiting tomorrow.”
Neal’s response is immediate, even half-asleep. “Fuck yeah.”
Jason chuckles softly and presses another kiss to Neal’s hair before pulling him a little closer.
Neal relaxes fully against him.
Five minutes later he’s completely out cold.
Jason leaves the TV on low and lets his kid sleep.
For the first time in years, his son is safe, home, and asleep on the couch beside him.
Neal wakes to loud voices.
Not the cautious kind of loud either.
The kind of loud that means someone in the kitchen is absolutely ignoring Jason’s rules about volume before coffee.
“…I’m telling you,” a familiar voice says, “if the kid can forge paintings that well, he should at least be charging more.”
Neal grins before he’s even fully awake.
He drags himself off the couch, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and shuffles toward the kitchen.
The second he appears in the doorway—
“Well look who finally woke up!”
Neal barely has time to react before Roy Harper barrels into him and lifts him clean off the ground in a crushing hug.
“Roy—!”
Roy laughs and squeezes him tighter.
“Kid! When did you get so tall?”
Neal wheezes. “I’m still five-nine—put me down!”
Roy finally sets him back on the floor but keeps one arm slung around his shoulders.
“Last time I saw you, you were stealing cookies from Alfred and blaming it on Dick.”
“That was a flawless operation,” Neal says defensively.
From the kitchen table, Kyle Rayner looks up with a warm grin.
“Welcome back, troublemaker.”
Neal immediately brightens.
“Kyle!”
Kyle pulls him into a quick hug as well.
“Good to see you, kid.”
Jason stands by the coffee machine watching the entire reunion with tired amusement.
“You two done assaulting my son?”
Roy waves a hand dismissively.
“Relax, Jaybird. This is a family reunion.”
Neal accepts the mug of coffee Jason silently hands him and takes a grateful sip.
“God, I missed this.”
Jason raises an eyebrow.
“You’ve been awake for five minutes.”
“That’s long enough.”
Roy studies him for a second.
“You look good,” Roy says more quietly.
“Heard you’ve been keeping busy.”
Neal shrugs.
“Here and there.”
Kyle leans forward.
“We heard about the gallery job.”
Jason groans immediately.
“Oh my god.”
Neal lifts his mug.
“Alleged job.”
Roy bursts out laughing.
“Kid, you replaced a painting with a forgery so good it took Gotham’s best detectives half a day to notice.”
Neal looks pleased with himself.
“That long?”
Jason points at him. “You are not proud of that.”
Neal grins. “I’m a little proud.”
Kyle shakes his head, smiling. “Your grandfather nearly lost his mind over that investigation.”
Roy slaps the table. “Oh man, I wish I’d been there for that.”
Jason mutters something about never letting Neal out of the house again.
The morning drifts by easily after that.
Roy tells ridiculous stories from past missions. Kyle and Neal get distracted discussing art techniques and painting styles.
At one point Neal pulls out the sketch he’d left on the table the night before.
Kyle studies it carefully.
“You’ve gotten really good,” Kyle says. Neal shrugs, a little shy about the compliment.
“Had some time to practice.”
Roy leans over the drawing.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s impressive,” Roy says. “But can he forge a passport?”
Jason immediately throws a napkin at him.
“No.”
Roy dodges it easily.
“What? That’s a valuable life skill!”
Neal is trying very hard to keep any expression off of his face that will tell them that he has in fact forged many passports.
Jason notices "He definitely already has. Although kid that's a skill I'll let you keep practicing. Could come in handy for me"
Neal grins and looks at his dad with that glint of mischief in his eyes. "Ok well I expect compensation, say 50 bucks".
Roy and Kyle snort a laugh at that. They fold over laughing more when they see the look of offense on Jason's face at the thought of his own son making him pay for a fake passport.
Eventually the conversation settles into something quieter.
Coffee mugs sit half-empty on the table.
The safehouse is warm with morning light.
Neal leans back in his chair, watching Roy and Kyle argue about something ridiculous.
For a long time, it had just been him.
Running cons.
Running cities.
Running from people who were trying to catch him.
Now he’s sitting in a safehouse kitchen surrounded by people who’ve known him since he was a kid.
People who missed him.
People who came back the moment they heard he was home.
Roy suddenly throws an arm around Neal’s shoulders again.
“So,” Roy says. “What kind of trouble are we getting into now that you’re back?”
Jason immediately points a warning finger at both of them.
“No trouble.”
Neal raises an eyebrow.
Roy grins.
Kyle looks thoughtful.
Jason sighs like a man who knows he’s already lost this battle.
Neal glances around the room—the laughter, the easy familiarity, the chaos that somehow feels safer than anything else.
For the first time in years, he’s not planning his next escape.
He’s just… here.
Home.
Jason nudges his shoulder.
“You good, kid?”
Neal smiles.
“Yeah.”
And for once, he means it.