Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Neal is teasing Peter about his dad when Peter asks.

“What about yours?”

It’s an innocent enough question. It’s not Peter’s fault that thinking of his dad causes a hot ball of anger to make its home inside his chest right next to his heart where it will hurt the most. “My dad?”

“Yeah. I don’t know much about him,” Peter says, hands in his pockets.

There’s a reason for that, he thinks. If I can’t think about him without wanting to hit something, what makes you think I can talk about him? “Oh, I thought you knew everything about me.”

“Well, there’s a big gaping hole before your eighteenth birthday.”

“Enjoy the mystery,” Neal says. 

“Oh, come on. You don’t want to talk about him?” No, not particularly.

“What do you want me to say?” He doesn’t mean to let his irritation show, but this is a sensitive topic.

He never properly mourned his parents. From the moment he returned from their funeral, he forced himself to shove it down and lock it away. There had been no time to fall apart when he spent every moment as a teenager mastering different fighting styles and studying criminal psychology and devouring law books. He’d also managed to get the hang of forensics before he entered high school.

But Peter is still pushing, and he won’t quit until he’s satisfied. “Start small. What did he do for a living?”

Neal stops. Peter is a few paces ahead of him before he notices. “My dad was a doctor.”

“A doctor?”

“A surgeon.” Neal clarifies. “You said start small. Have a nice day.”

“You--”

“Nope,” he says as he walks away with a smile on his face.

“You met with Wilson yesterday.” At Neal’s expression, Peter sighs. “Neal, whatever he’s asking you to do…”

Neal feels indignant on Wilson’s behalf. “He’s got nowhere else to turn.”

“Oh, God, Neal. Don’t do it.”

“Look, Wilson’s trying to make good with his son and I can help him. The system failed him.” Peter won’t agree, but Neal doesn’t need him to. He can be stealthy. He can even hack the anklet if he needs to. Nothing is holding him here except for his need for a vacation and his loyalty to Peter.

It had only taken him a short amount of time to respect Peter. The agent’s adherence to the law is something you don’t often come across in Gotham, but it is more common in New York. Still, what made Peter stick out had been the simple fact that he cares about the victims. Too often people get into law enforcement just to wear the badge, but Peter doesn’t care about that. Even if Peter had never become an agent, Neal could see him helping people in other ways. 

Even if Peter isn’t good with words, he still has empathy for those who were wronged. That’s what sets him apart from the rest.

In this case, though, Peter is wrong. Foreign bureaucracies can be complicated, and Neal knows Peter wants to help, but it starts to get tricky when other agencies and governments are involved. Luckily, Neal has the resources to work around the law, and he would travel to Burma tonight if it means he can help Wilson’s son. 

His suit is in a hidden compartment in his closet. If he can get there without Peter catching on, all he has to do is loop his tracking data and he can then call a Batplane and be in Asia by this time tomorrow.

“You’re rationalizing and you know it. Nothing gives him or you or anyone the right to go around the law.”

Neal understands where Peter is coming from, but Peter doesn’t have kids. He might understand from an intellectual standpoint, but he doesn’t get it. “It’s his son. That gives him the right.”

Peter shakes his head. “I don’t agree with that.”

It doesn’t matter what Peter thinks. Neal messed up with Jason. He can admit that. In retrospect, there are one hundred things he could’ve done differently, but it’s too late now and his relationship with Jason is damaged because of it. 

For that reason, he will help Wilson. He doesn’t know if he can ever repair his and Jason’s relationship, but he can help Wilson repair the relationship between him and his son.

“It’s what a father should do.” It’s what he should’ve done.

“Alright, look,” Peter says. “Obviously there's more to the story with your dad. I don’t know how badly it messed with your head—“

“You’re right. You don’t,” Neal says. He's angry now, and he doesn’t care if Peter knows. “If this were your son, or my son… I know what you would do.”

Peter looks at him, pensive. “One wrong move inside the Burmese consulate and they will extradite you. You’ll end up in a Kabaw prison. I can’t protect you.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Okay.”

They’re standing there, watching a touching reunion when Neal is struck with images of his dad. Seeing the two embrace is unearthing memories he hadn’t known he’d buried.

He doesn’t know why he does it. It’s highly out of character for him to share something so personal, but he turns to Peter and says, “You asked me about my dad. He’s dead.”

Peter freezes. “Oh, shit, Neal. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“You couldn’t have known. It’s okay.”

“But still,” Peter says. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”

Neal shrugs. “I don’t like talking about him. He and my mom both were murdered. It… happened in front of me.”

Peter looks horrified, but stays silent. He isn’t good with words, but he knows when someone just needs to talk. Neal is grateful for it. He’s never really talked about it with anyone, but Peter is a friend, possibly the closest he’s had since Clark. Maybe one day he’ll introduce the two.

But that day is not today. Or even anytime soon. Clark and Peter are from totally separate worlds. Neal for that matter, is also incredibly out of place among the FBI.

“I didn’t know how to deal with it for a while. I had someone, but he wasn’t… what I needed. That wasn’t his fault, though. He did the best he could,” Neal explains. Alfred did try. Therapy was considered, but quickly rejected. When Bruce had asked him to teach him to fight, Alfred tentatively agreed because he knew it was what Bruce needed at the time. Bruce will forever be grateful for that.

Peter notices the look on Neal’s face and smiles. “This man means a lot to you,” Peter comments. It isn’t a question. Neal holds Alfred in high respect and even people who don’t know Alfred can see it.

Neals nods slightly. “He does. He’s all I had for a while.”

“What about now?” 

Neal tears his eyes away from the reuniting father and son and looks at Peter. Truthfully, he doesn’t consider himself to be alone anymore. He’s always been rather isolated, even among his peers. Much of that is self-inflicted, but now he’s around people who go out of their way to include him.

Of course, he has his kids, but they were the ones who created this cover for him. That doesn’t exactly imply that they want him around. 

Just for a little while, B. You need a vacation, so pretend this is a mission. Go clean up the white collar division of the FBI in New York, Tim said.

And here he was. Years later and the ‘mission’ is still ongoing. Bruce hadn’t realized how much he needed the break, but it has been worth it. 

“Now… I—“

His words are cut off by a massive boom. Peter and Neal both spin around, spotting a giant cloud of smoke a few blocks away.

“What the—Neal!” Peter exclaims. He glances behind him, turning his head left and right. Neal is nowhere to be found.

Chapter Text

“Bruce? Bruce?”

Neal’s comm crackles in his ear. He sits up, groaning as stabbing pain shoots through his torso.

The suit is pretty good about preventing fatal damage (thus far) but it doesn’t stop him from sustaining broken ribs and cracked collarbones.

Speaking of… yeah, his ribs are cracked at best. 

Neal presses a hand to his ear. “I’m here.” 

Dick sighs down the line. “Oh, thank god. Are you alright? Should I send Tim to—“

“No, no, I’m fine.”

“I can see your vitals, Bruce, don’t think you’re fooling anyone,” Dick scolds.

Neal sighs, but immediately regrets it when it jostles his ribs. He forgot about that feature. This suit isn’t the one he uses in Gotham, so, in his current state, it’s easy for things to slip his mind. He hauls himself up off the ground and walks over to the hole in the wall. 

“Any sign of the meta?” 

Dick hums. “No. NYPD last reported it heading south before disappearing off the coast.”

“Shit.”

He leans against the jagged brick edge of the building. If the meta is gone, his work is done. He needs to get back home so he can wrap his ribs and check traffic cameras for signs of the meta.

Neal pulls out his grapple and aims for the neighboring building. The meta had destroyed a good amount of buildings and Neal shudders to think of the human toll.

His ribs grate against each other when he swings his arm, but he needs to get home before Peter inevitably goes there looking for him. He hadn’t exactly been subtle in his rush to find his suit, and Peter undoubtedly noticed.

How he would explain it away is yet to be seen. For now, he’s going to focus on making it home before he passes out.

Neal’s dust-coated boots make a thud as he lands. He veers to the left and has to catch himself on the patio table. His stomach lurches and he closes his eyes for a minute as he tries not to vomit.

He pulls the cowl off. Sweat plasters his hair to his forehead and he squints to keep it out of his eyes.

Just inside the entrance to his apartment, he trips. Exhausted, he lets himself fall to his knees, groaning as the fall sends spikes of pain shooting through his body. 

He’s accumulated a myriad of injuries over his time as Batman, so he knows what a broken rib feels like. His ribs grate painfully. He wraps an arm around his torso to stabilize them.

Just out of the corner of his eye, he spots a shiny black loafer. His heart starts pounding. Oh, shit. He follows the shoe to the pant leg, then the suit jacket and finally, the wide eyed, shocked face. 

“Peter,” he whispers.

Peter’s expression turns from surprise to disappointment. “Neal.”

Neal is in far too much pain to come up with a lie. There’s no explaining it away anyway; Peter knows. Peter knows and there’s no going back.

Peter sighs, then bends down and wraps his arms around Neal. With a small amount of effort, Peter hauls him off the ground. Neal bites his lip to stifle the whimper that threatens to escape.

“What the hell, Neal,” Peter says as he helps him to the couch. “What were you thinking?”

Neal rests his head on the back of the couch. He focuses on breathing, trying to quell the pain that threatens to consume him. “Peter, I-“

“No. No, I don’t want to hear your lies right now, Neal.” Peter paces back and forth. 

“I don’t-“ lie. He was going to say that he doesn’t lie to Peter, but that in itself is a lie.

Peter doesn’t know his real name. He doesn’t know about how he dealt with his parent’s deaths. Peter doesn’t even know he has kids. All he’s ever done is lie to Peter.

“You don’t do what?” Peter asks.

“I… I-“ 

“Bruce!”

Well, it looks like that will soon change. Peter and Neal both jerk their heads toward the door. Realizing who the intruder is, Neal sighs. “I told you I was fine.”

“I didn’t believe you,” Dick says.

Neal rolls his eyes. Peter steps toward Dick. “Who are you?”

Dick looks at Peter. He’s still wearing his mask, but Neal can tell his eyes are flicking between Neal and Peter. 

“I’m Nightwing.”

“No, I know that, but who are you? Why are you here?”

Dick is clearly contemplating the question. Neal has a rising feeling that everything is about to implode. He tries to get the message across that he is not ready for Peter to know quite yet, but Dick either doesn’t get it or doesn’t care. Then, as children tend to do, Dick defies him. He reaches up, ignoring Neal’s protests, and peels the mask off.

“I’m Dick Grayson.” He points at Neal. “I’m his oldest son.”

Neal sighs. 

Peter sputters. “Son?” He turns to Neal, affronted. “Why did you never--but then you also never mentioned…” He turns back to Dick. “Nightwing?”

Dick gives him a small smile. “As much as I’d like to talk about this, he looks like he’s about to pass out, so I’m gonna…” he gestures toward Neal.

Peter looks him over. Neal knows he’s in bad shape, but it’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with before. He’s had a broken spine as a souvenir from a fight with Bane, numerous gashes from faceless thugs and countless scars, burns and bruises. Injury isn’t something he’s unfamiliar with.

But Peter is. Dick has seen him in this condition before, and Dick is usually the one that patches him up if Alfred isn’t able to for some reason. But Peter has just been thrown headfirst into the deep end.

“Do you have medical training?” Peter asks Dick.

Dick walks past him, pulling something out of his belt. In his hand is what seems to be a small bag. “Not traditionally, but I spent my childhood stitching his wounds.”

Peter does a double take. “Of course you did.”

Dick smirks. The little bag turns out to be a first aid kit, crudely put together in an effort to make it easily transportable. He pulls out a needle and thread.

“I don’t need that.”

Dick gives him a look. “You didn’t know?”

Exhausted, Neal sighs. “Know what?”

“You have a gash above your eye.”

Neal shakes his head. “I got thrown around pretty good.”

Dick hums, but doesn’t respond. Peter’s still standing there, watching the two interact with interest. There are questions hanging there, lingering. Peter either doesn’t know where to start or doesn’t know how to ask.

“I know you have questions,” Neal says. “I will answer them.”

Peter sticks his hands in his pockets. “Will you answer them honestly?”

Neal grimaces as Dick pushes the needle through his skin. “I will.”

Peter nods. He sits on the chair beside the couch and watches Dick work. The apartment is quiet aside from a few hisses when Dick pulls the suture through.

Neal glances at Peter. He’s holding back. Maybe he doesn’t want to ask in front of Dick, or maybe he doesn’t know what to ask. Regardless, Neal feels guilty that Peter had to find out this way.

He never really had plans to tell Peter, if he was honest. It had been partially because he never felt the need to, but also because he feared Peter’s reaction.

In his real life, Neal is a billionaire. His life in New York is just a vacation—a little time off for a man that can afford to travel anywhere in the world. That isn’t easily explained, and probably won’t be kindly received.

Finally, he feels blackness tug at the edge of his vision. He knew it would happen sooner or later.

When he wakes up, it’s to sunlight streaming in through his curtains and blinding him. 

He turns his head, blinking slowly. The apartment is dark, but he can make out Dick’s lithe figure sleeping at the foot of the bed. The Nightwing suit is nowhere to be found; Dick is wearing one of Neal’s shirts and a pair of sweatpants.

Neal himself is in more comfortable clothes. The Batsuit is also gone, his chest covered by a soft white t-shirt. He doesn’t want to think about who changed him.

He pulls himself up and climbs off the bed. His vision is a little blurry, but the pain has subsided significantly. 

“You shouldn’t be up.”

Neal turns around. Peter is sitting on the chair in the same place he was when Neal passed out. He stayed.

Neal snorts. “Shouldn’t do a lot of things.”

“You’re telling me.”

Neal moves toward the kitchen table and uses a hand to stabilize himself. Peter doesn’t seem to be angry. That doesn’t mean he isn’t, of course, but Neal hopes it’s a good sign.

“Did Dick say anything?” Neal asks.

Peter glances over to the bed where Dick is still sleeping soundly. The sight of it does something in his chest that he’d never admit to. Dick used to sneak into Neal’s room when he was younger and curl up at his feet. He had had really bad nightmares when he first came to live with him and he had been afraid of sleeping alone.

According to Dick, everyone in the circus had been assigned one small trailer to call home. Because of that, Dick and his parents shared a very small space and he wound up snuggled between them most of the time.

He stopped sneaking into Neal’s bedroom shortly before he turned fourteen, but part of him misses those days.

“He explained a few things, yes,” Peter says.

Neal nods. Dick is better at mending relationships than he has ever been, but this isn’t something Dick can do for him. He has to face it, whether he likes it or not.

“I’m up for answering those questions now.”

Peter shakes his head. “I think he covered the major things. Like the fact that you’re apparently Bruce Wayne. Oh, and that you have three more sons.”

Neal nods. “They’re not all as well behaved as Dick is.” Excluding Tim, of course, but they all have their moments.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Peter asks. He looks irritated, but Dinah says that’s usually a mask for hurt. Dianh’s proficiency in sniffing out hidden emotions typically annoying, but right now, it’s helping him see through Peter’s mask.

Neal sits on the edge of the table, something that Alfred would certainly scold him for if he were here. “Honestly… probably not.”

“Why? You always said that you were honest with me.”

“I lied. I couldn’t tell you.”

Peter scoffs. “We’re friends, Neal. You could’ve told me.”

“Peter, I’m Batman.” Neal’s painkillers are beginning to wear off and the throbbing in his ribs and head is starting to grate on him. “You would not have reacted positively.”

Peter stands. His voice raises marginally, but he’s considerate of the sleeping man and isn’t outright yelling. “You don’t know that! You never gave me a chance.”

Neal keeps his face blank. “So you’re saying you’re fine with it?”

Silence. Then, “I never said that.”

“So I was right.” He’s been told that his need to be correct is often overwhelming to the point of pushing people away. He’s gotten softer with age, not quite as isolated and angry as he had been in his youth, but he still has areas that need improvement, and this is one of them. He hopes Peter isn’t that far gone.

Peter runs a hand through his hair and over his face. The early morning sunlight is painting the room orange and yellow, but it makes Peter look drained. Had he slept on the couch? “Alright, we’re not getting anywhere.”

Neal has to agree. Peter isn’t likely to see his side and Neal isn’t willing to admit he is wrong. A stalemate, as they say.

“Are you two done?”

Peter, startled by the voice, jumps. Neal just smirks. 

“Sorry. I’ve been awake for a while now. I just didn’t want to make it awkward.” The bed squeaks as Dick stands. He walks over to the two of them.

“You’ve just been listening?” Neal says.

Dick looks indignant. “You know I’m not a heavy sleeper. You guys were arguing, it’s your guys’ fault.”

Neal shakes his head. Peter allows a small smile. “We weren’t arguing.”

Dick snorts. “Sure sounded like it. It was a stupid argument, too. You’re both wrong.”

Neal raises an eyebrow. Peter glances at Neal. 

Dick paced the floor in front of them, channeling his inner performer and relishing in the attention.

“While I will accept some of the blame, not telling Peter was entirely your idea, and I won't accept the blame for that.” Dick puts his hands behind his back, mimicking Alfred as he walks. “I will, however, accept the blame for you coming to New York to begin with. I didn’t consider how being Batman might affect any friendships you might form.”

Neal has to pull back quickly to avoid being hit by Dick’s feet as he does a cartwheel in the middle of the room. When he’s right-side up again, he holds up his pointer finger. “Although, you aren’t known for making friends.”

“I-“

“Wait,” Dick says. “I’m not finished.”

Neal sighs, exasperated. 

“My point is this: you should have trusted him,” he says, jabbing a finger in Neal’s shoulder. “And you should try to understand now that you know.” Dick finishes with a massive grin, like he just solved all of the world’s problems right down.

The room is silent for a moment. After allowing Dick’s show to sink in, Neal turns to Peter. “He’s adopted.”

Peter laughs, and it feels like a start. Maybe just laughter can be the beginning of a new chapter. One with less lies.

“And that was the best decision of your life,” Dick says.

Neal shrugs. “Sometimes I wonder.”

Dick looks offended, but doesn’t comment as he wanders into the hallway. Neal hears a door shut and assumes he went into the bathroom.

“Are the rest of your kids so performative?” 

Neal snorts. “He’s one of a kind. He was born into a circus, so,” he explains as he shrugs. The motion makes his forgotten ribs start up their throbbing again, and his wince isn’t hidden as well as he thinks.

Peter stands, grabbing an empty glass off the counter. “You need more painkillers.”

Usually, he’d deny it. Instinct wants him to hide the pain, to push it down and deal with it himself. Right as he’s about to tell Peter not to bother, that thing Dick had said about trusting Peter pops into his head. He knows he can never heal their friendship if he doesn’t try.

So he allows Peter to grab the bottle off the kitchen table. He watches as Peter fills the glass, never once thinking about protesting against it. Peter returns to him, handing him the glass and two pills.

Peter walks away, but Neal doesn’t move. He stares into the water, watching the way it distorts the image of his hand. When enough time has gone by for Peter to start looking concerned, he speaks.

“Yesterday, you asked if I’m less lonely now.”

Peter watches him curiously from where he sits in the living room. “Yeah?”

Neal hesitates. He doesn’t know how to say it, but it needs to be said. He needs Peter to know, even if he doesn’t have the words.

He meets Peter’s eyes and nods, gingerly.

Peter smiles.