Work Text:
The call comes in the middle of the night. Peter jumps up, pulls on his shoes and runs out of the house. He’s barely awake as he puts the key in the ignition. If this turns out to be a glitch in the system or Neal simply stepping out of his radius, Peter will send him back to prison simply for the trouble he caused.
He pulls up to June’s and all but runs up the stairs. When he throws open the door, the first thing he notices is that Neal isn’t there. It’s three in the morning; Neal should be asleep. Instead, the bed is perfectly made and Neal is nowhere to be seen.
Peter quickly checks the rest of the apartment. The bathroom is empty and the closet is missing a duffel bag.
Shit.
Immediately, a hot ball of anger forms in his chest. Neal ran. The small piece of paper on the kitchen table that says ‘I’m sorry’ just confirms it.
The office is surprisingly quiet the next day. Roadblocks have been set up, wanted posters hung, and all airports surveilled. If Neal shows up, they will be alerted. Right now, though, all there is to do it wait.
Someone is watching the news on their computer. Normally, Peter would tell them to get back to work, but today is a slow day anyway. Peter opens the file on his desk and stares at it blankly, eyes refusing to focus on the page. He’s too distracted. After a while, he accepts his fate and leans back in his chair, content to spend the rest of the day stewing in his anger.
He doesn’t know why it happens, but his brain latches on to the murmurs coming from an unknown agent’s computer. Something about the stock market taking a dip, the Knicks advancing to the playoffs, and Bruce Wayne going missing.
Peter freezes. Bruce Wayne? Peter has other things to worry about, more important things than celebrity gossip, but he can’t help but be curious. He pulls up a new window on his work computer and types Bruce’s name in.
The first article that pops up is from the Daily Planet. Peter clicks on it and is greeted by a photo of Bruce Wayne. It looks recent, maybe taken at a gala or charity ball of some sort. The article goes into detail about the tragedy that stole Bruce’s parents from him, leaving him an orphan. The story is well known, so Peter scrolls down a bit.
The article says that Bruce disappeared while backpacking in the Far East. Whether the story is vague because it’s new or sensationalism, Peter doesn’t know, but the Daily Planet is fairly reputable from what Peter knows, so he doubts it’s an article created to attract viewers.
The page is adorned with various photos, including one of Bruce and his parents, a school photo from years ago, and, the one that causes Peter to pause, a photo of Bruce and his first child, Richard Grayson.
The kid is young. If Peter had to guess, he’d say he’s about nine years old in the photo. The caption below the photo explains that it was taken around a year after Bruce became his ward. Bruce and Richard stand side-by-side with perfect, media-trained smiles on their faces. Though Richard is young in the photo, he has the charm dialed up to eleven, indicating that he’s used to crowds.
That isn’t what catches Peter’s eyes the most, though. When he zooms in to the picture, it blurs a bit but Peter can make out his features, and what he sees has him questioning his own eyes.
Peter can’t be sure, but Richard Grayson looks exactly like a young Neal Caffery.
When he steps off of the plane, the air feels wet and hot around him. Gotham is known to be a rainy city, so Peter isn’t surprised.
He doesn’t really have much of a plan. He figures he will go to Wayne Manor and search for Richard, but he doesn’t expect him to be there. After all, that’s Bruce Wayne’s home, and Bruce is missing. If it were him, Peter couldn’t stick around a place where every inch of every room reminds him of his father.
Regardless, someone will know where a billionaire’s son is. He just has to find out who.
Peter guides his rented car through the city, heading north towards Bristol with the help of his phone’s GPS. Gotham isn’t like New York. The streets here are more open, less crowded, and less maintained. Peter wonders how far he can make it through the city without snapping an axle or shaking something lose in the engine bay.
Just as the bridge leading to Bristol appears on the horizon, Peter spots two cars, flipped over and smoking on one of the side roads. There isn’t anyone helping, but there also appears to be no victims. The cars are pretty mangled, so Peter would expect anyone in the cars to have been injured.
Peter turns the car onto the one-way street. He steps out and examines the wreckage, hoping he won’t find corpses. He’s relieved to find the driver’s seat is empty, but that relief turns to confusion when he realizes that both cars are empty. He investigates the area and finds no one.
Well. At least no one is hurt.
Peter decides to call the GCPD. At the very least, the wreckage needs to be cleared.
He pulls out his phone, opens the keypad, and collapses.
It was a trap. Of course it was a trap.
Peter wakes up tied to a pole. His arms are wrenched behind him and his wrists tied together. His shirt is ripped open in the front, exposing his chest. The reasoning for that isn’t immediately obvious, but Peter would rather never find out.
There’s a man standing in front of him, watching him in silence. When Peter spots him, he jumps.
“Hello.” The man smiles, wide and sinister. Peter gets the feeling he’s stumbled on to something he shouldn’t have. Gotham isn’t the kind of place you go poking around aimlessly in.
When Peter doesn’t respond, the man’s smile disappears so fast Peter wonders if he’s looking at the same person. The man steps around Peter, disappearing from his sight. It sets his nerves on edge, and he turns his head as much as he physically can in order to see him. Unfortunately, the room is too dim, and Peter’s range of motion is too limited. He can’t see the man, but he feels his presence behind him.
The man grabs his forearm in an iron grip and pulls. Spikes of pain shoot up his arm into his shoulder—the one he already injured in college. Peter grunts, trying his best to conceal how much pain the man had caused him.
“I said hello.” The grip doesn’t let up.
“Hi,” Peter spits out, hoping there are no traces of agony in his voice. He wonders what kind of damage the man has caused.
Suddenly, the man releases his forearm. He walks back around to look Peter in the eye, his expression one of content. Peter imagines he does this a lot. “Did you bring it?”
Peter frowns. “What?”
The man’s doesn’t seem bothered. “Did you bring it? The thing you were supposed to bring.” His voice is even. Calm.
If nothing else, at least his torturer is patient.
Still, Peter doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He doesn’t know how to get out of this. This guy must think he’s someone else, and he doubts he can convince him otherwise.
The man studies him with an unnerving expression on his face. Peter’s confusion must be obvious, because the man sighs. He gestures toward a window Peter hadn’t noticed before. “That’s a shame. I was told that you were reliable.”
He feels panic rise in his chest as two more men enter with a cart. There’s a white box on top of it, along with some wires. Whatever it is, it can’t be good. If he wants to get out of this with minimal damage, he’s going to have to improvise.
“Wait!” Peter says. “I’ll get it to you. Just give me a few hours.”
The man stops for a moment. His eyes narrow. He seems to be considering it, but Peter doesn’t dare allow himself to hope. “Hmm.”
The men stop halfway between Peter and the door. They left it wide open, so they must be confident in their ability to keep him restrained. That’s good. Peter can exploit that.
“Please,” Peter says.
The man tilts his head. “I’ve given you months. I have been plenty patient.” He glances at the men with the cart and they continue pushing it towards him.
All three men are silent as one of them places sticky pads on Peter’s chest. Then, he connects the wires to the pads and turns a dial. Finally, he flips a switch on the box. “It’s ready, sir.”
The man smiles. “Great.” He looks Peter in the eye. “I have some questions for you”
They say you learn something new everyday. What Peter learned today is this: it’s incredibly difficult to scream while hundreds of milliamps of electricity rip through every muscle fiber in your body. Who knew?
Peter’s chest heaves and his muscles ache. Though none of his blood has been spilled, the taste of it is on his tongue. He wonders how much more of this his heart can stand.
“Please,” Peter says again, breathlessly. His captors had watched him suffer with no more emotion than you’d have for a leaf crushed underfoot. Even a smirk would have been less eerie than their blank stares. This almost seems normal for them. Routine.
“Where is it?”
Peter can’t answer. If he comes up with a lie, the man won’t believe him and Peter will be shocked. If he decides not to answer, he will be shocked. If he pleads, the man will remain unfazed and Peter will be shocked.
There’s no winning. Peter isn’t even sure of his chances of getting out of this alive. He drops his head, closes his eyes, and thinks of El.
“Again,” the man says.
Peter braces himself for the shock, but it never comes.
“Again!” the man shouts.
“It isn’t working.”
Peter hears them turn dials and press buttons. One of them curses and bangs on the box.
“Go check the outlet.”
Peter looks up just enough to see a pair of boots move toward the door. When he crouches down to inspect the outlet, everything goes dark.
Peter can only guess what happens next. There’s a string of curses before a cacophony of screams and crashes. He hears impacts, like punches. There’s yells, along with shoes pounding against the floor, like someone is attempting to escape something.
Before too long, the sounds die out, leaving Peter alone in the dark silence. If he could free himself, he would. He’d run from this cursed city and never look back. He pulls at the rope keeping him in place and groans. There’s no escaping, not with his arms and legs as weak as they are.
His heart is pounding, and the boots growing closer aren’t helping quell his panic. “Who’s there?”
The boots stop. A small light flicks on, and the sudden brightness causes him to turn his head so he doesn’t go blind.
“Peter?”
Peter freezes. That voice is familiar. If Peter had the strength, he’d yell at Neal for being dumb enough to venture into a place like this, but all he can do is cooperate with the encroaching blackness before it drowns him.
“Richard--”
“No. Go upstairs, Damian.”
“But--”
“Now, Damian.”
Peter wakes up to blinding white. His eyes adjust, and he can make out shapes in his surroundings. He blinks a few times and realizes he’s in a bedroom. It’s bigger than he’s used to, which is his first reminder that he’s not at home.
He sits up in the bed. The sheets below him are silk, and the mattress is softer than anything he’s ever felt. It feels divine against his battered body. He’d be able to enjoy it more if only he knew where he was. Peter considers leaving the room and investigating, but he isn’t sure his legs will support him.
Footsteps outside the door send his heart racing. He glances around for something he can use as a weapon, but the door opens before he gets very far.
“Oh, you’re awake,” the old man says. He’s dressed in a suit, which makes sense given how expensive his surroundings seem.
“Where am I?” Peter asks.
The man isn’t fazed by Peter’s curtness. “Wayne Manor, sir. The injuries you sustained were quite extensive. We brought you here to recuperate.”
Wayne Manor. His initial destination. Neal might be here somewhere. “Is Neal here?”
The man looks a little caught off guard. “He is. I will fetch him for you.”
When the man disappears into the hallway, Peter pulls himself up all the way, ignoring the way the muscles in his arms protest the movement. He sits on the edge of the bed and catches his breath.
While he waits, he takes comfort in the tranquil spring breeze blowing in, just the right temperature to make him miss Central Park. He really doesn’t get enough days off to spend with El. Maybe he should look into it.
Within minutes, Peter hears a different set of footsteps making their way down the hallway. The door nudges open, and Neal’s head pops around the doorframe.
He steps inside the room, looking uncertain in his own house. “How did you figure it out?”
Peter shrugs. He winces when the movement causes a twinge of pain to shoot through his shoulder. “Luck, really. Saw your picture, connected the dots. Circus acrobat, huh?”
Neal smiles. “That was a lifetime ago.” He runs his eyes over Peter, taking in the pained expression and the posture meant to take the pressure off of his torso. “We had the family doctor stop by to make sure the electricity didn’t cause any lasting damage. How do you feel?”
“Terrible,” Peter says, running a hand over his abdomen. “I think they were trying to kill me with that thing.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Neal says. “The Falcones like to prolong their torture.”
Peter looks up at him, forgetting about the pain. “Falcones? How do you know it was them?”
Neal gets this weird look on his face. He’s silent for a moment. Pensive. “Who do you think got you out of there?”
“What do you mean?” Peter asks.
Neal walks over to him and gestures for him to stand. “I think it’s better if I show you.”
Neal supports him with one arm under his. They walk down the stairs, Peter trying not to be too obvious as he gawks at the different parts of the mansion they pass on their way to the study. Peter assumes it used to belong to Bruce Wayne based on the portrait of Thomas and Martha Wayne hanging above the desk.
Neal steps away from him and walks over to the grandfather clock in the corner. He moves the hands into a different position, which Peter imagines will damage the clock. Before he can say anything to Neal, the clock slides away from the wall.
“Of course the big creepy mansion has a secret passage,” Peter says.
Neal laughs. “Not quite.”
Neal was right. It isn’t a passage, it’s a cave. A massive cave.
When they come down the stairs, the first thing Peter sees is the cluster of computers and scanners and other technology he can’t put a name to. On the other side of the small cavern that houses the computer is a few glass display cases. Peter gapes at them, hoping he’s not seeing what he thinks he is.
Neal walks over to the cases. He stands in front of one that Peter hadn’t noticed, drawing his attention to it. It’s the suit that Batman wears, on display for all to see. “We have a lot of talking to do.”
Peter snorts. “Yeah. We sure do.”