Archive of Our Own ^beta

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One. 

-- 

The young man was there, loitering just outside the elevator and chatting up their secretary, before Neal and Peter ever arrived to work. 

He was youngish, with a grin that was roguish and troublemaking in turn. But also kind and bright and blisteringly honest. He wore his hair long, but tucked back into a neat tail at the nape of his neck, and he had the bluest eyes next to Neal himself. The kid also wore an awful short-sleeved button-up composed of primary coloured squares warring for dominance of his shirt. 

Neal and the kid made brief eye contact as Peter passed him and the secretary by. 

Then the kid shoved his hands in his jeans pockets, bid a quite farewell to the secretary, and followed Neal and Peter into the bullpen. It gave Peter a little pause, but his gut didn’t feel overly off, in regards to the young man, so he chose to ignore it while he finished giving Neal an overview of what was expected of him, that day. 

Neal was a bit quieter, as they crossed the threshold into the office, but not so much so that Peter felt the need to check if he was okay. 

Peter parted Neal’s company, with a brief glance at the young man. He almost offered the kid assistance, if he needed it, but noticed that his eyes were fixed patiently on Neal as said CI rounded his desk and sat down. 

“Hey,” he greeted. 

Peter hesitated, then decided to linger a bit. He glanced from the stranger to Neal. 

Neal glanced up at the young man. “Anything I can help you with?” he raised his eyebrows. 

The kid shrugged, hands still in his pockets. “I was in town. Just thought I’d stop by to see you before I went back home.” 

The two of them faced off for a long moment, during which Neal looked at the man like he was some kind of complicated math problem. Peter had just about decided to step in when Neal sighed and dropped his gaze. “Well, you’ve seen me,” he muttered. 

Peter didn’t think that was a very kind dismissal. He also didn’t think it was a very  Neal  way of handling a guest. 

But the young man just chuckled. “House isn’t the same without you,” he said. 

Neal glanced up at him tiredly. “You don’t even live there, anymore,” he muttered and side-eyed Peter. 

Peter, whose eyebrows had risen considerably at the compromise of Neal’s oh-so-secret past. 

“I practically moved back in, since you started this gig,” the young man grinned. “Who else is going to keep things under control? Were you expecting to just leave everything to A?” 

“He is more than capable,” Neal said. 

“Just because he could do it doesn’t mean he should have to.” 

Neal glanced at Peter again. Then back to his guest. “Can we talk later?” 

The guest glanced at Peter, sighing, then turned back to Neal. “I could stick around until your lunch break, I guess.” 

“We could talk over the phone, instead,” Neal deadpanned. 

“Really feeling the love, there, Dad,” the guest’s mouth twisted into an amused smirk. 

Neal gave him a disappointed frown. 

Peter blinked. Then blinked some more. Then frowned. He tried to process, then reprocess, that statement, trying to figure out anything else that it could possibly mean. But there only seemed to be the one interpretation. 

But. 

Neal— 

Neal was too young to be this man’s father. Wasn’t he? 

“Excuse me,” Peter said. 

Both men turned to him and, damn, the resemblance was actually uncanny. Peter covered his mouth and glanced down at his feet, then back up at them. “Oh my god,” he muttered. Because... oh my god. “Who are you?” he turned to Neal’s apparent  son  and tried not to spontaneously lose his mind while trying to fit that new piece of information with everything else he knew about Neal. It wasn’t working. 

Neal sighed. “Ignore him, Peter. He’s just an acquaintance.” 

The man gave Neal a hurt look. 

Neal held his gaze for a long moment, then grunted and turned back to Peter. His teeth were gritted with the kind of force usually reserved for biting back either unkind comments or unnecessary ones. “I maintain,” Neal said, a little forcefully. “That you should ignore him. However, he is... more than mere acquaintance.” 

That... wasn’t very “Neal Caffrey” either, if Peter was being honest. “Uh-huh,” Peter nodded slowly. 

“He is, in fact, my son,” Neal said. Albeit, he said it through gritted teeth. 

“Is he?” Peter glanced back at the stranger. 

The stranger who beamed back at Peter. “Yep!” he said. 

Peter frowned. “Son.” 

“I’d say ‘the one and only,’ but that would be terribly dishonest of me,” Neal’s  kid  said. 

“How old are you?” 

“Don’t answer that,” Neal snapped. Then he glared at Peter (it was remarkably effective, even though Peter knew he was both older than Neal and in a position of authority over Neal). “You don’t need to know that.” 

“Why didn’t I know you had a son?” Peter asked. 

“Why would you know that?” Neal raised an eyebrow. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” Peter frowned. 

“I didn’t exactly give birth to him,” Neal said drily. “It’s not like you would have noticed signs of pregnancy, nor any hospital stays. In fact, you wouldn’t get a hit on me through paternity, either, given that we are not blood relations.” 

“What?” Peter looked back over at the young man. 

He grinned and nodded. “That’s right,” he said. It had to be a bold-faced lie, though, given the kind of resemblance the two of them shared. “I’m adopted!” 

“Adopted?” Peter deadpanned. He looked back over at Neal. “What? No paperwork? You’d think I would have come across—” 

Neal raised his eyebrow again, which somehow effectively cut Peter off in spite of the motion being small and unaccompanied by any noise or words. “What makes you think that any paperwork that may have been involved in an adoption would say ‘Neal Caffrey’ on it, Peter?” he asked. 

He. Well. He had Peter, there. 

Peter frowned down at his seated CI. 

“So!” His kid stretched his back. Then continued to bend backwards. Peter watched, awed and a little perturbed, as the kid bent all the way into a bridge. And then went into a handstand. And then bent all the way, continuing in the same direction, until he was back to his feet. “I’ll come back around lunchtime?” he suggested. 

Neal scoffed. “Do what you will,” he said. “You do, anyway.” 

“Aww, I’m happy to see you, too,” he grinned at Neal. 

Peter was pretty sure that Neal hadn’t said anything remotely like that, but there seemed to be a kind of understanding between them. And then the stranger was leaving. Neal’s kid. 

The whole of the office had ended up watching the exchange, which Peter noticed when he glanced around, but Neal seemed happy to ignore all that and immediately pull a file off the corner of his desk and down into the center. “I suppose I will be leaving for lunch,” Neal murmured. He took a moment to fit his Neal Caffrey smile back in place, then looked up at Peter. “That’s all right with you, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Peter said. “Sure.” 

They nodded to each other, Peter feeling vaguely drowned (in information), then Neal turned his attention back to the file and Peter turned to head for his office. Albeit, Peter went to his office in a kind of daze. 

Neal with a kid was weird enough. 

Neal with an adult son? That had to be crossing some kind of line. 

The young man that had visited the office, who was still waiting for the elevator so that he could  leave  the office, was just too old to be Neal’s kid. And adopted? That had to be some kind of joke. Surely the two of them were related, somehow. Otherwise, it just seemed overtly coincidental, the way the two of them looked like each other. 

-- 

Two. 

-- 

Neal was with Peter for some legwork. It was a simple enough case, but tracking down the stolen item – by physically visiting every pawn shop in a three-and-a-half-mile radius of said crime (given that the thief had been on foot) – was about as important to Peter as figuring out who the thief was and how he’d managed to steal the items he’d taken. 

It was probably the fifth pawn shop of the day. 

The owner was at the front, next to the register, talking lowly with a customer. Or with muscle of some kind, possibly. Peter was willing to simply pass them by and look through the newest items out on the floor – and in the glass cabinet – until the owner was available to talk about recent sales. 

Neal, though, stuttered to a stop just inside the door of the pawn shop. 

It wasn’t because it was a pawn shop. It also wasn’t because the pawn shop was a bit rundown. They’d already been in and out of a few ratty, underwhelming pawn shops which hadn’t seemed to give Neal the slightest pause, after all. 

Peter followed Neal’s gaze, right to the muscular man talking quietly with the owner. 

Neal snapped out of it pretty quick and caught Peter’s eye, though. He grinned and moved further into the pawn shop, ready to continue the valuable job he had... of looking at the weirdest items and letting Peter do the actual casework, of course. 

“Old enemy?” Peter muttered. 

“Not at all,” Neal brushed him off and approached what looked like a vintage hookah. 

Peter eyed Neal suspiciously, then glanced at the counter again. 

The intense, muscular man was gone – without the slightest sound, no less, apparently – and the owner and cashier, both, were free. Peter took it as providence instead of suspicious and stepped up to the counter. 

No luck, there, either. Which Peter had rather expected. 

Peter and Neal stepped back outside of the pawn shop, Peter a new shade of frustrated and Neal as easygoing and amused as he usually was. The man from inside, however, had taken up residence leaning against the pawn shop’s exterior wall. Peter caught his eye for a moment, and almost looked away once he processed how intense the man was. 

Neal glanced over, too, and deflated a bit. 

The intense man – all black hair, five o’clock shadow, teal eyes, and leather jacket – flashed a halfhearted peace sign. “Hey, Pops,” he offered a sharp, dangerous grin. 

And Peter just. 

Stopped for a moment. 

Rewound. Reprocessed. Turned to look at Neal. 

Neal glanced at him, no explanation forthcoming, then turned back to the intense man, “What are you doing here?” he asked. 

“What, the Golden Child can visit and I can’t?” 

“You know that’s not what I meant. And you know he wasn’t supposed to do that,” Neal’s ‘Neal’ mask dropped bit by bit, barely clinging to Neal past the annoyance he was giving off. “What are you doing here?” 

“Maybe I just want to see dear ol’ dad,” the man said. 

“Mmhm. You? Willingly allowing yourself to appear sentimental? I highly doubt that.” 

The man gave a surprised laugh. ”That’s ironic, Pops,” he sneered. “But you’re looking for the shit from the Sheffield robbery, right? Don’t bother. That shit’s small potatoes. Covering up for some illegally bought-and-sold art shit that the Sheffields can’t report missing. Degas sketches n’ old author notes n’ shit, I think. I dunno. I was tracking down alleged manuscript notes – Austen ones. Sheffields mighta had those, too, if they were real.” 

“What?” Peter asked. 

“So, we should be talking to fences,” Neal mused. 

“Yeah, prolly. I’ve got north covered. If you take south, I can call if I find anything. You call me, yeah? If those Austen notes are real, that shit’s supposed to be in a fucking museum,” the man kicked at the sidewalks. “Fuckers mess this shit up for the rest of us, swear to fuck.” 

“Language,” Neal frowned. 

“Fuck off, you’re not my real dad,” the man grinned at Neal, sharply, and flipped him off. 

“Hang on. Who is this, Neal?” Peter demanded. 

Neal and the man turned to Peter, like the both of them had forgotten he was there. The man looked suitably unimpressed, as well as bored. Then he smirked. “I’m Peter,” he said. 

“Stop that,” Neal turned to the man. 

“Peter?” Peter asked. 

“He’s not Peter,” Neal disagreed. “He’s just being difficult because he knows that’s your name.” 

“What?” Peter turned from the man to Neal. “How could he possibly know that? I’ve never met this man in my life, Neal.” 

“We all know,” not-Peter rolled his eyes. 

“We?” Peter turned back to him. “And who is ‘we’?” 

Not-Peter rolled his eyes, again. Harder than the first time. Peter was actually a little impressed at the sheer amount of attitude he was able to fit into the one motion. “Oh yeah. I’m just going to sit here and tell a Fed everything about me and my family. Sure.” 

“And, what, you’re Neal’s son?” Peter asked. 

“Yeah? I mean. Obviously. I called him Pops, like, twice. And dad, also like twice. How many more extremely obvious hints you want me to drop before you draw your own conclusions? Or do the FBI usually promote agents with zero deductive capabilities?” 

Peter bristled. 

“Ignore him, Peter,” Neal said. “He is, in fact, my son. And he’s trying to cause problems. As you’ve already witnessed, he’s rather efficient at pushing buttons.” He glared past Peter, at not-Peter. “I’ll call in a few favours,” he turned to Peter again. “He said he’d take north? We’ll focus south. I can get fence names and we can work from southeast to southwest, meeting him in the middle, on the west side. Yeah? Hopefully, we’ll have some answers or clues before then—” 

“I can’t just work with some stranger—” Peter tried. 

“I’ll vouch for him,” Neal cut in. 

“Neal, you’re a criminal,” Peter threw his hands out. “And he—” he turned back to not-Peter, but found him already gone. “What? Where’d he go?” 

“They do that,” Neal shrugged and dug his hands into his pockets. “Look, do you want to get to the bottom of this or no? If the Sheffields had these, and a thief stole them, that will make this case a real notch in your belt. Right?” 

“Neal.” 

“It will,” Neal agreed with himself. “And this is the easiest, most efficient way to work this new information.” 

“We haven’t even confirmed that it’s true.” 

“Just trust me on this, Peter,” Neal said. 

Neal and Peter faced each other for a long minute, then Peter dropped his gaze with a sigh. “Fine,” he said. “But if nothing comes of this—” 

“I know, I know. Back to prison with me,” Neal waved him off. 

“No. I’ll be disappointed,” Peter corrected. “But it’s my own fault if I take bad advice from my CI, isn’t it?” 

“Oh,” Neal raised his eyebrows. 

“Yeah, ‘oh,’” Peter rolled his eyes. “If you’re going to make your calls or whatever, go ahead. I’ll just step this way and give myself a bit of plausible deniability.” 

“Oh,” Neal repeated, eyebrows raising even further. “Okay. Sure, Peter.” He smiled, small but honest. 

Peter nodded in response. “Don’t make me regret this.” 

-- 

Three. 

-- 

When Peter arrived at Neal’s apartment, he parked behind a bright red Tesla Roadster convertible with its top down. A young man was getting out of the Tesla, carrying what looked like a gallon-sized travel mug that had what looked like “Nutrition Facts” on the side. A second glance showed that they were actually “Anxiety Facts,” though. 

Peter closed the driver-side door behind him and headed for the front door of June’s place. He didn’t expect to end up on June’s stoop about the same time as the young man. 

Up close, the man looked more like a kid, and even with his sunglasses on, Peter could tell he had incredibly obvious under-eye bags going on. Peter didn’t usually think he had parental instincts, but he felt every single nonexistent parental instinct rise up in him at the smell of coffee from the gallon-sized container and the boy’s deep eye-bags. 

The kid looked up at Peter and took a long drink from the travel mug, then turned and rang June’s doorbell. 

The maid let them both in, without a question between them. Peter knew he, at least, was familiar to the people June has on staff – few of them questioned his visits, anymore – but he couldn’t figure the reason that the kid’s presence wouldn’t be questioned. As far as Peter knew, the kid was definitely a stranger. 

Maybe the maid had thought the kid was with Peter? 

Peter hesitated inside the door, then looked at the kid. But the kid had already started moving up the stairs. Peter had the beginning of suspicion, then. 

“You here for Neal?” Peter asked. 

The kid glanced over his shoulder and pushed his sunglasses up into his hair. “Neal. Right. That’s what he’s going by, isn’t it?” he scoffed, then turned and continued up the stairs. He had black hair and blue eyes, and Peter had been relatively sure that that particular combination was rarer than it seemed to be, lately. 

Peter stared after him for a long moment, then followed him. He didn’t have much of a choice, since he was there to pick Neal up, but it certainly felt awkward to just... have this  teenager  walking up the stairs almost right in front of him. Even if he was a business-casual teenager. With the biggest goddamn travel cup of coffee that Peter had ever seen in his  life.  

The kid knew exactly where he was going, and it was definitely Neal’s place. He knocked on Neal’s door and took half a step back to nurse his coffee. 

Briefly, his sunglasses slipped down out of his hair. He caught them before they slipped off his face entirely and blinked at them in surprise. Then pushed them back into place as he side-eyed Peter. Like he thought Peter was going to tell on him or something. 

Peter just raised his eyebrows. 

Neal opened the door a few moments later. “Peter!” he greeted. Then his eyes slid over (and down) to the other visitor. His smile slipped off his face and his expression slipped right into exasperation. “Why are you here?” he asked. 

“You called for IT assistance?” the kid deadpanned. 

“No, I didn’t,” Neal scowled, but stepped aside to let him in. He turned back to Peter. “Ignore him.” 

The kid made an offended noise, albeit one that sound caught halfway between that offense and amusement. “Wow, I thought he was making it up.” 

Neal glanced over his shoulder, then back at Peter once more. He cleared his throat. “We should go,” he summoned his smile, the “Neal” one that made up a big part of his Neal Caffrey act. “Lots of mortgage fraud to poke through, right?” 

“Who is he?” Peter asked. 

“If you say no one,” the kid said, “I’m going to personally lock you out of all your bank accounts.” 

Neal sighed and dropped his gaze. 

Peter didn’t want to guess, but he was beginning to see the similarities between this kid’s visit and the run-ins he and Neal had had with the other two. “Is he your son, too?” Peter asked. His voice felt strained. He didn’t like acknowledging that Neal had kids. Two was already two too many. A third one? Really? Peter really wanted to be wrong. 

Neal sighed and pushed his door wider open. He glanced over at the kid, eyebrow raised. 

“Of course I’m his son. You think random kids visit him at his little bachelor pad styled apartment?” he appeared to have found Neal’s laptop and had it out on the table, already booting up. “And I’m here to bore some holes into the FBI security on ‘Neal’s’ laptop.” 

“Don’t tell me that,” Peter sighed. “Please don’t tell me when you’re trying to commit crimes, or tantamount crimes. I don’t have the willpower to deal with it.” 

“Well, tough,” the kid took another long drink from his cup. 

“When was the last time you slept?” Neal asked. 

Peter glanced at him, wondering if the question were for him. Of course, it was directed to the teen. Who aggressively took another long drink of his coffee, noisily. 

“C’mon, sport,” Neal prodded. 

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to,  Dad,”  the kid snapped. He glared over at Neal, then turned back to the computer. “Why don’t I just factory reset the whole thing? Fresh computer, no spyware. Then I can scrub it for anything that isn’t affected by the wipe. Then grab a VPN or three and boom, privacy.” 

“I think they’d be able to tell if their security software was suddenly just not there,” Neal said drily. 

“You’re probably right.” the kid fished a thumb drive out of the inner pocket of his blazer. “Luckily, I’m a smart gay and managed to whip up a private virtual desktop that should be able to operate both on top of the normal workings of the laptop and operate without the FBI knowing. It should spoof your activity, too, so that they can see you doing perfectly harmless things.” 

Peter rubbed his temples. “Why?” he muttered. 

Neal turned back to him. “He just wants to show off in front of someone,” he said. 

“Yes, but why me? I should be doing something about this!” Peter motioned to the kid and the laptop, encompassing the whole thing. Why wasn’t he doing anything, anyway? He could. He just. Didn’t really want to, he supposed. “Did he just say he was a ‘smart gay’?” 

“Yes,” Neal sighed. 

“Why?” 

“I don’t know, honestly. But he seems to like including sexualities in both his compliments and insults, lately. I think it’s either a phase, or a sign that he needs more sleep,” Neal shrugged. “Not that we need any more signs that he needs more sleep.” 

“I sleep enough,” the kid disagreed. 

“You never answered me when I asked what the last time you slept was,” Neal said. 

The kid glanced up, glaring, then glanced back down. 

“So, it’s probably around three days. He doesn’t like answering after the forty-eight-hour mark, because he knows how disappointed the rest of us get. It’s not healthy,” Neal shrugged again. 

“Forty-eight hours?!” Peter looked between Neal and the kid a few times. 

“I’m fine,” the kid muttered. “Don’t you have work to do or something? Get out of here, already.” He made an annoyed shooing motion, not even looking up at Neal or Peter. “I can handle being alone in a living-space. I’ve been doing it all my life!” 

Neal winced, but nodded. “Of course, son.” 

The kid glanced up and softened his glare. It was still present, but much softer. “See you later?” 

“Of course,” Neal nodded. 

Peter followed Neal out of June’s home, a little at a loss. His count left Neal at three kids, all of them possibly legal adults. He didn’t know what to do with that information. 

“Is he adopted, too?” Peter asked. 

Neal laughed, surprised. He turned to Peter before he ducked down to get in the passenger side of Peter’s car. ”Of course he is,” he said. Like there shouldn’t be any doubt. Did Neal just... not know how much of a resemblance his kids had to him? 

“Right,” Peter sighed. 

They got in the car, relatively synchronized, and Peter resolved that the rest of the day should be as normal as possible, to make up for the odd morning. 

(And he wasn’t even going to touch the Tesla Roadster as a topic, because he didn’t  want  to know how Neal’s son – a teenager – could afford such an expensive, new-looking car. He didn’t want to even think about it, just for peace of mind. He already had to deal with the fact that he knew the kid was pulling loophole-shaped shenanigans on Neal’s laptop, to make Neal’s computer use private from the FBI. Peter didn’t need anything else bouncing around in his skull that might incriminate a  kid,  regardless of whether or not that kid were Neal Caffrey’s.) 

-- 

Four. 

-- 

There was a kid, possibly in his early teens, sitting at Neal’s desk when Peter and Neal arrived to work, a few days after the last incident. 

Peter chanced a glance over at Neal to see what his reaction to the kid would be. 

It was tired exasperation, barely controlled under a smile that only vaguely reminded Peter of his usual “Neal Caffrey” smiles. 

“You certainly are popular, lately,” Peter commented. 

“Oh yes. Lucky me,” Neal scoffed. He turned to his desk and walked around it to stand beside his chair. He dropped the smile, finally, and raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing here? Do your brothers know where you are?” 

Brothers. 

Peter decided that it was best not to hope that, somehow, this wasn’t a fourth son of Neal’s. Especially since context clues were telling Peter that this probably was one of his kids. He’d had similar reactions to the previous men, and the teenager, anyway. And he was mentioning “brothers.” 

Aside from that, this kid had the same black hair, though his eyes were a bright green, rather than the blue or teal that the other three sported. 

(Weren’t green eyes even rarer than blue eyes? Was Neal collecting dark-haired, light-eyed kids on purpose for some reason?) 

The kid scoffed and met Neal’s eye, albeit with far more intensity than a kid his age should have. Possibly more intensity than anyone should have, in terms of what was and what wasn’t mentally healthy. “Father,” the child’s clipped tone was foreign-accented English, even with the first word. “Do you think your blood so ill-equipped that he would allow such ‘tabs’ to be kept on him?” 

“Please don’t speak in third person,” Neal said. “It sounds less than natural and singles you out.” 

The kid rolled his eyes. “I have slipped the net of your false heirs,” he said. 

Neal ran a hand down his face, very slowly. “Does that mean ‘no,’ or does that mean you had a head start?” 

The kid scowled up at him. Then scoffed again.  “He  shall arrive to claim me within the hour,” he dropped an angry gaze to the desk. 

Peter followed his gaze, down to a series of drawing that he had apparently done, in pen, on the various bits of scrap paper Neal kept on and in his desk. Peter felt his eyebrows raising as he looked over the sketches. They were... good. Really good. Though maybe Peter shouldn’t have been surprised that the son of an art forger was good at art. (But he could certainly hope that Neal wasn’t including this kid in any of his forgeries or schemes.) 

Neal let out a breath, sounding relieved. “Good,” he nodded. “Very good. What bring you here? You know none of you are supposed to come here.” 

The kid pouted and muttered something in a language Peter didn’t know. 

“I didn’t quite catch that,” Neal said. 

The kid scowled up to him. “I said, ‘the others got to see you, I don’t see why I should be left out,’” he snapped. 

Neal’s expression softened. “Oh, chum,” he said. 

The kid curled his lip in disgust. “You might be able to get away with that when it comes to the others, but not with me. Refrain from use of that  ridiculous  term, Father!” 

Neal chuckled deeply. It was fonder and more natural than his usual, lighter, more “Neal Caffrey” chuckles. And paternal besides. He reached out and ruffled his kid’s hair, even though he must have known that his reward would have been the hiss the kid gave as he knocked Neal’s hand away. “I missed you, too,” Neal said. 

The kid’s scowl didn’t disappear, but it did soften significantly. 

Then the kid glanced up at Peter, sharp and unforgiving. “Agent Burke,” he said in a clipped tone. “I will have you know that only I am of my Father’s blood. I am not the same as those which might otherwise be referred to as my  brothers,  and will not have such a mistake made.” 

“He’s adopted, too, though,” Neal murmured. He ruffled the kid’s hair again. “Given his birth-country and the matter of the first decade of his life, it was a necessity.” 

Peter nodded slowly. 

The kid batted Neal’s hand away again. 

“All right, kid,” Neal knelt beside his chair, putting himself a bit below eye-level of the kid taking up said seat. “You know where June’s place is, right?” Damian scoffed and rolled his eyes, but nodded. Neal nodded in response. “I want you to wait for your Brother there. I have work to do, and while I know you have the professionalism to maintain an unobtrusive presence, or even a helpful one, no one here knows you the way I do. It would probably disrupt others’ work, knowing you are here.” 

“Do not patronise me,” the kid scoffed. But he stood. 

“I am not patronising you,” Neal straightened. “I am telling you the truth. If you would like, you could speak with June while you are there. I know you’re interested in her time on the other side of the law, yes? And you appreciate her choices in décor and art.” 

The kid narrowed his eyes, but ultimately nodded. “You bring up a fair point.” 

“I’m sure June would love to meet you properly,” Neal said. 

“Of course she would,” the kid gave a derisive sniff, but turned and started for the elevator. 

Peter checked back into the conversation, then. “Hold on, wait a moment. Neal, you can’t seriously be letting your kid navigate New York City on his own, can you?!” Peter motioned between Neal and the retreating form of the kid. “It’s not safe to just... let a kid wander!” 

“Hm? Oh,” Neal sat at his desk, smiling almost vacantly, like he didn’t quite understand. It wasn’t quite a Neal smile, but it was an effective, if blisteringly false, mask all the same. “He can handle himself, don’t worry. He can take care of anything that ends up in his path. Easily. I’d be more afraid for a mugger, if faced with my son, than for my son being mugged.” 

“What?” Peter felt his jaw drop a little. 

Was there a paternal bone in Neal’s body? It had seemed like it, when Neal had been interacting with his other children, but Peter had to wonder about it, seeing his blatant disregard for his son’s safety. His youngest (yet?) son’s safety, no less. 

“Honestly, Peter. If I didn’t think he would be fine out there, do you really think I would have sent him alone?” Neal rolled his eyes. “I’m pretty sure we’ve already established that I’m actually very smart. So, just trust me on this.” 

Peter narrowed his eyes. But Neal was right. Neal  was  smart. And Peter felt he could trust Neal’s judgement. 

-- 

Five. 

-- 

Neal was undercover at a party. 

It wasn’t an unusual situation for him to be in, and it had been going just fine. 

The girl at his side was perhaps a bit young for him, and he hadn’t introduced her to anyone, but the party was going about as well as it was expected to go. 

Frankly, the FBI weren’t catching any of Neal’s conversation with his date-for-the-night on Neal’s wire. That was more concerning to the FBI than anything else, in part because it made Neal’s assumed bond with the girl seem tenuous at best. Maybe even strained. They could only hope that it wouldn’t look like that, at the party. 

It was when the party was wrapping up that they realized why Neal and the girl weren’t being caught, speaking to each other, over Neal’s wire. 

Peter watched as Neal turned a congratulatory smile onto the young woman – short, compact, dark hair, brown eyes, and of Asian descent, wearing a lovely black dress that was modest and unexpectedly appealing (given how modest it was). 

It was a full-length dress, very elegant in its simplicity, with long sleeves and a high collar, almost like a turtleneck. The back, which one might have expected to be open, as similar necklines seemed to, had a small keyhole at the nape of the neck, to allow for easier putting-on and taking-off, but was otherwise completely covering. And, again, unexpectedly compelling, especially in a sea of glittering dresses, many of which were much shorter. 

Peter held no judgement for the shorter dresses (except perhaps the shortest ones, which couldn’t have possibly been worth their probably price tags), but he thought he liked the black dress better than them. That the length didn’t at all detract from whatever “sexiness” a party dress was usually expected to have. And, besides, the silhouette itself was very aesthetically pleasing, in spite of (or because of?) its simplicity. 

Neal raised his hands between himself and his date and. 

Sign. 

The reason they didn’t hear Neal speaking to her over the wire was because he was speaking to her in sign. And she spoke back, expressive and happy. 

Peter walked over to them. “Is she—” he started. 

She was already shaking her head, smiling. “I can,” she said. She motioned to her mouth, then her ears. 

“She prefers sign,” Neal said. He seemed incredibly fond of her, though Peter couldn’t help but worry that a relationship between Neal and this girl was doomed to fail. She looked like she was still in her teens, and Neal was in his thirties. Well. Neal was in his thirties, as far as the FBI knew. 

“Hi,” Peter offered the girl his hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Neal’s handler, Agent Peter Burke.” He was hoping the introduction might at least make her wonder why Neal needed a handler. Just in case Neal hadn’t told her about his time in jail, or the crimes he was suspected of, or the crimes he had gotten away with due to the statute of limitations. 

“Hello,” she shook his hand, her grip stronger than expected and her grin sharper. She turned her smile back to Neal. “Good?” 

“Yes, Peter’s a good man,” Neal nodded and pushed his hands into his pockets. 

She nodded and released Peter’s hand. She signed something, too fast for Peter to even attempt to understand. 

Peter glanced at Neal, a bit bashfully. 

“She thanked you for keeping her father out of trouble,” Neal chuckled and put on a self-deprecating smile, shrugging. 

“Her father?” 

“Father,” the girl agreed. She grinned brightly and moved to squeeze Neal into a tight hug. 

Neal pet her hair carefully, conscious of not messing it up. “She means me, of course.” 

“Oh,” Peter said. Then it actually clicked. “Oh! She’s your daughter?” 

“I couldn’t quite find the time to find a date for the party, and my daughter had a new dress she’d wanted to wear. It worked out for us. Even if the dress was stolen from someone else’s closet,” he raised an amused eyebrow at her. 

“Little Brother does not need,” she said carefully. 

“Yes, but Little Brother likes his dresses, love. I hope you plan on returning it,” Neal leaned down to kiss the top of her head. “If not, please tell me so that I can find him another one. He’s already upset about the caffeine limits that A had been trying to get him to keep to. We don’t need him complaining about stolen clothes, too.” 

“Little Brother loves me. He will be fine,” she dismissed. 

Peter tried to process the conversation. Then decided it might be better to save for later. (He didn’t care one way or another if a boy wanted to wear a dress, or anything, but hearing Neal talk about family, itself, seemed like it was always going to throw Peter for a loop.) 

-- 

Six. 

-- 

There was something about the look on Neal’s face that concerned Peter. 

“He has a hostage,” Peter reported in, though he kept Neal in the corner of his eye. And Neal very obviously kept the hostage and suspect in his own sights.    

“I thought he was just a petty thief?”  Diana complained. 

“We must have spooked him.” Peter sighed and surveyed the scene. The suspect was wide-eyed and swinging around wildly, jerking the teenager around with him as he went and keeping a gun pointed at his head. Peter was a little afraid that he’d startle and end up shooting the kid. 

The hostage was oddly composed, the whole time. Almost exasperated. He was a dark-skinned teen with a medium athletic build, thick hair, and a bright yellow hoodie that was probably what drew the suspect to him, first, over the other people all around. The people that had since – screaming and flailing like a bunch of headless chickens – evacuated the area. That was, thankfully, one less thing to worry about. 

Peter ran a hand over his mouth and tried to think. 

The suspect was just a serial pickpocket. There wasn’t really a reason for them to act that way. But, sometimes, when you made someone feel as though they were backed into a corner, they would react in ways that just weren’t logical, let alone predictable. 

Neal moved out of Peter’s immediate line of vision. 

Peter turned. 

Neal was still moving. He had his hands up as he stepped into the suspect’s line of sight. 

“Fuck. Neal!” Peter snapped. Quietly. He’d hoped to get Neal’s attention before the suspect zeroed in on him. Peter’s luck was really fucking bad, lately, though. 

“Hey! Hey! You,” the suspect pointed the gun at Neal, instead. Hand shaking. 

Peter could have sworn he saw the tense line of Neal’s shoulders actually relax a bit, at that. Which was ridiculous. 

“You!” the guy repeated. “Stop there. Don’t move any closer or I’ll shoot!” He hesitated, then moved the gun back to the teen’s head (to an eyeroll from the teen, actually) and then back to Neal. “You a Fed? Are you a Fed?!” 

“Why are you saying everything twice?” the teen hissed. 

“Shut up!” 

“I’m a CI,”  Neal slowly reached for his inner pocket. So slowly. Trying very hard not to spook the suspect. 

“What are you doing?!” 

“I’m getting my badge. That’s all. No guns. I don’t even carry. I’m not even allowed to carry,” Neal said. He withdrew the badge, never going any faster or getting impatient with the process. “Badge. See?” He flipped it open, then slowly knelt and put it on the ground, then slid it over. “Neal Caffrey. CI for the FBI. Do you know what that means?” 

“You got Feds coming for you?” the suspect accused. 

“It means I’m worth more,” Neal said. “Your hostage, there? Just some random kid.” 

The kid made an offended noise. Peter could not  believe  kids, sometimes. There Neal was, apparently trying to negotiate for a change in hostages, trying to get that kid out of immediate danger, and he had the audacity to be upset that he was being called “just a random kid”? Amazing. 

“Me? I’m an FBI asset.” 

“Yeah?” the suspect scoffed. “What you want me to do about that? Huh?” 

“Let the kid go,” Neal said. 

The suspect scoffed louder and moved the gun once more, pointing it at Neal. “And what? Take you instead of the—” 

The teenager’s hand suddenly shot out, at the suspect’s gun. His other hand shot up towards the suspect’s nose. In a brief flurry of movement that Peter didn’t quite process, the teen had the gun in his own hands, already being unloaded, and the man who’d had him as hostage stumbling back. 

Neal breathed a sigh of relief that was probably a bit too soon. 

Or Peter thought as much, until the teen dropped the parts of the gun and turned back to his assailant. The kid got the suspect on the ground, arm behind his back and knee in the small of his back, with another brief flurry of motion. Peter was already halfway over to help, but stumbled to a stop when he saw the kid manage it on his own. “How did you manage that, kid?” 

Said kid glanced up at Peter and raised an eyebrow. 

It was the exact same expression Neal always seemed to be giving Peter, when he was being especially judgmental of something Peter did or said. The kid glanced over at Neal. 

Neal sighed and picked up his badge. “Why are you here?” he asked. 

Peter turned to him to give him a sarcastic answer, but— 

“Uh. Field trip?” the kid said. “We were at the museum earlier today. I was looking for something to eat when this guy—” he twisted the suspect’s arm a bit more than necessary, to the tune of a shout of pain, “—thought it was a good day to grab a random kid.” 

“You know this kid, Neal?” Peter asked. He nudged the kid to move, then knelt to cuff the suspect. 

“What, you really think my  Dad  wouldn’t know me?” the kid asked. 

Peter’s head shot up. He glanced from the kid to Neal, then back again. “What? Really? Neal, how many kids do you have?” 

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” the kid shrugged and shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets. He turned to Neal. “See ya?” 

“Yeah, see ya, kid,” Neal nodded. 

The teen even allowed a brief hair-ruffle as he passed Neal, only scoffing slightly at the annoyance. 

-- 

Seven. 

-- 

Neal was not a happy stakeout member. But he’d volunteered and he was caffeinated, to Peter wasn’t about to give him any outs. 

Their suspects, up until that point, were speaking casually back and forth, filling the bugs with a hum of conversation that could have been anything from the events of the day to the next day’s shopping list. They weren’t entirely sure, because most of it was in Greek, but that didn’t mean much. They weren’t there for the hum of conversation, they were there for a rumoured meeting that would be happening a bit later. 

Neal snorted, apropos nothing. 

“What?” Peter asked. 

“Nothing,” Neal said. 

Peter glanced at Jones and Diana, then back at Neal. “Nothing?” he asked. 

“He mis-referenced his Greek tragedies, that’s all,” Neal waved him off. 

The noise in the truck – what noise there had been, anyway – turned into flat silence. Peter blinked a few times, then glanced at the others to see if they’d heard the same thing. The same looks, the same as the one Peter felt on his own face, that is, seemed to be reflected on their faces. “Neal?” Peter started. 

“Yes, Peter?” 

“Do you... know Greek?” 

Neal glanced over. “A little of it. Why?” 

The ambient noise in the van seemed to start back up. Peter shook his head, Jones groaned in disbelief, and Diana muttered something under his breath. “Of course you know Greek,” Peter said. “Why am I even surprised. Anything else we should know?” Peter motioned extravagantly at the different monitors in the van. “Anything at all?” 

“Uh. They’re planning on having lamb and spanakopita for dinner tomorrow?” Neal smiled vaguely at them. 

Peter huffed out his exasperation. 

Things were just about normal when a  tap-tap-tap  came at the van doors. 

Everyone in the van froze. Peter, who was closest to the doors, turned and put his hand on the latch. Neal glanced over in interest and seemed to be the only person in the van not tense at the interruption. Possibly because he was used to being the interruption and didn’t quite know how to equate an interruption – at teh surveillance van – as something that could be dangerous. 

Peter wouldn’t have put it past him. 

Peter also wouldn’t have been surprised if Neal knew exactly how dangerous the situation was and was just playing it cool. 

He took a deep breath, to settle himself, but jumped a bit as another  tap-tap-tap  suffused the back of the vehicle. Peter opened the doors, ready to send the interloper away, hopefully with a stern warning against approaching strange vehicles. 

Peter was immediately faced with a blond teenager with a bright smile. She had three takeout containers and several sealed plastic forks held aloft in one hand and was giving Peter a peace sign with the other hand. 

“Sup,” she said. She didn’t look at all surprised by what she’d found in the van. In fact, she climbed her way in before Peter could quite find his voice. “Damn, bro, close that before someone realizes that you guys aren’t the telephone wire guys or something.” 

Peter obeyed mechanically. 

“So!” she said. Then shushed herself. “Sorry, whoops. I mean, so. Who wants waffles?” 

“What?” Peter hissed. 

Neal had a disgruntled look on his face and had his arms crossed, chair turned slightly toward the middle of the cramped van. The girl took that as an invitation and plopped herself on one of Neal’s knees. Then she proceeded to pass out the containers. One she set in front of herself and Neal, one she passed behind her to Diana and Jones, and the last one she passed to Peter. 

“Miss,” Peter started, a little strangled-sounding. He didn’t know who in their right mind sat themselves practically in a stranger’s lap like she did (unless they were in a job where such actions were part of the job description), but he did know that it had to be uncomfortable, for Neal at least. 

“Agent,” she saluted Peter, then passed out forks. “I got waffles for everyone.” 

“Miss, what—” 

Neal sighed and put an arm around the girl’s waist and forced her back a bit, which was probably more comfortable for both of them. “Don’t you think you’re a little old for this?” he muttered. 

“Nah, I do it to your kids all the time, man,” she popped open the takeout container in front of herself and, true to her word, there were waffles inside. “I mean. Not the Demon. But the rest of them tolerate it, to varying degrees.” 

“Neal,” Peter managed. 

“Peter,” Neal smiled pleasantly over at him. 

“Don’t you think that’s a bit inappropriate?” Peter asked. 

“I’m literally dating his daughter,” the blond smirked over at Peter. “And I’ve been eating his food and crashing at his house for, like, years. So many years.” 

Peter did not see how that made this less inappropriate. 

“Just let it go,” Neal said. “Nothing untoward is going on, I promise. It’s just... awkward.” 

“Got that right,” Jones muttered. 

Diana snorted. 

“Let it go,” Peter echoed. “Is she one of your kids, too?” 

“Oh, god no,” the girl scoffed. At the same time, Neal shook his head and said, “No, she’s not one of mine.” 

“No?” Peter asked. 

“As she said, she’s dating my daughter. So, no. She’s not quite one of mine,” Neal said. 

“Like, I might as well be, but yeah. Big No, on that one. I’d rather not be dating my sister. Too weird for me, thanks,” she stabbed her waffle with her fork and slowly frowned. “I forgot knives. Dammit.” 

-- 

Epilogue. 

-- 

“Seven kids,” Peter said. 

“Six, the blond one Isn't mine,” Neal corrected. 

“Six kids,” Peter amended. 

They were walking into Neal’s apartment, after the stakeout. The blond girl had left once there were no more waffles to be had and Peter was half-convinced that she was some kind of teenaged cryptid in a purple hoodie. 

“Well, six that you’ve met, yes,” Neal said. “I have a few other children, as well.” He motioned Peter into his apartment. 

“Harper, Cullen, Carrie, Terry,” the girl from earlier listed off. “Those are the one who haven’t met you Agent, right?” she grinned at Neal from the couch. “I mean, besides the ‘family friends’ that I swear are also basically yours, because you can’t help yourself.” 

“Peter, this is Stephanie,” Neal said. 

“Just Steph is fine,” Steph tacked on. 

Peter glanced from the blond to Neal. “Her name? You’re telling me her name, now?” 

Neal nodded. “That stakeout got the evidence necessary to wrap up your big case, but it also got the last piece of information I needed, in order to wrap up my overarching case.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“It means he’s going home,” Steph said. She walked deeper into the apartment, where the other various faces Peter had already come across had taken over the different pieces of Neal’s furniture. Steph wandered over to the couch and tossed herself next to the girl from the party, snuggling into her side. 

“That’s Cassandra,” Neal pointed to the girl Steph had curled up next to. “She generally prefers to be called Cass.” 

Peter and Cass exchanged waves, though Peter’s was significantly more awkward. “Cass. Okay. Your daughter from the party,” he glanced at Neal. “You said that she’d stolen her dress from one of your sons...” 

“Tim, yes,” Neal moved into the apartment and motioned to the teenager that Peter had met on June’s doorstep. The one that was going to get Neal around the FBI’s monitoring of him on Neal’s laptop. As well as who knew what else. It didn’t escape Peter’s notice that a kid able to do that much was probably able to mess with FBI oversight on Neal Caffrey in other, possibly more harmful ways. 

The kid woke just enough to wave lazily, then dozed back off, once more. 

“Jason’s at the stove,” Neal pointed at the still-familiar leather jacket from outside the pawn shop. 

Jason, though, just glared at Neal and Peter for a moment, then went back to whatever complicated midnight snack he’d decided he was going to make. Peter gave another awkward wave, anyway, though he wasn’t sure there was a point to the motion. 

“Duke is the one doing his homework,” he motioned to the teenager from the hostage situation, who gave a distracted half-wave, never quite looking up from the homework. He was working at the table behind Jason, and probably waiting for a bit of whatever Jason had going on the stove. 

Peter waved again, feeling ridiculous. Especially since Duke didn’t even see him do it. 

“My eldest and youngest – of the ones you’ve met, that is – are...” Neal motioned to the balcony, whose doors were thrown wide to keep the balcony joined to the rest of the apartment. “Playing chess, it looks like. Dick is my eldest,” he motioned to the fashion disaster, though he looked more put-together (not that that was a high bar) with an ensemble entirely made of black. He glanced up with a smile and a wave. “And Damian my youngest.” The surly kid that had been at Neal’s desk glanced over and scoffed, then turned back to the game of chess. 

“The youngest of the ones I’ve met,” Peter said slowly, giving his final wave. 

“Yes, Terry is my youngest by ten years, though. The baby of the family. Carrie is also slightly younger than Damian. But only slightly. The other two Steph mentioned, Harper and Cullen, are around Jason and Tim’s ages, Harper a bit older than Jason and Cullen a bit younger than Tim.” 

Peter blinked very slowly. “You have... eleven children?” 

“Ten,” Neal waved him off. “Again, Steph isn’t mine.” 

“Though I might as well be,” Steph said. 

“Though she might as well be,” Neal agreed, fondly. 

“Why are you telling me all this?” Peter asked. 

Neal smiled at Peter fondly. “I figured you might as well know my family. You know me well enough.” 

“Yes, but I know you as Neal Caffrey—” 

“Bruce,” Neal corrected. 

Peter stopped and processed that. “Bruce,” he repeated back. 

“Yes, Bruce.” 

Peter only knew of one “Bruce” with a collection of children, and he hated how much resemblance there was, how much sense it made. “Bruce... Wayne,” Peter surmised. 

Neal—no. Bruce nodded.