Archive of Our Own

Michael Macmillan was not bad at his job.

He wouldn’t say that he was good at it; good had a special meaning at the Bureau. Good meant not just diligent, persistent, rigorous, but also politically inclined. Tolerant of interdepartmental size contests. It meant not torching your career in year three and getting reassigned to Gotham. And, of course, good also meant solving cases, following leads, having Peter Burke’s New York close rate—and sure, those were good things, but New York also saw the sun more than once every two weeks.

In Gotham, you get that kind of good at your job, somebody notices. And then you end up not being good at anything again, up to and including drawing breath.

Accordingly, the Gotham branch, with the full collusion of SAC Grimson, had developed a remarkably convenient form of selective deafness. There’d be calls every so often about crime rates, the Joker, the rest of them, and Grimson would nod seriously and say it was very concerning, and say well, currently the Joker’s in Arkham, and say ‘mhm’ in consternation. And Washington, having done its duty, mostly played along—what else would they do? Come here? Do it themselves?

So Gotham FBI gained the reputation of a place for people who—did not excel. That hadn’t been Mike’s plan when he’d joined the Bureau, ending up not excelling, but…

He wasn’t stupid.

Despite that, though, he wasn’t bad at his job. He and Manny had kept up with Burke and his team—Caffrey—at the Conroy Foundation gala last spring, despite not having half the picture. Mike didn’t take money, didn’t talk out of school. He had a reasonable amount of intuition. Mike did what he could to help people, as much as he could in this mess of a city—sometimes he missed Milwaukee.

And Washington aside, of course, nobody seriously thought about getting in the Batman’s way.

“Yo, Mike,” Manny said, across the bullpen, without getting up from his desk. “You see that thing the Gazette put up this morning?”

Mike had been staring at it for the last ten minutes. Trying to decide where the line fell, between stupid and bad; trying to tell himself that he should leave this alone.

Nicoletta, one of their junior agents—Jesus, when did I become a senior agent, Mike thought—turned in her chair, following Rodrigues’ attention. “What’s up?” she asked—oh, thanks, Manny—catching the attention of a couple interns sent up from Quantico for the FBI’s equivalent of Scared Straight.

Mike shook his head. “Oh, just some light reading,” he said, closing the window and narrowing his eyes at his partner across the room. “Society shit.”

“You read the society pages?” one of the interns grinned.

“Number of times those shindigs get attacked,” Manny shrugged, “you should too.” The interns looked suitably chastened and Mike almost felt bad.

“Yeah,” he said kindly. “This one wasn’t attacked, though. It’s just nice to see a party where nothing goes wrong.”

Manny, focused on his coffee mug, nodded in agreement. Nicoletta was losing interest and said only, “That’s good,” before getting up and heading for the door. The interns stood awkwardly, abashed, until Mike waved them on their way.

Mike’s phone buzzed not five seconds later. Manny.

But you saw? he asked.

No shit, Mike replied.

The Gotham Gazette’s society page featured several shots of last night’s Wayne Foundation gala, including a few of the great man himself. Wayne looked as vacuous as ever, but, in all the pictures, he stayed carefully close to his youngest son.

Damian Wayne. Fifteen years old. Who missed his brother. And whose left arm was in a sling.

***

The thing was.

The more you looked.

The more you saw.

The harder it got to look at the skiing accidents; the sudden overseas trips; the broken ankle from polo; the sailing accident that hospitalized Tim Drake-Wayne with a concussion two years ago; the—Jesus Christ, the death of Jason, Wayne’s second son, on the other side of the world; the eyes that were too damn old—

The harder it got to look and not see.

Mike wasn’t stupid. And he wasn’t bad. And he’d seen Caffrey’s face, Dick Grayson-Wayne’s, his tension and his father’s singular, furious cold…

Mike had seen the anger break Bruce Wayne’s vapid surface, just for a moment—like a sea monster rising through cold water, if Mike was being fanciful. Like something dark and poisonous, deep behind those empty placid eyes.

***

They were waiting at Gooney’s for their sandwiches, past the cash, when Manny spoke. “You sure about this, Mike?” he asked.

No. Of course he wasn’t. But if he was good at politics, he’d still be in Milwaukee.

“You’re not?” he asked instead of saying that.

Manny shrugged. “We got to go slow,” he said. “We go for Wayne just from the Conroy thing, from coincidences, we rush this, we lose.”

Mike grimaced. Gotham wasn’t the worst place to end up, in the Bureau; there were always postings in bum-fuck-nowhere Alaska or rural Idaho or some shit. Gotham at least had—drama, you could say. And, hell, if they accused Wayne and couldn’t make it stick, bum-fuck-nowhere would be the best-case scenario. A man with Wayne’s resources and his—ruthlessness, that’d been what Mike had seen—their abject disgrace would be just the start.

“Yeah,” he said. We need an in.

“We need something he can’t argue away,” Manny said, quiet. “Something we can put up on a witness stand. Or at least in front of Child Services.”

“At least get the kid out,” Mike agreed. “And keep him from picking up another.”

“I still don’t get it,” Manny said. “After—” he looked around, dropped his voice. “After number two. Where the hell has CPS been, even?”

Mike’s mouth twisted. “Where they’ve been paid to be?” he suggested. It was Gotham, after all.

Manny laughed, hard and short. “Fuck,” he said, feelingly, summarizing the whole problem.

Candy waved them over and handed them their subs. They were outside again before Mike spoke. He said, “Caffrey.”

“You think?”

Mike nodded. “If he’ll talk to us. He’s our best shot.”

***

Mike took three slow, steadying breaths and dialed. They’d got the number out of the internal directory; it had been a careful choice. Four rings on the other end, and then she picked up.

Over the speakerphone in the empty bullpen, Manny listening in: “This is Berrigan.”

“Berrigan!” Mike said. “Good to catch you; sorry it’s so late. It’s Mike Macmillan, from Gotham. Was hoping to chat with Caffrey. We could use an insight or two. Any chance you could shoot me his contact? Or Burke’s, hell.”

Please not Burke’s, though, Mike thought. They could get Burke’s, just like Berrigan’s; Caffrey was unlisted. The point of calling Berrigan was to sidle around Peter Burke and his nearly paternal instincts—Mike almost laughed. At least Grayson had a quasi-father figure who wasn’t an irredeemable abusive shitstain.

Burke had suggested, after the Conroy thing, that Mike and Manny should stay away from Neal, and they’d been too stunned at the time not to agree. Trying to get to Neal with this—Burke would push, and guard, and close ranks around his informant, and unintentionally leave Damian out in the cold. But Berrigan—if they were lucky, she’d give them Neal.

Berrigan had been silent a long time, though, which wasn’t a good sign. Eventually, she said, “Neal’s unavailable.”

Manny raised his eyebrows.

Mike let some of his real worry shade into his tone: “He okay?”

Another long pause, then: “Neal Caffrey is no longer affiliated with the Bureau.”

That was not at all an answer.

“Berrigan,” Mike said. “Is he okay?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You’ll have to find your insight elsewhere.”

And she hung up.

Mike stared at the phone, incredulous, and looked up at his partner. “Holy shit.”

***

Neal Caffrey was out, unavailable, unaffiliated. Disavowed, near enough; Mike had called Berrigan back twice and she’d sent him straight to voicemail. The next day was no better, and Burke didn’t pick up either. Agent Jones was unreachable—blocked, maybe? for both Mike and Manny. The main reception line of the New York branch was unable to confirm any statements whatsoever regarding Neal Caffrey, including Mike’s fairly furious Right. You can’t even tell me if he ever even existed. They suggested Mike directly contact Agent Peter Burke, at which point Mike carefully thanked them, put down the handset, and squeezed his stress ball so hard it popped and sent little grains of plastic flying all over the bullpen.

Manny had been at Quantico with a couple people who were now in New York. Admittedly, given Manny’s own impressive flameout in Texas, his friends might not be that inclined to help. But it was still more than anything Mike could call on at this stage: all he had left was anger and what he knew was a bad idea.

Shit, not just a bad idea, well over into stupid. Probably counter-productive, too—if anyone had come up to him like this—but Damian Wayne was fifteen, and had come from obscurity to live with his father in the spotlight at the age of ten, and collected injuries ever since despite all of the watching eyes. Mike didn’t find that a lot of things made him angry, not really, not anymore, but this—

So he was waiting by the gates of Gotham Academy. The Wayne limo was down the block; Damian would walk right past him. He knew, because he’d reconnoitered—alright, he’d practically stalked the kid.

Even angry, this hadn’t been his favorite plan, but Damian was hardly ever left alone, always surrounded by people loyal to his father one way or another—

Mike bit the inside of his cheek and focused on his breathing.

The doors opened and kids started to pour out. Damian was in the center of a knot of teenagers; his wealth reset the pecking order, even if they didn’t really like him. Lonely, Mike thought, and poor little rich boy—and meant it.

Three of the five hangers-on went the other way at the gates; Mike had expected that. The two who remained would get in the limo with Damian and be dropped off on the way back to Bristol; weren’t the Waynes considerate.

And—Damian was just approaching—Mike wasn’t going to block his path, stayed where he was, leaning on the fence, saying loudly, “Damian Wayne!”

The boy didn’t stop walking. “No comment.”

“I’m not press.”

“No comment.”

“Look, kid,” Mike said, and oh, he was moving now—stop!—“Damian, I’d just like to talk for a minute.”

“He said no comment,” snapped one of the friends, shifting position to stay between Damian and Mike.

“I don’t want anything from you,” Mike tried, quickly. Damian stopped and turned to face him fully, probably to tell him off himself. “I just think I could—” He trailed off, attention fixed on Damian’s face.

On Damian’s smudged makeup.

On Damian’s bruised jaw.

Brass knuckles, Mike thought distantly, blood rushing in his ears. And: he tried to cover it up, and he’s good at covering it up; his friends probably haven’t noticed; even if they did he could pass it off as hickeys—

Damian shifted, lowering his head so the subtle bruising vanished into shadow. He knows I saw, Mike thought, he knows I know—

“Boys?” came a voice, one of the Academy’s security. They’d moved slowly—but then Mike didn’t look like your average Gotham threat. No costume, for one thing.

“Thank you, Mr. Lance,” Damian said to the hulking guard. “This man approached us and won’t give his name.”

“Mike,” Mike said automatically, and put up his hands as Mr. Lance approached. “I’m going. Won’t come back. I just thought—” He looked, deliberately, at Damian’s jaw, at Damian’s sling. “Just thought maybe I could help.”

Damian met his eyes, composed. “Thank you,” he said calmly, “but I doubt it.”

Mike closed his eyes. This fucking city.

***

Peter made the call from home in the evening, his dining room filled with the people Neal had left behind. Mozzie, June, Diana, Clinton. El.

Him.

The phone was Mozzie’s special burner, the one Neal had pressed into his hands with an unnervingly somber expression—Call me if you need me, he’d said, for anything, and—there’s only one number saved. It’s—there’s an encryption, so don’t try to… Just call?

It had been two weeks since the wharf, since the hospital. Bruce Wayne had said, I would like you to come home, and Neal had lain there, so perfectly still that for a moment Peter couldn’t even tell if he had heard. But then Neal had said, “Okay,” like a concession, and “Sorry, Peter,” like it was final.

Wayne had straightened at that. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Good. Do—” He looked around the room. “Do what you need to do.”

As Wayne left, Peter, thirty seconds behind, said, “League? Wait, what did he mean, the league—the Justice League? Neal, what the hell is going on?”

Neal shrugged one-shouldered against the pillow and gave a weak smile. “I wish I could tell you, Peter, I—there’s some things, but then maybe—”

He looked so exhausted that Peter couldn’t push. “Okay,” Peter said. “Okay. You get some sleep. We—we’ll talk more when you’re up for it?”

Neal nodded, eyes half-closed. “’Kay,” he said. “Talk then.”

Peter had let El drag him home then, for a bit. He’d showered, ate, slept for a while in his own bed, El held close. It wasn’t much past noon when he returned to the hospital.

And Neal was gone.

He was back, briefly, that Wednesday night, at the safehouse Mozzie called Friday, where Peter and Mozzie were quietly getting drunk. Neal’d given Moz the phone like it was an apology; he’d looked at Peter like that was. He hadn’t said sorry.

The phone was ringing on the table; Neal picked up after three. “Moz?” he asked.

“Hey, Neal,” Peter said. “Or—should I call you—”

“Neal’s good,” Dick said, voice light. “Great to hear from you! Mozzie around?”

“Hey,” Mozzie said.

“Everybody’s here,” Peter said. A chorus of Hi, Neal around the room. “Don’t want to take up too much of your time—”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. All good.” He sounded relaxed, lazy, happy. Peter had braced himself for something bad; had worried the encryption was special, hidden, keeping Wayne unaware. But there were background sounds behind Neal, the indistinct chatter of comfortable people.

“If this isn’t a good time, we can—”

“Really, Peter,” Neal said. “It’s good to talk. I’m—you know I didn’t want to leave like that.”

Peter’s gut twisted; he saw his expression reflected around the room. Asking how did you want to leave, then would be unfair; why did you go would be too. But, dammit, they could have helped, couldn’t they? If he’d gotten in too deep with the League, somehow, if he’d really wanted out—anybody in this room would stare down Superman for Neal.

And still he’d walked away.

“Yeah,” Peter said, because the rest of it would take too long. “Anyway. Thought we should let you know.”

“They’re after you, mon frère,” cut in Mozzie, helpful as ever.

“What?”

“The feds!” Moz yelped, as though that was obvious.

“Ah—Peter?” Neal asked, and Peter could almost see his grin.

“The Gotham agents, from the Conroy sting,” Peter explained. “They called Diana last night, wanted to talk to you. Called me, called Jones—they’ve stopped, we didn’t answer, and we don’t know what they want, exactly. But you should probably know.”

There was a pause, and then Neal hummed; a careful, considering noise that Peter wasn’t used to hearing from him. “Thanks,” he said, and the clatter in the background grew louder, voices—

“Neal, wait,” El said. “Are we interrupting a dinner right now?”

“What? No, it’s—just. Family snack time. Before… Uh. There’s a thing, so it’s a… pick-me-up? Protein,” he said. Diana raised an eyebrow. “A kind of egg thing.”

El mouthed, “Egg thing,” incredulous. Peter thought of Neal, rhapsodizing over molecular gastronomy, and wondered where the act had started and where it had stopped. He’d thought at least some of it was real—

“Yes,” Neal said, distracted and to someone on the other end. “I know it’s oeufs en cocotte, and I love you for it, A, but that’s really not what I’m going for here—D!” he said brightly, to someone else. “How was your day?”

Muttering, multiple voices. Neal said, sharply, “What?”, and suddenly his attention was back. “Peter,” he said. “The Gotham agents. What were their names?” He wasn’t relaxed, anymore.

There was a click, as though they’d been shifted to speakerphone, and the sensation of a room on the other end, listening closely.

“Emmanuel Rodrigues,” said Diana. “Michael—Mike—Macmillan.”

A low voice, not Dick: “Mike.”

And that careful hum again. “Okay,” said Neal. “Mike Macmillan.” A click, and they were back off speaker. “We’ll take care of it. Thanks for letting me know.”

It was not Neal’s voice. It might be Dick Grayson’s, but Peter felt that at least one of the magazines would have mentioned that Dick Grayson’s voice carried enough menace to freeze the air. No, this was the voice of Bruce Wayne’s son.

“Neal,” he said, trying. “If there’s anything you need, please.” If we can help you. If you need to leave. If you can still get out—I know you didn’t want this, didn’t want to go—

“Thanks,” Neal said, more naturally, and then, “J! Keep the mess out of the kitchen!” And then, in still another tone—“Bruce.”

Peter stiffened.

“No,” Neal said. “It’s Peter.” And: “Right, I will.” And, back into the phone: “Can we talk later, guys? Something’s come up with—ah. Protein.”

A noise like a muffled laugh from the phone; Jones coughed. “With protein, Neal?” June asked, and they all heard her unspoken really, Neal? Lie better.

“This weekend,” said Neal. “We’ll talk. I’ll—we’ll find some time and—but I really have to—the eggs are getting cold?”

He hung up.

Mozzie picked up the phone, and held it, quietly.

Peter supposed he should be glad. Neal, Dick, Richard—he had family snack time. Someone to make him oeufs en cocotte at 8 pm and make sure he ate them. People to chatter in the background; people for him to check in on, care for, scold. Chaotic, confusing, and we’ll leave out the part in the middle that was quite possibly the Wayne family as a whole declaring a vendetta against a federal agent, but, for the most part, it had been a reassuring call.

Couldn’t have been more so if it was staged, Peter thought.

That’s really not what I’m going for here, Neal had said, and maybe it had all been part of the act—and Neal had ended the call when Bruce Wayne came in.

Peter rubbed his eyes.

“Boss?” Diana said, slowly. “Neal made his choice. He knows what he’s doing.”

“Yeah,” Peter agreed, hoping it was true. “I guess he does.”

***

Manny’s friends in New York hadn’t helped. Not that they weren’t willing to, exactly, but they hadn’t jumped at the chance. Which wasn’t surprising. Might still turn something up, but… not a ton of hope, there.

Which meant: they were short on leads, approaches, angles. Caffrey had been a way in and Caffrey had disappeared. Damian—was not a way in, and Mike had been an idiot, and that was gonna come back and bite them, he knew it.

There was something, a loose thread from Child Services. A trail of threads around the time of Jason Todd-Wayne’s death, like cobwebs, glinting just on the edge of something solid. But nine years, pushing ten, in Gotham—

“Manny! Mike! You got a minute?”

Mike looked over at the SAC, standing at his office’s open door. “Ah. Yeah,” he said. “Manny?” he asked his partner, with an eyebrow. Any idea what this is?

“Sure,” Manny shrugged, for Grimson, making a face back at Mike. Nah, none, that meant.

As they headed for Grimson’s office, Mike paused, a flash of instinct hitting him. Without knowing quite why, he doubled back to his desk and grabbed the folder he’d been using to compile what little they had on Wayne. Mostly press printouts; a couple inconsistent reports; nothing much even in the aggregate. Unless you’d seen.

SAC Grimson sat behind his desk, his face impassive. He waited as Mike shut the door, sat down. And then he waited, a good thirty seconds more, letting them stew.

Paul Grimson was in his early forties, fair-haired and pale. Youngest SAC in the Bureau, when he’d got the job; still held the title, as far as anybody knew. The persistent rumor was that he’d asked for a Gotham posting, and made it to the top simply by not dying, breaking, or running away. In a different life, Mike thought they could have got along, but years In Charge of Gotham had worn Grimson down to the barest social graces. Mike wasn' top of anybody’s invite list, and Grimson made him look like a debutante.

“I just got a call,” Grimson said. Always precise, like he was paying by the word except when he was reaming someone out. “From Commissioner Gordon.”

His eyes were pale grey and aimed straight at Mike’s.

“What’s up?” Manny asked, seeing but not understanding Grimson’s look.

“Do you know,” Grimson asked, conversationally, “why I got a call telling me one of my people is harassing teenagers outside their school?”

Mike didn’t think saying teenager, only one, would help.

“Jesus, Mike,” said Manny softly.

Grimson nodded in Manny’s direction but didn’t move his eyes. “Glad to hear one of you’s not a complete fucking moron. Want to explain, Mike?”

“I—”

“Cause Damian Wayne told his father, and his father complained, nicely, to Commissioner fucking Gordon of the G-fucking-PD, and Gordon has now taken time from his schedule to give me a call and ask what I’m planning to do about my agent. And, you know what, Mike, I don’t have all that much time in my schedule either. So I’d love to give him a good answer.”

Mike’s hand tightened on his folder.

“And if Damian Wayne’s done anything short of murder,” Grimson continued, “the chance of it getting past Wayne’s lawyers are so stunningly small that—”

“He gets hit,” said Mike.

Grimson paused and narrowed his eyes. “He’s being bullied, he goes to self-defence classes, whines to his dad, talks to a teacher or a counsellor or whatever. Gets his dad to buy the bully’s family business, I don’t know. He doesn’t get an FBI avenging angel sweeping in to make him seem cool.”

Manny said, “We weren’t ready for this, Mike.”

Mike shrugged. “I know.” He held out the folder. “It’s not a bully.”

Grimson opened the folder, spread out the pictures, didn’t say anything for a while. Eventually he looked up. “It’s a stretch. You heard the guy talk? IQ of a pigeon.”

“Proportionately, pigeons’ brains are roughly similar to humans’,” Manny put in.

Mike turned in his seat and stared at his partner; said, “The fuck, Manny.”

Grimson rubbed his forehead. “What kind of bird it is doesn’t matter. Point is, Bruce Wayne is stupid. It’s his defining trait, stupid and harmless and kind. Good to the city. Takes in little orphan boys out of the goodness of his heart. Makes a lot of money, gives a lot of it away. I’m not saying he couldn’t hide something, but it’s hard to see him being smart enough to pull off what he does. If he does.” He looked at their faces. “What am I missing?”

“Elliot Pirona,” Mike said. “At the Conroy gala, with New York White Collar.”

“Okay, I remember.”

“New York’s agent was talking with Wayne for a while.”

“Must have been a painful conversation.”

“He—” He was smart sounded stupid. He was terrifying sounded worse. Mike went with: “He wasn’t like normal. I’ve talked to him, after attacks; I’ve heard him; he’s clueless. This guy—like, I had to check it was Wayne, sir, swear to god. He knew about Burke’s cover, even helped him keep it. And then his kid came up—”

“Damian.”

“And he said something Wayne didn’t like, and… the look on Wayne’s face, if you’d seen it…”

“Can I?” Grimson asked. “The footage from the gala, it’s in Pirona’s file, isn’t it?”

Mike and Manny traded glances. “That’s another thing, sir,” Manny said. “Yeah, it is. Secured server and flash memory backup. Everything we need for Pirona is fine.”

Grimson looked down at the incident reports, the press shots. “What’s missing,” he said, but it wasn’t a question.

“The conversation between Bruce Wayne and Peter Burke, Damian, a bit of time after that. Just under three minutes of the file. The audio frizzes and the video won’t track… There’s two other glitchy points, not as long, not important. All in all, looks random. But,” Manny said. “I reviewed the file that night, and it was fine. Just—when we went back to check last week. It’s not fine now. Backup either. Same glitches.”

The SAC’s nostrils flared. Very bad sign. “Someone got to evidence in this building?” he asked.

“We’re not sure,” Manny stressed. “It might have just corrupted somehow.”

Grimson sighed, heavy. “That’s not helpful. None of this,” he said, indicating the file, “is helpful. I need agents who are focused on things we can make stick. I need—”

“Are you telling me—” Mike burst out. “No, I swear to god, sir, if you can look at that and tell me honestly that this isn’t worth—”

“Child Services looked into it,” Manny added, cutting over Mike. “Years ago.”

“And they found?”

“Nothing. And the referral to the GCPD went nowhere, because the investigating officer—”

“There was one?”

“Yeah, and he was fired three weeks later for slipping intel to the Penguin. The next one got gassed and left town; nobody else picked it up. And our Child Services case officer. She moved to San Bernardino a couple of months after closing the file.”

“I’m not seeing—”

“She closed the file the day after it was opened, and her boyfriend got a job with one of Wayne’s largest components vendors, out in California, the next week. Still working there, so far as we can tell.” Manny sat back.

It wasn’t enough, somehow; it wasn’t landing—Mike needed Grimson to understand. “GCPD can’t stop this, or they won’t. I know it’s not our turf, but if there’s that, there must be something else we can get in through and—Christ, sir, one of those kids is dead and nobody cares.”

Grimson said nothing. Then, with great care, he picked up each printout and returned it to the folder. The order he got them out in, Mike noted.

“I have more important things to deal with,” he said, “than an agent letting his… personal history push him into paranoia.” Mike stiffened, eyes wide, but Grimson wasn’t done. “When I call the Commissioner back, to apologize on behalf of our federal fucking agency, I will tell him that I had an agent who overstepped his mandate and is now on a week’s administrative suspension. And that Damian Wayne will get an apology letter, and that I’ll be monitoring the agent in question very closely for the foreseeable future. And that there won’t be a third chance, if the agent in question fucks up again.”

Mike was seething. “You—you fucking—”

“Mike,” Manny hissed. “Jesus, Mike, shut up—”

Mike stood, tore his badge out of his pocket. “Here, then. Take the fucking thing—”

Grimson looked over at Manny, both eyebrows raised.

“Mike,” Manny said again. “Man. Think.”

Mike turned his glare to Manny. “The hell, Manny, he’s gonna suspend me cause I’m—you know I’m right, it’s not fucking—paranoia—”

Grimson, his voice still light, said, “I don’t think I understand, Agent. I told you what I’d tell the Commissioner. Why would I need your badge to make a phone call?”

Mike’s jaw opened, slack.

“You’re still a fucking idiot,” Grimson told him. “Wayne’ll be on guard now. I don’t want to see you in the building, I don’t want to hear your name. But you have a week. You should take the break, take a vacation. Figure some things out.”

“Vacation,” Mike repeated, feeling like someone had hit him in the face.

“San Bernardino’s nice this time of year,” the SAC suggested. “So’s Manhattan. Bureau can’t cover the cost, of course, not for a personal trip, but… if a trip turns out to advance a case or two, reimbursement might be an option.”

For some reason, all Mike could think was: Jesus. Maybe Grimson really did want to be here.

“That all?” Grimson asked. And, as they headed out the door, he said, “That apology letter better be good, though.”

***

Neal hadn’t phoned on the weekend.

Or Monday, or Tuesday—

It was Thursday now, and Peter had had a long day. All the days seemed long, these days, even the ones like tonight when he left the office at a laid-back 7 pm, lingering through normal hours and accomplishing little.

He’d never needed Neal. He’d caught Neal. He, and the team, could do the job just fine, thank you.

But.

Something precious had been lost.

There was casserole waiting for him in the fridge. Chicken casserole with little green peppers, a beer, Satchmo sitting on his feet. El was home; she’d canceled her trips for the next few weeks, in spite of Peter’s protests. Maybe they’d watch a movie.

He let himself in through the front, hung up his coat, and was bending down to loosen his shoes when he heard El’s cough. He looked up.

“El,” Peter said carefully. “You have got to stop letting people in.”

“Not a vampire, Agent Burke,” Michael Macmillan said from his seat at the table. Brown hair blonder than it had been in the spring, sunburn turning his pale face pink. Didn’t get that in Gotham, Peter thought.

“He wants to talk about Neal,” El said.

Peter nodded. “I want a casserole,” he returned, “and the identity of DB Cooper, and to know what happened to the Gardner loot. I’m resigned to disappointment on at least two out of three.”

“This wasn’t my first choice,” Macmillan said peaceably. “Didn’t think you’d find a minute at the office, somehow.”

Peter walked into the kitchen and unhurriedly got himself a glass of water. Out of view, one-handed, he texted Diana and Jones. Mmlln’s in my kitchen. re Neal. en garde.

Returning to the dining room, he sipped from the glass. “All those missed calls shoulda told you something.”

“Is Caffrey alright?” Macmillan asked, and if he’d asked anything else, Peter would have kicked him out, but—

“He’s okay,” Peter conceded. “But he’s not available. You need a con in Gotham, find your own.”

Macmillan shrugged, arms loose. “Think maybe I have, is the thing. Wanted… Caffrey’s opinion.”

It hadn’t been explicit, at the Conroy party. There’d been more than enough for a reasonably competent listener to put it together, but until that moment, that stress on the name, Peter couldn’t have said for certain what Macmillan and Rodrigues knew.

“Yeah, well. Caffrey’s gone.” Peter sat down across the table, and was suddenly and inescapably reminded of an interrogation.

“Yeah.” Macmillan agreed. “Ain’t that a thing.”

The pause was strange, freighted. El broke it, rising: “Well,” she said. “I have a venue to review.” Her quick smile and a kiss to the side of Peter’s head as she passed, and he didn’t speak until the door closed behind her.

“What do you want?”

Macmillan shrugged again. “You know anything about Bruce Wayne?”

“Don’t do that,” Peter said. “Don’t—just say it. What do you want?”

“This spring, you were worried. At the Conroy. You were worried Bruce Wayne was—would—hurt someone.” Hurt his kids. “And now Caffrey’s dropped off the map.”

“Neal said Wayne—” Peter began, but couldn’t finish.

“He did,” nodded Macmillan. “Funny, what kids say, even years later, ain’t it.”

“What do you want?” Peter asked for the third time.

Macmillan met his eyes. “I want Wayne. I want him on trial, I want him facing justice, I want him facing the ghost of Jason Todd and the eyes of every kid he’s ever hurt. Short of that—” He looked away and inhaled. “Short of that, I want to get Damian Wayne out of there.”

Peter thought about the hospital, Neal saying okay, Wayne saying the league and sweeping out, no one saying for sure which league—but how many leagues could Wayne have meant—

“I—” Peter started. “I’m not sure that you’re prepared—”

“What, you think I’ve missed the fact that he’s a billionaire?” Macmillan’s voice was bitter. “I live in Gotham, Burke. I’d honestly be more surprised if he was—you know. The wounded duckling they all pretend he is. But you saw it too, I know you did.”

And Peter had, of course, but Neal—Neal was happy, Neal had oeufs. “Wayne’s not as shallow as he acts, I’ll give you that. But that doesn’t mean he’s…”

“Where’s Caffrey, Burke?”

Peter was silent.

“Cause it’s a funny thing: Dick Grayson hasn’t come home. If Dick Grayson were back in town, happy and healthy and whole, it’d be all over the gossip pages. But Caffrey’s vanished, and Grayson’s still traveling.”

“He was—injured. There was a…” Neal’s eyes, wide and blank, staring at the ceiling. “There was a trap. Fear gas.”

Macmillan drummed his fingers on the table. “You see a lot of that, up here?”

No, Peter didn’t need to say.

“You think it’s… convenient, Caffrey getting hit with a Gotham special and the prince of Gotham showing up to whisk him away?”

No, Peter wanted to say. He’d heard Wayne at the Conroy, fine, but he’d heard him at the hospital too. And the League had dealt with Wilmott, they would have seen if—but everyone knows Batman got his money somewhere, in the early days—how much would that be worth, decades on—

“You can get to Caffrey,” Macmillan said. “If Caffrey talks to me—I don’t know. I can try, at least, that’s gotta count for something.”

Peter was struck, again, by Macmillan’s age. The kid wasn’t much older than Neal, early thirties at the outside, and still burned.

“Look,” said Macmillan, standing up. “You knew Caffrey best. You’ve gotta know something else is there. I don’t know if I can help him—” He gave a little laugh. “Don’t know if anyone can, now. But help me or don’t, just know that I don’t care about him. I’m not after Caffrey, this isn’t about him. He won’t get hurt if I can help it.”

“What’s it about?” Peter asked, to be sure, as Macmillan headed for the front door.

Macmillan paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Damian Wayne’s got a broken arm, and somebody hit him in the face.”

It was a long time before Peter left the table.

***

Diana poured herself another sludgy coffee. The machine was fritzing again; hadn’t been working right since Neal left. He’d had a kind of magic touch with it—she remembered an intern theorizing that everything just liked Neal, even machines. Neal laughed at that, said I’m not a meta, but he’d also given the coffee-maker a friendly pat whenever he walked by.

Wednesday afternoon dragged. She was trying to clear up the paperwork backlog from the last few weeks. Peter had come in that morning to clear his desk for a couple of days, talked with Hughes for fifteen minutes with the door closed, beckoned Diana and Jones into the conference room.

“Mozzie was at my house,” he said. “At five this morning. Neal called, invited me to Gotham.”

“You’re going?” Jones asked.

“Driving down this afternoon.” Peter paused like he wanted to say more.

Diana wasn’t sure what to say either—she wanted to say bring him home, or something equally soppy, but… “Say hi for me, boss,” she said, instead. “Tell him the coffee-maker misses him.”

Peter nodded. “Yeah. Jones?”

Jones shrugged.

“Okay,” said Peter. “Let me know if there’s anything that can’t wait till the weekend. Not expecting anything; Hughes is briefed on our active files. Have fun.”

***

A very Gotham night, heavy fog pouring up from the harbor. Mike had been off suspension for half a week. The apology letter had been masterful, if Mike did say so himself: he’d been passing by the school, he’d misread friendly banter and been worried about Damian, he’d meant no harm and was pleased to know everything was okay.

But he wasn’t pleased: neither Arielle in California nor Peter Burke in Manhattan had been any help at all. Mike was frustrated; he’d been rude to the bullpen when he’d come back; Grimson had shaken his head, said I suspended you, Macmillan, wasn’t that enough—and assigned him and Manny to port patrol, of all things, like newbies.

Port patrol carried with it a high probability of boredom and a smaller but still significant probability of being killed in an embarrassing way while witnessing somebody making a deal. And the chance, smaller still, of witnessing such a thing and being able to stop it; bringing in one of Gotham’s villains nearly single-handed—

Red Hood, maybe, Mike thought; it was a kind of open secret that the Hood had gone vaguely straight, worked with the Bats from time to time. Pardoned by the League; not criminally responsible on account of magical manipulation, they’d said, which was horrifying in a lot of different ways. But even if arresting the Red Hood now probably wouldn’t end with Mike’s head in a bag, he still wasn’t especially eager to try.

Let alone the rest of them.

Port patrol. It was cold, and wet, and—aw shit.

He looked at Manny; Manny looked back. Manny had heard it, too.

They’d have to check.

The noises got louder as they approached, distant shapes moving in the fog. Closer to, the sounds resolved into thumps, the hard smack of fists, the oddly soft bursts of silenced guns.

Carefully around the end of a row of containers, and—

“Oh shit,” Manny muttered.

Think of the devil, thought Mike.

Batman and the Red Hood stood in the middle of a jumble of groaning half-pay goons; Mike recognized one of Black Mask’s dumber lieutenants. Non-lethal injuries, it looked like, only cleanup left to tackle. The GCPD specialized in that, and Mike and Manny weren’t equipped—

They looked at each other, and weighed the odds of subduing a Red Hood who was only technically still a villain, and who was clearly cooperating with Batman. As one, they stepped back into the fog. Manny said, “I’ll call it in for ‘em,” and Mike nodded, and a noise above him caught his attention—

Colors in the fog, and Manny dropped his phone, hand rising to his throat—

Black fletches of a dart between Manny’s fingers—

Something stinging, just under Mike’s jaw, and he reached up just as Manny had, as Manny fell—

Red, Mike thought, as he passed out too. Gold.

***

Mike woke up tied to a chair.

Securely, he realized after a couple of attempts to loosen the bonds. Zipties at his wrists and ankles; some kind of thin polymer rope at his knees and hips and chest. He could break the chair, maybe, but it felt like metal. Felt like a small space—not tiny, but not an open warehouse floor.

Shipping container? he wondered, and tried to see if he could still hear sounds of Batman’s fight.

Cleanest, maybe, at this point, to open his eyes and figure out exactly how fucked he was.

He opened his eyes.

And then he closed them.

Holy shit.

After a breath, Mike opened his eyes again. Unfortunately, nothing had changed—wearing red and gold and green, Robin was still eight feet from him, glaring. And Batman—Batman!—lurked in the shadows by the wall.

Mike turned his head away, and found Manny, trussed up to match and eyes wide. They stared at each other for a second, just confirming this was real.

Not a shipping container, either; a small office. The only light a single lamp on the desk next to Manny. Probably still at the port—one of those raised construction-site offices where the door led right outside. Calendar on the wall where someone carefully crossed off days.

“I apologize for Robin,” Batman growled from the darkness. “He can be impulsive, still.”

Robin glowered.

Most theories now had Robin being some kind of meta, though Mike had always suspected alien. Explained the weird proportions, the bending, the strange, slightly inhuman mannerisms, even the occasional bloodlust. Not for the first time, Mike wondered what kind of deal Batman struck to leave him the permanent minder of a half-wild non-human with poor impulse control.

I apologize, Batman had said. Were they—supposed to accept that?

“Ah,” Manny started. “Look, we’re federal agents. Manny Rodrigues, he’s Mike, badges in our coats. I know my boss isn’t looking for an issue with the League, so if you want to untie us and we’ll just—”

“I apologize for that as well.” Batman still hadn’t come closer. “We know who you are. We’re waiting for someone.”

Mike’s spine went cold. “When did tranqing FBI agents become League policy?”

He could just make out the cowl moving in the low light as Batman inclined his head. “Did it?” Batman asked.

Fuck, Mike thought. Before there was a League, there was a vigilante in this city—

“This Wayne we’re waiting for?” he spat.

“Mike,” Manny warned, but—they were done anyway, what did it matter how fast—

“I know it is,” he said, and for some reason Robin’s glower deepened. Maybe Mike could use that, maybe Robin resented Wayne’s influence as much as Mike did—

“You know nothing,” Robin snapped, and there went that hope.

“Robin,” Batman said. “Leave.”

Robin stiffened, but obeyed, closing the door firmly behind him. But Batman didn’t move, and it didn’t feel much like a reprieve.

Mike forged ahead. “I know Bruce Wayne funds you,” he said. “Even before the League, it’s always been him. You owe him.”

And that, to Mike’s surprise, got a reaction. Almost invisible, just a shifting of weight.

It was enough to spur Mike on: “How much do you owe him? This? Us? Do you owe him a child’s safety? Did you owe him a boy’s life?”

And then, heedless, unstoppable: “Just tell me this. Could you have saved Jason Todd?”

There was a long, strangled silence, and then Batman moved. He stalked forward, seeming to coalesce out of the shadow, coming to stand two feet from Mike. He let the silence linger and then said, darkly, “Wayne.”

Mike blinked. Was that an admission? An accusation? Batman’s word would be enough, a start, at least; he couldn’t put Batman on a witness stand, but Gordon would listen. CPS. Wayne himself, probably, would fall over trying to confess if Batman actually turned on him. Christ, Superman—he’d never let this stand—

If Batman withdrew his protection, Bruce Wayne was done.

Mike soared on hope, so close he could taste it. He tried to keep his voice steady as he repeated, “Wayne?”

“Not Jason Todd,” Batman said. “Jason Todd-Wayne.”

It took a moment for that to land, but when Mike got it, he could have screamed. What was it, what did Wayne have, why was Mike the only person fighting—

He opened his mouth to say something else, something even stupider, probably, but there was a familiar voice outside, and he shut up in confusion.

“Neal, where are we—what are we doing here—” asked Peter Burke as Neal Caffrey pushed open the office door.

A couple beats, probably Burke’s eyes adjusting, and then, “Oh my god, Neal—what have you—” and Mike felt the shift in Burke’s posture as the darkness—Batman—moved.

“Oh my god, Neal,” Burke said again. “Oh my god.”

“Peter Burke,” said Batman.

“Neal,” Burke said, clearly holding himself together by simply not looking, “Neal, there are two agents tied to chairs, and I—you—”

“Take a seat, Agent,” Batman rumbled, turning and heading back to the wall.

“I think I won’t, actually—”

“It’s okay, Peter,” Caffrey said, quiet. “Promise.”

Caffrey looked fine, Mike observed distantly. Healthy. Better than the last time Mike had seen him, like a weight or two had been lifted. Mike wasn’t quite sure what that meant.

“Still,” Burke said. “I’ll stand.”

Caffrey—Grayson—looked at him, the corner of his mouth twitched into a bad approximation of a smile. “’Kay,” he said, somehow taking the floor, Batman letting him. Leaving Burke unbound, the exit clear behind him—did Burke know that Robin was somewhere outside? Was that why he didn’t bother to run?

“First—” Grayson turned to Mike and Manny. “I want to apologize for all… this. Robin said he’d get you here—”

What does Wayne have? Mike thought again. That all the Waynes have this kind of pull—it can’t just be money—

“And obviously we weren’t predicting Black Mask trying for a deal with the Triad, but it was convenient, and Hood—well. I didn’t think Robin would shoot you, but Hood probably suggested it.”

“They enjoy colluding,” Batman said, and Mike had the unsettling feeling that Batman was amused.

“So,” Dick Grayson said. “Sorry about that. Thing is,” he started, and then turned to Batman as though asking for help.

“Damian,” Batman said, back to growled nouns.

“Exactly,” Grayson said. “You’ve been looking into the Waynes. Into—into my family.” His smile was no less frightening for being sweet; Mike had been in Gotham too long for that. “I told you that Bruce wouldn’t hurt him.”

Manny took lead and Mike was grateful: “You’re not exactly the most impartial guy, Grayson.”

“You know I got used to Caffrey?” Grayson said. “Liked it. Weird to live so deep in a single name, though.” The smile was still there, a bit dreamy, and Mike could see how he pulled off the dumb celeb act when he wanted to. “You start to forget, a little, being who you were. Or you become, a bit, the new name, and it turns out you’re not quite who you used to be anymore. You go back, it’s like putting on a coat you forgot you had, doesn’t fit the same.”

“Damian,” Mike reminded him, not wanting to wait out a reverie.

“Yeah,” Grayson grinned, looking over at Peter reassuringly. “Damian’s fine.”

“Brass knuckles,” said Mike—like hell Damian is fine.

But Damian’s brother said, lightly: “He didn’t dodge,” and Mike’s heart stuttered. He’d thought—

Grayson had been a victim, he’d thought, not—

Not—

Burke was thinking the same thing, clearly; he’d grunted at the delivery, at Grayson’s easy tone, and the expression on Burke’s face now was open horror. Like he was watching something ending.

It took Grayson a moment to catch up.

“God, Peter, no, Black Mask. I—no—dammit, B, help me out here.”

“I will remind you,” Batman said, deadpan, “this was your idea.”

“It’s Peter,” said Caffrey, as though that would matter to the Bat. “And they—” he gestured and Mike tensed in the restraints. “They should—they won’t stop, otherwise, and Gotham could use a few more decent cops who—I really am sorry,” Caffrey said again. “He knows,” he added, jerking his head at Batman (comfortably, comfortably chatting—bantering—with Batman). “What it’s like to live in a different name, I mean.”

And that—that was a thing. That meant, Caffrey knew who Batman was, out of the cowl. It shouldn’t have been surprising—that must be what Wayne had, after all, at least the start of it, but still—Mike shuddered a little.

“Which is why you’re here,” Caffrey told them. “We thought it would be easier to explain this way.”

“I’m not stopping,” Mike said, like an idiot. Not—whatever they have planned—

“No,” Neal said. “Good.” He nodded and turned back to the Batman. “Please?” he said, and Mike really did not understand their relationship—

After a pause, Batman said, “Only because of the circumstances. And because I—Manhattan was—” He stopped, stiffly.

But Grayson smiled at him, soft, and said, “Yeah. Me too.”

Batman turned and glared at Mike again. Impossibly, bizarrely, without tempering the glare, Batman said: “Thank you.”

Mike blinked, and the Bat added: “For defending them.”

And Batman reached up.

And took off his cowl.