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2023-09-24
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Sleight of Ear

Summary:

The only reason he ever dealt with Batman anymore was because of Dickface. He hadn't expected this to earn him points with the Justice League; he wasn't a "good guy."

The mission was Wonder Woman's idea (she gave him a coffee mug as thanks – he used it at work). Now he was stuck playing the role of a non-violent CI while rooting out League of Assassins members in the FBI. He'd become a mob boss to avoid a 9-5, and yet here he was, living the office life. Ugh.

On a consulting case, his hearing aids began their annoying beep – he'd forgotten to charge them. Well, crap.

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be one of those no-brainer cases. The kind where you just had to eyeball a painting and give it a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down. Real or fake. even dickface could have pulled this off.

Rumors had been swirling that the auction house had been faking certificates of authenticity, which was starting to impact their reputation. So, who do they call? The White Collar unit, of course, because nothing screams legitimacy like a man who's done time for art theft.

Translation: They wanted Neal Caffrey, but they were too stubborn to admit it.

The day dragged on, analyzing one canvas after another. Jason couldn't help but wonder if they thought he was born yesterday. If there were any forgeries floating around, Jason would bet a Monet they'd vanish before Peter even showed up. But Peter, ever the optimist, didn't seem to get that memo, so Jason kept his trap shut.

Jason might be on a mission to root out League of Assassins members in the White Collar unit, and thus had to help catch some criminals, but he wasn't a snitch. He didn't mind too much when they helped people, but some criminals were just trying to make a not-quite-legal living out here. Such as him. He was still a mob boss, after all, even if he had to put his mob-boss-ness on hold while working this case.

Then he heard the repetitive three little beeps. He looked up at the noise.

"Everything okay?" Peter asked.

"Yeah, fine," Jason answered, trying to sound casual. He knew what that noise was – the low battery sound on his hearing aid.

Peter frowned at him, his knack for spotting Jason's lies becoming all too familiar. It was getting annoying, but then again, Peter didn't trust him one bit. Fair enough, given the circumstances.

His other hearing aid had met its unfortunate end when he accidentally stepped on it while getting ready for bed. Now he was stuck with just his left one, which happened to be his better ear, so that was a plus.

B had been livid when Jason messaged him about the replacement. He'd been on the receiving end of a half-hour lecture about taking better care of his equipment. Unbeknownst to Jason, he was currently scowling.

"This one's a fake," Peter asked.

"Hmmm, er no. It's real. If a bit shoddy," Jason replied, casting a critical eye at the painting. The auction house curator standing nearby looked personally offended at his assessment.

Jason sped through the examination of the next few paintings. "Yeah, all legit. No doubt. Though I can't vouch for the quality of some of these pieces," he remarked.

The curator and Peter exchanged pleasantries, but Peter had some choice words for Jason on their way back to the office about being more polite to people. It was like listening to B, minus the threat of a beatdown; Peter wasn't legally allowed to do that.

Jason was almost grateful when his hearing aid decided to call it quits within five minutes of getting into the car.

"Can you just drop me off?" Jason asked, cutting into Peter's lecture, and he glanced over to catch Peter's reply.

"No. We've got pay per work," Peter responded. Jason frowned for a second, then realized it was paperwork and scowled even more.

"Can't we do it tomorrow?" Jason pleaded.

"It not Evan, twelve yacht," Peter replied. Jason checked his watch and was surprised to see that Peter was right. It felt like this morning had already been a full day.

Jason leaned back in the seat, as Peter insisted on driving, despite his slower pace. He had a craving for a good cup of tea, but he knew none of the shops around the FBI building had the kind he liked. Sometimes, he really did hate America.

Maybe he'd dip into his emergency stash in his desk if he was going to be stuck doing paperwork all day.

They finally arrived back at the White Collar office, and Peter was eyeing him suspiciously. Perhaps he'd been too quiet on the journey back.

Jason sighed inwardly, trying to shake off Peter's suspicious gaze as they stepped into the White Collar office. The fluorescent lights overhead seemed harsh after a day spent in the muted elegance of the art world.

Peter was looking at him expectantly, and Jason's internal alarm bells started ringing. Fuck, he must have missed something

Jason made a non-committal hum of agreement, which appeared to be the right approach, as Peter smiled at him.

Once in the office, he made a beeline for the microwave. The heathens who ran this place didn't own a single kettle in the whole building, so he had lowered himself to heating up water in the microwave. As he waited for the water to warm, he couldn't help but wonder if this was his punishment. The universe forcing him to endure subpar tea-making methods.

He settled down to work, the paperwork stacking up like a never-ending mountain of tedium. After a while, he felt a poke on his shoulder. He looked up to see Diana looking at him.

"Sorry, I was lost in..." Jason glanced down at the file he was currently reading, "... mortgage fraud."

Diana looked at him disbelievingly. "I was just asking if you wanted a coffee or anything. I was going to pop down," she said.

Jason liked Diana; her upbringing had made her lips easy to read. "I'm good, thanks," Jason replied, mustering a smile.

He thanked a god he didn't really believe in that he could fake it. B had been so angry when he found out about Jason's hearing deficit. It wasn't Jason's fault that he had damage from the Joker that not even the Lazarus Pit could fix. When Jason had been Robin, he had been taught how to read lips, and he was thankful that he'd remembered the skill after his reanimation.

he hated office work. His body always protested after he'd been sitting still for too long; his joints creaked, and he often felt like an old man. The numbers on the documents he was slogging through seemed to dance and rearrange themselves, which was nothing short of infuriating. Jason moved on to the next case, then the next, the relentless monotony of it all wearing him down. He despised paperwork with a passion.

Suddenly, there was a flurry of movement around him. He looked up to see all the agents standing, hands on their guns. What the hell had happened?

Chapter 2

Notes:

the LoA speaks arabic (with their own dialect), however i don't. so im translating. so it will be in modern standard arabic.

thanks - شكرًا (shkran)

Chapter Text

Jason's tension slowly dissipated as he realized that the sudden commotion in the office was merely the result of a shattered coffee pot. The agents, initially on high alert, began to relax. Jason sighed and got up from his desk to help with the cleanup. He knew none of the other agents would lend a hand, and the poor rookie who had dropped the pot looked like he might faint from embarrassment.

As Jason knelt down to pick up the broken pieces of glass, he saw the flustered agent mumbled something. Jason assumed it was a thank you, but his mind was more focused on avoiding any accidental cuts from the sharp edges. Without thinking, he muttered, "شكرًا"

Then he froze.

His heart raced as he realized what he'd just done. That was a good way to give himself away to any League members who might be lurking nearby. He cursed his momentary lapse in judgment and hoped that no one had caught on.

The rookie was struggling to empty the dustpan into the bin, his nerves clearly getting the best of him. Jason silently offered a reassuring nod, trying to ease the young agent's embarrassment. Thankfully, it seemed he'd gotten away with his slip of the tongue.

With the coffee pot mishap tidied up, Jason returned to his paperwork, trying to regain his focus. The clock on the wall ticked away relentlessly, and he counted down the minutes until it hit five.

When the hour finally arrived, he got up, ready to make his escape. But before he could reach the door, Clinton intercepted him.

"I thought... going for drinks, toothache," Clinton said, gesturing to where Diana was picking up her coat before coming over.

Jason cursed silently. Today really wasn't a good day. He was just about to say so when Peter appeared, chiming in, "Enjoy it. I'm sorry that I have that dinner date with El."

Now he couldn't back out. Peter was already suspicious enough, and he didn't want Peter to decide today was a good day to search his house. Jason reluctantly agreed, plastering a fake smile on his face. "Where are we going again."

Diana gave him a slightly perplexed look, which made Jason worry that he had indeed miscalculated his volume. He quickly cleared his throat, hoping to seem more composed.

"The bar over on West Street," she reminded him. It was that cop bar he despised, and he knew they were all aware, so he felt no hesitation in voicing his complaint.

"How about the place on 22nd instead?" he suggested. It was a fancy establishment that he wouldn't be caught dead in as Jason Todd, but it was precisely the kind of place Neal Caffrey would love. Plus, it was conveniently close to home.

"We went there last time," Clinton said, "almost broke the bank, that place did. Plus, you promised that we could choose this time."

Jason winced inwardly; he did remember making that promise. Alright then, he thought, trying to put on a more enthusiastic facade. "Fine, West Street it is. As long as you get the first round."

When they arrived at the bar, the American football game was on the big screen. It was the Star City Stags against the Giants. Jason wasn't particularly fond of American football; Gotham preferred proper footy, and growing up in Crime Alley, a kickabout was more common than any American football match. In fact, the Gotham team was at the top of its game in the USA, often representing the nation at both the world cups. Living with Alfred had only reinforced his love for the beautiful game, despite Alfred's attempts to hide his avid support for West Ham.

The bar was probably very loud, he realized as they settled into a booth to watch the American football game. Jason was already struggling to hear anything over the din he could make out. It seemed the perfect excuse to leave early, pretending to have a headache from the noise. He knew Neal Caffrey wouldn't miss an opportunity to escape this cacophonous atmosphere.

Jason increased the pitch of his voice in the hope that he could be heard by Clinton and Diana without being too loud. He had no real clue if he had managed it, but no one was giving him weird looks from the nearby tables. Clinton was only half paying attention to the conversation, his eyes fixed on the screens where the game was playing.

He noticed that his beer was empty, as was Clinton's. Being at a cop bar was a great excuse to drink beer instead of wine. Neal Caffrey preferred wine, but Jason preferred beer or vodka. "I'll get the next round," he declared before anyone could protest. He looked at the TV while he waited for the three pints to be poured.

Carefully picking up all three drinks, he made his way back to the table. He was only a few steps away when a woman stepped backward from where she had been chatting to a detective, spilling her red wine down his shirt.

"Shit," Jason muttered under his breath as he put the three pints down and tried to brush the red wine off his fancy white shirt. The lady who had spilled the wine on him was apologizing profusely, frantically looking around for napkins to help him clean up.

"It's fine," he muttered back, too busy trying to clean up to pay much attention to what she was saying. But suddenly, he was pushed. Stumbling slightly, he reached back to steady himself and looked up to see the detective from earlier stalking angrily toward him.

Fuck, Jason thought. Drinking always made his hearing worse, and it was already harder to see what what was being said after a pint or two. He focused on the detective's lips, but the obnoxious mustache made understanding him almost impossible.

"... partner... Apostroph now!" the detective roared, his voice cutting through the noisy bar. All the people around them turned to look. Damn, that guy must be so loud, Jason thought, silently cursing himself for not charging his one remaining hearing aid last night. B had called jasons defective and unfit to be a vigilante , maybe he was right after all.

""Look, A'm sarry," Jason said, raising his voice, unsure if he could be heard over the noise. God, he thought he might be shouting, or worse, his accent might be coming out. Suddenly, Diana and Clinton were standing slightly in front of him, forming a protective barrier between him and the enraged detective, who looked like he was ready to push Clinton.

"Come on, let's gan," Jason urged, pulling on Diana's arm before pushing his way out of the bar, desperate to escape the escalating confrontation.

Once outside the bar, Jason turned to see that Clinton and Diana had followed him out. He couldn't help but feel a sense of relief. He was more than ready for this day to be over, hoping that the night would bring some respite from the challenges of maintaining his Neal Caffrey persona in this unfamiliar world of white-collar crime and loud sports bars.

Chapter 3

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Diana was worried about Neal. Ever since he had returned from the auction house, he had been noticeably distracted. She couldn't help but wonder if something had happened there, or if Peter had said something to upset him. She loved her boss, but sometimes he could really stick his foot in his mouth, especially around Neal.

She glanced at Clinton, who was walking beside her, and saw the same look of concern mirrored on his face. It wasn't just her; they both noticed that something was off with their friend.

Though she and Clinton would never let Peter know it, Neal wasn't okay a lot of the time. Diana had noticed his concealed flinches first, but it was Clinton who had told her about the scars on Neal's body one day when they had both been at the pub together. Since then, they had noticed how Neal would sometimes zone out of conversations and always scouted the exits anytime they entered a new space. They had both silently agreed that they needed to look after their CI, as no one else was going to do it, especially not Peter. Well, maybe Mozzie.

But today, Neal had been very off. Diana decided to approach him gently, hoping to get his attention. "Hey, Neal," she said quietly, but instead of turning around, he just kept walking. "Neal," she said a bit louder, a touch of worry creeping into her voice.

Clinton reached out and gently touched Neal's shoulder, causing Neal to perform one of his hidden flinches. He turned around, offering a strained smile. "Well, he was a dick," Neal said, his tone attempting nonchalance. Diana couldn't help but think that dick was an understatement for the detective's behaviour.

"I got his badge number," Clinton added, a hint of righteous anger in his voice. Neal looked at Clinton blankly for a few seconds before his smile morphed into the kind of slimy grin he reserved for moments when he was trying to manipulate people, although with Diana and Clinton, his attempts were usually half-hearted.

"Don't worry about it," Neal said dismissively, attempting to downplay the incident. "Look, guys, I'm going to head back."

"Send us a text when you get back, okay?" Diana requested, her tone concerned.

Neal's response was unexpected, as he playfully replied, "Okay, mom." He waved casually and walked off.

Clinton, who had been observing the exchange, turned to Diana with a concerned expression. "You're also worried, right?" he asked, his voice low.

Diana nodded solemnly. "Yes. I know he zones out sometimes, but today it's like he's not even hearing us."

 

ason collapsed backward onto his bed, feeling the exhaustion wash over him. He reached up to his ear and carefully pulled his hearing aid out, relieved to finally have a moment of silence. Faking it had taken so much effort, and he just wanted to sleep.

With a sigh, he plugged his hearing aid into its charger and settled into his bed. The events of the day weighed heavily on his mind, but he knew he couldn't afford to let his guard down. As exhaustion overcame him, he closed his eyes and allowed sleep to claim him, if only for a little while.

Notes:

sorry i haven't posted in a few days, ive gone and gotten covid for the fourth time.
anyway, any suggestions on better names for this story?

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

jason was feeling the effects of alcohol more than he had expected. Well, not stumbling-around-drunk, but definitely tipsy. He had forgotten that since his resurrection, his alcohol tolerance had significantly decreased.

Diana and Clinton had come over to his place to watch a movie. Peter had practically grounded him after their last case, which meant he couldn't leave the house without the risk of the marshals tackling him. It had only been two days, but jason was already going stir-crazy, so he'd invited his colleagues over after they had finished work.

As the movie played on the screen, jason took another sip of his drink. He'd also forgotten that his hearing got worse when he was drunk. Replacement had tried to explain to him about the lasting brain damage and the need for self-care. But when Jason had seen the worry in Dickfaces eyes, he couldn't bear it and had brushed off the concerns, pretending replacement was exaggerating.

He snuggled further into the blankets and took another sip of his drink. Diana and Clinton were engrossed in the movie, their attention fixed on the screen. jason hadn't been able to think of a convincing excuse for why the subtitles of the movie should be turned on, so he wasn't entirely sure what was happening. Even though he now had two working hearing aids, the addition of background music made everything just so much harder to hear.

Jason closed his eyes and took a second to relax. The three of them were all half lying on his bed, the most comfortable spot to watch TV in his flat. He had propped up the TV so they could all have a good view. He had intended for them to sit on the sofa and chairs, but he had gotten distracted with tidying up in time.

The sofa was currently occupied by over ten different half-finished canvases he was working on, each waiting for its turn to be transformed into a masterpiece. And there, nestled among the artistic chaos, was a marble bust of the Queen of England, smoking a joint.

So, here they were, eating pizza and drinking on his bed in a nest of blankets. Jason had always loved having loads of blankets on his bed, a byproduct of growing up in a place where staying warm was a daily challenge. But usually, he'd neatly tuck them away in a box under his bed when he got up in the morning so that people wouldn't see them.

B had seen his blankets once and had told him he had to throw them all out, as they were cluttering up his room. Ever since then, he had been careful to tuck them away. But for some reason, he didn't feel the need to do that with Diana and Clinton. Which was very strange.

Jason took a sip of his drink, trying to drown out the confusion swirling in his mind. He couldn't quite put his finger on why he felt so comfortable around them, why he was letting his guard down. For fucks sake, they didn't even know his real name. But they also knew that neal wasn't his real name and still were his friends.

Jason drained the last of his glass, feeling the alcohol's effects as his eyelids started to droop. The combination of a few drinks and the cozy nest of blankets had finally caught up with him. He shifted slightly to get more comfortable between Diana and Clinton, then allowed himself to drift off into a peaceful slumber

Diana looked over from the screen where Harry Potter was dancing with Hermione in a tent to see Clinton running his fingers through Neal's sleeping hair. She couldn't help but smile at the sight of her two friends

"Do you like him?" she whispered, her eyes flicking between Clinton and Neal. On screen, Hermione and Harry twirled gracefully.

"Hmmm," Clinton hummed, then turned to look at her. "No, of course not. Neal's a CI, and I'm an agent," he replied, his voice barely audible over the movie's soundtrack.

Hermione turned and walked away from Harry. Diana leaned closer to Clinton and whispered, "You're not his handler."

Diana looked down at Neal, who was curled up in the blankets, appearing smaller and more vulnerable than ever. She glanced back at Clinton, his expression heavy with worry.

"I'm scared that it will hurt," Clinton admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "He'll either go back to prison, or he'll just disappear. I don't want to hurt him, Diana. But I also don't want to get hurt."

Diana pondered his words for a moment, her gaze shifting between her two closest friends. Who would have thought it. "Maybe he's changed," she implored softly, though even she knew it was unlikely.

The conversation died down after that, and they both settled into watching the rest of the film. The next morning, Diana was thankful that at some point in their friendship with Neal, he had acquired clothes that fit both her and Clinton. She didn't have time to go home before work. Neal's suspension was over, at least until he next pissed peter off. It was time to face another day at the office.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

His first day back at the office, and he already had a hangover. Not that he was surprised. So far, the day was mostly focused on mortgage fraud cases, the kind of white-collar crimes that often made his head spin.

He was seriously considering the prospect of dying for a second time rather than continue this line of work, no matter if Wonder Woman herself had asked him to do it. He took a sip of tea from the mug that Wonder Woman had given him, briefly wondering if he liked Diana so much because she shared a name with his favorite superhero. Not that she knew that.

But then again, he didn't want to end up having to dig himself out of another grave like last time, with a tombstone that read 'Good Soldier.' He was saddened to realize that he wasn't surprised; that was probably all that B saw him as. At least B had never called him a street rat or a gold digger to his face.

Jason wondered how much longer he would have to maintain this undercover role. He believed he had uncovered most of the League of Assassins members who had infiltrated the FBI. Strangely, he found himself growing attached to his colleagues in the White Collar unit. He would miss Diana and clinton the other people in the office when he had to leave.

"Neal," Peter called from the top of the stairs, breaking Jason's train of thought. "You have to attend this meeting."

Jason sighed inwardly. He had been hoping to avoid this briefing, but as he looked around and saw that even the lowest-ranked agent in the White Collar unit was already heading towards the room, he realized he shouldn't have been surprised. He followed the last of the agents up and into the conference room.

Scanning the room for a seat, he spotted Clinton smiling at him. Clinton had a spare chair next to him, so Jason squeezed his way past the still-standing agents to get there first. He gratefully collapsed backward into the chair, dreading the boredom of upcoming meeting. d. He couldn't help but wonder what it was about, hoping that perhaps they'd require him to paint something interesting as part of their security check.

Peter began, "We've been asked to run a security check for the Met for their new exhibit. This is our liaison, James Allen." Peter gestured to a man at the front of the room, and James Allen nodded in acknowledgment.

James Allen continued, "Good morning, everyone. This is a high-risk collection, so we've implemented some additional security measures." He started listing technical security measures and protocols, but Jason's attention began to wane. Fiddling with a pen in his hand, he tapped it lightly against the table's edge. Eventually, he dropped it onto the floor, causing it to clatter loudly in the relatively quiet room. All eyes turned to him, and he managed to maintain a neutral expression, relying on his training to suppress any embarrassment.

"Anyway," Allen coughed and cleared his throat, "as I was saying, what makes this collection high risk is where it's from. It's Gothamite." The word hung heavily in the air, causing all the agents in the room to freeze, their expressions a mixture of surprise and concern.

Jason's eyes widened as he looked at the screen, where pictures of the artwork were being displayed. To his utter shock, he recognized his own work. He did a double-take, unable to comprehend how his paintings had ended up here. As far as he knew, all of his work was secured in one of his safe houses, with only a select few pieces at Dick's and Tim's places, away from prying eyes.

"What?" he couldn't help but exclaim, his disbelief slipping out.

James Allen nodded, interpreting Jason's reaction as disbelief of the wrong kind. "Yes, I know. Gothamite," he said, emphasizing the word. "This collection is from Bruce Wayne."

Jason's anger was rising with each word that James Allen spoke. How had Bruce Wayne gotten hold of his artwork? The betrayal stung, and he could feel the green tendrils of rage beginning to descend. Under the table, his hand was suddenly grabbed, and he felt Clinton give it a reassuring squeeze.

"It turns out Brucie is more of an artist than anyone thought," the liaison continued, unaware of the turmoil brewing within Jason. "Then again, if I were a billionaire, I would also take art classes. Though I am surprised about what he chooses to paint about. Anyway, Bruce Wayne is auctioning off the paintings to support the Academy of Performing Arts in Gotham."

Jason seethed silently. Bruce had told him when he was younger that he was awful at painting. Now, here he was, stealing and selling Jason's paintings. Paintings that depicted the pain and love of Crime Alley, of a child dancing through the rain and broken glass, of Dick flying as Nightwing through the air, silhouetted against Gotham's bridges. It was a betrayal that cut too deep.

Jason couldn't contain his anger any longer, and the words tumbled out of his mouth. "How do you know they're not fakes?"

James Allen looked shocked. "We have had them under secure guard since they arrived, straight from Bruce Wayne himself, and they were recently authenticated. How dare..."

Peter, his voice laced with anger, interrupted, "Why do you think they are fakes, Neal?"

Jason ignored Peter's question momentarily and continued, "The city isn't silent. Where did you get them authenticated?"

"Freeman Art Consultations, of course," Allen replied confidently.

"We were just recently investigating them," Jason said, causing Peter's expression to shift to a mixture of concern and frustration. "Neal, that's confidential information."

"Give me a day, and I bet I can give you a painting that they will authenticate as a genuine 'Bruce Wayne,'" Jason said.

"Neal," hissed Peter in a warning tone.

"Mr. Caffrey, you are a known art forger. If you think..." Allen began.

Jason interrupted, "Then don't let me see them. I won't even inspect the works and still get the certificate."

Allen exchanged a look with Peter, who reluctantly nodded. "Fine," Allen conceded. "You have until tomorrow. Now, if we can continue..."

Jason stood up abruptly and started walking out. "By tomorrow, 9 AM." His determination was evident in his voice as he left the room.

Chapter 6

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The room was saturated with the scent of oil paint and the dim light flickered as if struggling to endure the tumult of emotions contained within its walls. Jason stood before the easel, his breaths uneven, and his eyes fixed on the haunting image of Batman on his knees, shattered.

He wasn't sure how he had made it back to his apartment. The world seemed to spark with green, lightning bolts clouding his vision. Rage pulsed through him, an unrelenting force that had found its outlet on the canvas. He hadn't painted like this in a long time, but the betrayal, the theft of his art, and the audacity of the man he had prayed would be his father had ignited a storm within him.

The suit he hadn't bothered to change out of was now streaked with paint. His hands were a mess, and his fingers felt stiff from hours of intense work. The knocks on his door had been like distant echoes, barely registering over the cacophony in his mind. He had snarled at the intrusion, shutting out the world as he poured his soul onto the canvas.

When he finally stopped, it must have been close to the middle of the night. The lamp cast long shadows across the room, highlighting the disarray of paints, brushes, and canvases scattered around him. The knocking had ceased some time ago, leaving a heavy silence behind. Jason stepped back, a mixture of exhaustion and triumph coursing through his veins.

His painting was a raw expression of his anger and pain, capturing the brokenness he felt. The final touches would have to wait until morning. He collapsed onto his bed, surrounded by the remnants of his artistic fury, still wearing the stained suit, and succumbed to a restless sleep, haunted by visions of green and crow bars

When Neal had stormed out yesterday, claiming he could paint a Bruce Wayne overnight, no one quite believed he could. Diana should have known it was foolish to doubt Neal.

It was 8:56 the next morning when Neal arrived at the office. His eye bags were so dark it seemed like he had been punched, and fatigue clung to every step. The elevator doors binged open, revealing Neal with a large cardboard box. It was much too large for a car delivery, so Neal must have carried it the entire way here.

The entire office turned to look at him as he marched purposefully toward the conference room with the sizable package in tow. Whispers of curiosity circulated among the agents, and even the stern expressions of some of the senior officers betrayed their excitement.

It was 9:30 when Allen finally arrived. By then, the whole office was buzzing with anticipation.

"Is this it?" Allen asked, gesturing towards the box.

All Neal did was roll his eyes. "I've arranged for the auction house authenticator to certify it at 11. Told him that one of the interns hadn't realized this was with the collection, so it hadn't been authenticated," Allen explained.

Peter was practically vibrating with excitement. "Well, let's see it then," Peter said.Neal carefully unwrapped the painting, revealing a stunning piece that left Diana breathless.

Batman knelt broken, bleeding. His body tilted backward, face looking up towards the roof of the warehouse, as if in prayer. Blood ran down his cheeks, his arms lay limply by his sides, palms facing towards the observer. In his left blood-covered hand, the last two fingers curled loosely around a crowbar, painted with feathers and blood. In the other hand, lay a limp bird with green eyes—a robin, Diana realized

Somehow, the painting's lighting suggested a storm was raging, even though no windows were evident in the dilapidated warehouse.

"How did you manage to get it to dry so quickly?" Allen asked reverently in the quiet. Diana realized she hadn't been breathing.

Neal smiled at that. "Trade secret."

"Wow," Diana whispered.

"What is it called?" Clinton asked.

Neal paused, glancing at the masterpiece before him. He shrugged. "Haven't yet." Then he snorted. "How about 'His First Kill'?"

Diana blinked at that. Neal turned towards peter. "So, are we going to do this security check or not?" Neal asked flippantly.

"Oh, yeah, sure." Peter said. "Let's go." Neal and Peter left the room.

"It's almost perfect," Allen muttered, leaning close to inspect the painting. "It is."

Jason moved through the Met's security with ease. His paintings hadn't been hung up yet, secured somewhere in the back rooms until the opening day of the exhibit. He had checked. The proximity to his creations without being able to claim them stung. He wondered if Dick knew what was happening. He better not. Jason had already lost his brother once, and betrayal would be a wound too deep to bear.

He bit back the green that threatened to cloud his vision. The anger and frustration were palpable, but he couldn't let it take control. Not now. Alfred couldn't know. Could he?

Jason kept his emotions in check as he reported back to Peter. The FBI agent seemed pleased with his work and dismissed him early, probably because Jason looked like he could keel over at any moment. It was only 11:30 in the morning. Jason pondered how the authenticity check for his painting was progressing.

Jason got out of the car at his flat when Peter's phone buzzed. Jason looked over expectantly.

"It passed," Peter whispered. "The inspector said it was the best Bruce Wayne he had ever seen."

Jason smiled. "I know you can't give it back to me, so send it to him instead. With love."

Peter scowled at him initially, but then he noticed the exhaustion etched on Jason's face. "Sure, I'll send it. It would just get destroyed otherwise. It doesn't deserve that. It's too beautiful."

Jason opened the door to his apartment, hoping to collapse into bed, only to be faced with two people. "Dick!" Jason collapsed into Dick's open arms. He would never admit he loved his brother's hugs, but he did. Jason looked around Dick's shoulders to see Replacement looking nervously on the side. Jason opened one of his arms, bracing for the younger boy to join in the hug.

Notes:

i wanted to include a reference to an art work, but couldn't remember the name of it. :'(

this is more how i imagine the painting, but thought it might make the story a bit clunky. pls feel free to skip
he is in the batsuit, which is almost unscratched. left hand is blood red, representing betrayal. he has his hand in the position to represent the trinity (father, son, holy spirit) but instead of being up, is it loose at his side and in it is a crow bar.
is right hand (in which the robin is in) is almost flat, limply heald. the robin ,is ofc dead. neck broken. it is an European robin. the lines of his body are still bold, which more represents guilt than grief.
their is boxes, robes and a singular red exit light in the background. hits of green in the colour pallet to represent the joker. the lighting of the painting with be from the top, and left. but long, like their is multiple windows out of sight. this will cause his mask to reflex to light, and highlight his face.

Chapter 7

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

It had taken Replacement less than 5 minutes to hack Jason's ankle monitor. Jason could already remove it without letting the marshals know, but it would unfortunately alert the Justice League. And no one could know what the brothers were doing. Tim managed to get around both of those issues. Jason slipped the ankle monitor off, attaching it around Bugsy's collar. June had already exercised Bugsy hard today, so the tired pooch wouldn't  be running around, but instead would be moving in a way that resembled a human, hopefully.

Once that was done, the three of them slipped into their undercover costumes. These were based on League of Assassins costumes, aimed at obscuring their silhouettes and forms from cameras and ensuring no DNA contaminated the scene of their crime. Jason couldn't help but snort at the fact at they were pretending to be the very people he was hunting. The disguises also included special devices to counter any surveillance technology that the MET might have employed, helpfully supplied by B. But modified by tim to include B's own tec. 

Both Tim and Dick trusted Jason to get them in. Jason had been breaking into places to steal since he could remember, making him the best fit for playing Neal Caffrey. That, and the fact that he was legally dead. Still.

Jason gathered what they would need before nodding to his brothers. They all pulled up their masks, securing their hoods so their hair was tucked away, and the fabric didn't obscure their sightlines. It was freeing to swing through the city with them. Dick, as always, was the most graceful, his big brother really did have wings. They landed on the roof of 998 5th Avenue, opposite the Met.

"So how do you want to play it?" Dick asked.

"I don't know if they have closed the holes I told them about," Jason muttered, then louder, "Didn't tell them about a weak window, though. It's also close enough to the control room. You up for a bit of heavy-handed hitting?" Jason smiled.

Dick seemed to vibrate with excitement. "Lead the way, little wing."

The three moved silently across the rooftop, shadows embracing their forms. As they reached the edge, they looked down upon the Met, their target gleaming with priceless art, some of which rightfully belonged to Jason.

Jason swung across the gap, landing feather-light on the roof. The other two landed next to him, moving slowly to keep their body mass down and avoid activating any motion lights. Jason thanked God that he knew where the trip wires were that would set off the silent alarm. He could have figured them out without that knowledge, but it would have slowed down their progression even more. He also knew the camera blind spots, and his brothers kept exactly in his shadow.

They reached the area above where the window was. "it's below here," Jason signed. "I will go down first and enter, follow in 2."

He expertly rappelled down the side of the building, landing silently on the ledge outside the designated window. Once there, he quickly checked for any additional security measures. Satisfied that their was non, he extended the circuit, so the window could be opened without setting off the alarm. Jason carefully lifted the window, the familiar creak masked by the ambient sounds of the city. He slipped inside, disappearing into the shadows.

Jason slid inside, gently lowering himself to the floor below. He began to move silently towards the security room. The corridor he had entered wasn't part of the public section of the museum, and there was no way to hide themselves from the camera above the door of the security room without more planning.

He could sense his brothers behind him. They stacked up next to the door, and Dick placed a hand on his shoulder, signaling that they were ready.

Jason reached the door and examined the electronic lock. He produced a small device from his utility belt, expertly manipulating the lock's internal circuits. With a soft click, the door unlocked. He motioned for Dick and Tim to follow, and they slipped into the security room like shadows.

The security guards, unaware of the intrusion, remained focused on their monitors. Jason and Dick, moving with practiced precision, covered the guards' mouths with chloroform cloths. They had executed this maneuver countless times before, and the guards slumped backward in their chairs. Meanwhile, Tim deleted the night's footage from the surveillance system. He moved swiftly, breaking open the back up servers, then pouring some of the piranha solution on the electronics. He watched with satisfaction as they sparked and melted . He knew that insurance would cover the loss.

The trio continued through the maze of hallways, guided by Jason's knowledge of the museum's layout. The trio continued through the maze of hallways, guided by Jason's knowledge of the museum's layout. The exhibit was due to open tomorrow at 9, and already had a waitlist of people eager to see the work. His work. His work was already hung up in the frames, ready for the opening.

All of the artwork would be cut out of the canvases. It would take too much time to try and remove the frames over which they were stretched. Also, removing the frames sent an immediate signal to the police that was impossible to disconnect. By cutting the canvases, this hopefully wouldn't happen, giving them a greater chance that the police wouldn't respond.

Most of the paintings could be cut out haphazardly, destined for destruction right there. However, for Jason's six favorites, a careful and precise extraction was essential, an attempt to salvage as much of the painting as possible.

The first depicted a street rat on tiptoes, head in a bin, in a posh neighborhood. Neat strokes freed the image from the canvas. The process continued until he had five of the six he intended to save, carefully handed to his brothers.

Now, he approached the last one, a special gift for Tim. It captured Tim as Robin, perched on a gargoyle, watching over children as they trick-or-treated on the street below. It had been the first painting of Tim he had made.

Jason watched as Dick rolled up the saved paintings and placed them in the bag they had brought for this. Dick signed, "That all?"

Jason nodded. The other two headed forward, slashing the rest of the paintings from their canvases. He observed his masterpieces being dragged over to where he was standing.

With careful precision, he began scoring and shredding them into small pieces, one at a time. Once the last canvas was destroyed, he reached into the bag and brought out the piranha solution, dumping it over the remnants.

The others stood back as he stared at the remnants of the hundreds of hours of love and hate he had just destroyed. His eyes were watering from the fumes; that was the only reason. Jason ignored the fact that he was wearing a respirator and goggles that blocked the fumes.

He turned to where Dick had smashed through the largest window of the gallery space. There was no point in hiding that they had been their. The building alarm started wailing as the three of them swung away. They knew now to get lost in the city. Surprisingly few cameras ever looked up.

"Morning, Peter," Jason said with a smile as he opened the door, only to find half of the White Collar office waiting to enter.

Peter pushed past him. "Where are they?"

Jason schooled his face. "Where are what?" Jason had handed all of his kit and the paintings to his brothers before they had left. The paintings were probably in Gotham by now, under their care.

The other agents streamed into his apartment, searching. Jason just sighed. "Anyone want any coffee?"

He received a few yeses from some of the agents and set about making a pot. He knew that most of the agents would be careful, or at least try to be.

"I know it was you," Peter continued.

"I have no clue what you're talking about. I've not done whatever you think I've done; you can check my anklet. I've been here all night," Jason said as he started making the coffees. He knew all the agents' orders by now.

As he handed one of the cups to Diana, he noticed that one of his paintings was about to fall from where he had propped it. "Careful!" he shouted. The probie luckily caught it before it hit the ground. "That's a present."

That caught Peter's attention. "A present for who?" he interrogated. Jason scowled. "Clinton." Jason hoped he wasn't blushing. Peter was smiling at him in a way that suggested he might be. Dammit. "Anyway, what have I done?" Jason asked.

"The Met was broken into," Peter said. Jason blinked at him innocently. "Oh?"

"Don't act all innocent with me. I know it was you." Jason blinked, innocent as could be. "What was taken?" 

"We're not sure yet, but definitely the majority of Bruce Wayne's paintings were destroyed," Clinton chimed in. "Peter thinks it was you for some reason."

"Were all clear, boss!" one of the other senior agents, Steve, shouted.

Jason smiled. He knew that even if there had been any evidence in his flat, there was only a 50/50 chance that his friends would have told Peter. Peter could really have a stick up his backside sometimes.

"What? Nothing!" Peter was indignant.

"Nope," Steve shouted back. "Neal, can I buy this for my wife?" Steve held up the painting of Sycamore Gap.

"You can have it, Steve. I painted it for your living room. It's meant to be you and Lucy's 20th-anniversary present," Jason replied.

As the agents filled out of his flat, peter scowled at him. "stop bribing my agents." Jason raised an eyebrow, his expression one of faux innocence. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Peter. I just happen to have friends who appreciate art. Maybe you should consider it."

 

Peter just sighed, realizing he'd never get a straight answer from Jason. White-collar crimes were one thing; understanding Jason was an entirely different challenge.

Notes:

I was struggling on how to permanently destroy a canvis so it couldn't be repaired. I didn't want to use fire (spreading), metal soaps (too long). then i thought if jason used a vegetable oil based thinner so caustic soda + H2O. then i thought fuck it, their vigilantes, lets go for piranha soln. don't do this at home kids, it will eat ur skin.

Chapter 8

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Diana stared at the painting hanging in her office, lost in memories of a time when she believed their team would last forever. But it hadn't.

Around the time Bruce wayne had been imprisoned for child abuse, Neal died. It was strangely anticlimactic, considering Neal's uncanny ability to bounce back from everything. The official inquiry had blamed Peter for negligence and endangerment of the CI, but he was found not guilty. Regardless, Peter chose to retire, burdened by guilt and nursing injuries from the explosion that took Neal's life.

Now, Diana led the White Collar unit, and under her leadership, the office ran more efficiently. She respected Peter and considered him a good friend, but she acknowledged that the office had stagnated a bit during his tenure. Peter's retirement, Neal's death, and Clinton's departure marked the end of an era. The FBI had finally established an office in Gotham, and Clinton was heading it.

The painting depicted a sunset from their last picnic—the three of them together. Neal had given it to her just a few days before his untimely death. In those days leading up to it, Neal seemed unusually anxious, as if he had a premonition of what awaited him.

The coroner's report stated that Neal's death had been quick, but the void he left behind lingered. Diana missed them all. Clinton occasionally called, and in the background, she would sometimes hear the voices of children—Clinton's new partner apparently looked after his 9-year-old and 15-year-old brothers. They fought fiercely, according to Clinton. Jason had an older brother too, but he lived in a different city. The dynamics of their new lives sounded complicated.

She had yet to meet Jason in person, but his voice sounded kind over the phone. She had even given him the shovel talk during one of their conversations, and she could hear his smile when he replied. They sounded like a good match.

Her team was thriving. Steve had taken on the role of her second in command, and the other members had seamlessly filled the gaps left by Neal and Clinton. They still went out for drinks, reminiscing about old times. Meanwhile, she had found a new girlfriend, adding a new layer of joy to her life. Life moved forward, and Diana was determined to make the most of every moment.

She looked down at the package that had landed on her desk this morning. It was rather large and flat. Instinctively, she thought it might be a painting when she opened it. It was from Clinton; her birthday was next week. It turned out her suspicion was correct.

As she unwrapped the package, a painting of the sun setting between a row of houses emerged. Vines were delicately weaving their way up the buildings. It looked oddly familiar, though she was certain she had never seen this painting before. She glanced down at the birthday card, wondering if she should have waited until next week.

"To Diana, Happy Birthday. Love, Clinton and Jason."

In the corner of the card was scrawled, "Gotham's version of a park."

Diana frowned, then looked up at the painting that hung on her wall. That fucker had faked his death. And Clinton knew. 

Notes:

ive gotten a bit bored of this story, so im finishing it rather than leaving it unfinished.