Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"This is right up your alley, Neal. I don't know why you're pouting."

Neal Caffery shook his head as he and Peter made their way up West 53rd. At this time of the day, the school children and fine art aficionados were already lining up in front of the Museum of Modern Art.

"Because something isn't right. Stealing art isn't like calling in a bomb threat," Neal said, following Peter up to the museum’s front glass doors. "No one is going to call it in ahead of time."

Peter flashed his badge up to the security guard, who opened the door to let them enter. "Well, someone called this in, even told the museum's curator just which pieces they were going to steal."

That perked Neal right up. "Okay, I'll play along. What are they going for? A van Gogh? A Warhol? One of the Picassos?"

"Hold your horses," Peter muttered as they were stopped at the bottom of the marble stairs. A member of the curatorial department greeted them and then led them up two flights to the museum's temporary exhibit called, "The Gallery of Circus Medrano."

Neal stopped at the front of it, trembling eyes running over the exhibit. It was designed to look like a circus with a yellow and red tent, green flags at the top of each peak, and white, twinkling lights that illuminated the gaudy exhibit sign. If Neal closed his eyes, he could hear the baritone timbre of Mr. Haly, carrying over the crowd with the last call before the performance. He could smell the salty aroma of peanuts and the sugary sweet taste of cotton candy. He could feel the electric excitement that bled from the crowd.

He was home.

Peter broke through Neal's reverie, stopping just before the gallery’s entrance. "Everything okay?"

Neal shook himself alert and tried to flash his usual carefree smile. "Uh, yeah, of course."

By the look on Peter's face, Neal had failed, but Peter seemed to mistake his hesitation for a different reason. "Were you planning on coming? Afraid you're going to be spoiled? Or did you actually call in the tip yourself, so you could get a sneak peek?"

Neal hadn’t planned on coming. He'd run too far and too long to get away from his past, from the circus, from Gotham, just to waltz right back into it. This exhibit was practically tailor-made for him. He could only guess who would set up such a thing, and he'd spent a lot of time and resources to stay off the map for a reason.

Thankfully, the last time he checked, many of the works from Circus Medrano were scattered around the world, and none of the curators in the MoMA had any reason to lure Neal into a trap – or at least, they wouldn't know they had any reason.

(He still had that Dali hidden in a warehouse on the East Side.)

As they entered the gallery, Neal made note of the various police officers, museum staff, and the two boys off to the side, both in their teens, typing away on their phones. Typical teenagers but how would they get into the museum gallery early? Unless they were the staff's kids?

Neal's eyes dragged across the Renoir, the Degas, and the Toulouse-Lautrec paintings as he and Peter made their way farther into the gallery. He'd have to get closer to see if Seurat was here as well.

After Peter greeted the exhibit’s curator, she brought them before a rather large man with his back toward them. He was dressed in a black sweater, black topcoat, and designer jeans. Neal wasn't paying as much as he should have, his eyes taking in the incredible works of art, when Peter was introduced to the man. The man turned with a polite greeting and shook Peter's hand, before Peter turned toward him.

"Mr. Wayne, I'd like you to meet my associate – "

"Dick."

The word was so soft, spoken with such longing and despair, that it shocked Neal to his core. He immediately froze before slowly swinging his gaze over the towering man before him and Peter.

The years had been good to Bruce, who looked as polished and pristine as Neal remembered him. Subtle lines around Bruce's eyes and mouth revealed his age, but those sharp eyes pierced through Neal's facade like they'd always been able to do since they met under the big top. They held him captive as Bruce examined him with careful but silent scrutiny.

Neal endured it, mainly because he was too shocked to do anything but stand there. He had imagined this exact situation countless times, but a part of him never thought it would happen. Another part, a smaller part, never wanted it to happen, not after what happened with the Joker, not after what happened after.

Peter looked suspicious, like he didn't know how to interpret the situation. "Neal, what’s – "

Bruce stepped forward, arms out in what Neal could only assume was to become a hug.

Neal put out his hand, stopping him. "Mr. Wayne, Neal Caffery. I work with Peter at the bureau."

Bruce's expression hardened into something closer to Batman's, but he accepted Neal's outstretched hand. His grip was straightforward, firm, and warm, and Neal wished he hadn't been the one to keep the embrace going a second too long.

"You work with Agent Burke?" Bruce echoed, and thankfully, Peter took over then.

"Yes. Neal’s a consultant."

"A consultant?"

"I'm surprised you called the bureau, Mr. Wayne," Neal took over, pointedly turning his back to Bruce and Peter. He headed toward the nearest painting, The Acrobat and the Young Harlequin by Picasso "Don't obscenely rich men like yourself have people on staff to deal with situations like this?"

"The curator actually called the bureau." Bruce walked up next to Neal, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets in a practiced relaxed manner, Neal knew. "However, I do appreciate her concern. If there is a threat to these paintings, then we should exhaust every available resource to neutralize it."

Peter came up on Neal's other side, a notepad already open in his hand, pen poised to write. "Is there anyone you can think of who may want to steal these paintings from you, Mr. Wayne?"

"These aren't all mine, Agent Burke. My sons and I worked with the National Gallery in London, the Art Institute in Chicago, the Musee d'Art Moderne in Paris, among others, to bring all these pieces here for the exhibit."

Except the Rene Jacques painting, Au Cirque Medrano, which was part of Bruce's private collection. It used to hang in the manor's den, along the far wall where Neal could see it when lounging on the couch or doing his homework.

"Why would you do that?" Peter pressed. "Do you have a passion for clowns?"

"Quite the opposite," Bruce said with a breathless laugh. "My eldest son, Richard, grew up in a circus. He had an affinity for Circus Medrano and one of the paintings here especially." He took a shaky breath, and Neal refused to look at him, refused to believe Bruce wasn't putting on a show. "Richard has been away from Gotham for quite some time. I was hoping this exhibit would persuade him to come home."

Neal straightened his shoulders and willed his voice to be smooth, cold even. "Most people call or text."

"My son is not 'most people,’ Mr. Caffery."

Neal bit his tongue before he gave away too much, but mercifully, Peter turned toward the rest of the gallery. "By any chance, do you think Richard might be behind this? Maybe he doesn’t like the attention or actually wants to get a different type of attention."

"No, no." Bruce was adamant, which warmed Neal more than he wanted to admit. "Richard is a good kid. He wouldn't be caught up in anything like this."

Neal felt eyes watching him, and he pivoted to see the two rich teens in the corner staring at him like he had three heads. Black hair, blue eyes, dressed in sweaters and nice shoes. Jason Todd-Wayne and Timothy Drake-Wayne.

Bruce's sons. Good kids.

Not like Neal. "People can surprise you, Mr. Wayne."

"And unfortunately, disappoint." Peter flipped shut his notebook.

"Not Richard."

"Well, if he’s a part of this, we'll find out. Can you put together a list of people who may want these paintings? Any who may benefit or even know how to sell these on the black market?"

Bruce's lips pursed. "I, uh, I don't really run in those circles, Agent Burke."

Neal couldn't stifle his scoff, but he could pretend not to notice Peter's suspicious glare.

"The threat also mentioned the opening night gala for the exhibit," Peter continued after a long moment. "We'll have a team here to survey and catch anyone who may attempt to take one of the paintings."

"I doubt an art thief will really attempt to take the paintings," Bruce replied. "Art thieves generally don't call in their crimes like bomb threats."

Peter refused to look at Neal, though he lifted a finger. "Don't start."

Neal laughed with his hands up. "I didn't say anything."

"But you were thinking it."

"Mr. Caffery," Bruce started, then paused, before gathering his bearings. "How did you come to work with Agent Burke?"

Neal wished he could be anywhere but there at that moment, when Peter perked up, "We have a mutual interest in fine arts and white collar crime."

"I see."

Neal wasn't going to stick around any longer than he had to. "I'm going to meet with the security team, see if there are any blind spots our thief can exploit."

"And let you see how you can exploit them in the future? I don't think so." Peter motioned toward the two boys in the corner of the room, who still stared at them. "Why don't you go play with the kids while Mr. Wayne and I discuss our strategy for the gala?"

Neal looked at the boys, then swiveled back to Peter. "Yeah, I'm not one to be sent to the kiddie table. I'm going to walk the floor – where you can see me," he added when Peter opened his mouth to refute.

Before Bruce could say anything else, Neal tipped his hat. “Mr. Wayne.” And then he was gone.

Bruce watched Neal walk away, the boy taking Bruce’s heart with him. "Agent Burke, how did you meet Mr. Caffey?"

Peter glanced toward Neal's retreating back before narrowing his eyes toward Bruce. This agent wouldn't be someone to underestimate. "He's my CI, Mr. Wayne, if that's what you're asking."

"CI?"

"My criminal informant. I met Neal when I arrested him for bond forgery."

The stairs to Neal's apartment were long and arduous that evening, the weight of the day dragging him down with each step. Peter was suspicious, even asked him how he'd met Bruce, but Neal managed to keep their covers intact.

"He originally thought I was someone else. Happens all the time," Neal defected with a shrug.

"Yeah, but most of the time, people actually have met you, Mr. Caffery. I mean, Mr. Halden. I mean, Mr. Tabernacle."

Neal made sure to stare out the window as they inched through Midtown. "Is it possible we've crossed paths before? Sure. The guy attends high-society galas like a normal person attends a weekly poker night, but I didn't con him, if that's what you're wondering."

Peter replied with a thoughtful, "Hm," sounding way too much like Bruce for Neal's liking.

Neal glanced down at his anklet and briefly wondered if he should just cut it and run. Slade would be able to cover his tracks again, and it wasn't like he couldn't make a living in Chicago or San Francisco.

But he liked New York. He liked working with Peter, Diana, Jones, and the entire White Collar Division. Why did he have to leave just because Bruce finally decided to find his conscience?

When he put his key into his lock and turned the handle, he was grateful to see Mozzie sitting at his table and not a large, looming bat.

Mozzie looked up from his book; his welcoming smile dropped instantly. "I was going to ask, 'How was your day?' but I'm not sure I want to know."

Neal allowed the door to accept all his weight after he shut it. "Bruce is here. In New York."

Mozzie was on his feet in an instant. "Did he see you?"

"Yup."

"This is bad, this is bad," he muttered to himself before stopping and taking a long, sharp inhale. "Okay, we have a contingency plan for this. You cut your anklet and head over to Port Authority. I'll get the gear, and we'll meet in Philadel – ”

A soft rap on the door cut him off, and Neal was up in a second, waving Mozzie toward the side door that led deeper into the apartment. Once Mozzie was safely away, Neal straightened his shoulders and opened the door.

He wasn't surprised to find Bruce on the other side, though he was shocked when the older man stepped forward and trapped him in a firm, unbreakable embrace.

Neal stiffened, unsure what to say, unsure what to do, even as Bruce's hand came up to brush the back of his hair.

"I can't believe you're here, that you're safe," Bruce murmured so softly Neal could have missed it.

Neal's fists balled at his thighs, and he barely kept them from trembling with rage. "Bruce, what are you doing?"

As if it was the simplest explanation in the world – "Hugging my son."

"But I’m not your son."

Bruce pulled away just enough to look Neal in the eyes, and he looked so lost, so broken. "Dick –"

Neal broke through Bruce's hold then, but if he was being honest with himself, he knew Bruce let him go. "Don’t act like we’re one big, happy family, and you’ve been missing me all these years."

"I couldn’t find you." Bruce shut the door behind him and followed Neal into the loft. "No matter how hard I looked – "

"The world’s greatest detective couldn’t find his own protégé?" Neal let out a tight, humorless laugh. "I’m good, Bruce, but I’m not that good."

"You didn’t want to be found."

No, he didn’t. "What do you want, Bruce? Why are you here?"

The lines on Bruce's face became more pronounced, his frown growing. "To bring you home. The boys and I – we put together the exhibit to capture your attention. We hoped – I hoped – it would show you how much you mean to me."

All the anger, all the hurt, all the pain bubbled to the surface, and Neal refused to keep it bottled inside any longer. "You fired me, Bruce. Remember that? And then less than a year later, you adopted a kid and gave him my name. The name my mother used to call me."

Pain flickered through Bruce's expression, and this time, it remained. "I know."

"And then you adopted a second kid and you gave him my name, too. He just added a color before it."

"I know I hurt you – "

"Hurt?" Neal echoed, and he wished his voice hadn't broken then. "You didn't hurt me, Bruce. You destroyed me, and I had to pick up the pieces. I had to create another life, a new life away from Gotham, away from you and Alfred."

"You could've stayed, gone to college, lived a normal life."

"Really?" Neal couldn't hold back the bitter laughter that sounded from the depth of his soul. "Like Jason is leading? Like Tim? Was I the only defective one?"

"Of course not. I wanted to protect you. I didn't – They need to be Robin, just like you did."

"I needed you to believe in me!" Neal shouted, hands thrown wide. "Instead, you fired me and refused to look my way when you were home. You left me no choice but to leave."

"And this was so much better? Coming to New York, faking a criminal record, so you can work with the FBI?"

"I didn't fake anything." Neal's voice fell to a whisper. "That's real, Bruce. It's all real – except my name."

"…what?" Bruce gasped.

"I went to prison for four years," Neal murmured. "Peter was the Fed who captured me." He lifted up his pant leg to reveal the tracking anklet. "I’m out now, working as a criminal informant for the FBI."

Instead of the unbridled rage he thought he'd see, all Neal saw on Bruce's face was intense regret.

"You became a criminal?" he whispered, voice guttered. "After everything you went through, after every battle you faced, you chose to abandon everything you stood for?"

Neal refused to meet Bruce's gaze. "I had my reasons."

"Dick –”

"I go by Neal now, and no, you don’t get to be disappointed or frustrated or whatever else you may feel. You fired me. You took away everything that made me, so I left. I found a new purpose."

"As a criminal," Bruce pierced.

"As someone who lives in the gray of life," Neal said, a true smile finding his lips. "I’m happy here, Bruce. I have a good job that actually helps people. I have friends. I'm in an on-again, off-again relationship with a high-profile insurance investigator. Let me enjoy my new life."

"You’re on parole," Bruce said flatly.

"You say that like it’s a bad thing." Neal retreated to his liquor cabinet and pulled out one of his favorite Bordeauxs. "I could still be behind bars."

"You can’t tell me this is the life you want."

Dick slammed down the bottle. "Of course, it isn't. The life I wanted was flying next to my parents and later, flying next to you. When neither of those two options were available anymore, I picked myself up and made a new life for myself."

A dark grimace, akin to the Batman's, overtook Bruce's face. "You’d really rather be here, on parole, than back in Gotham with your family?"

"They're your family. They are your sons, and Gotham is your hometown. It’s not mine, not anymore."

"I see." The walls were up again, just like they were when Neal had left Gotham all those years ago. At least this felt normal, felt right between them.

Neal poured himself a glass and swirled the liquor. "Let’s just keep this professional, alright? Peter is already suspicious. Once this case is done, you can go back to Gotham and forget you ever knew me."

Bruce remained firm and statuesque before finally murmuring, "If you are truly happy here and you don't want to come home, then I'll abide by your wishes. I won't interfere."

Neal nodded once, eyes dipping. "Thank you."

"But I want you to know – you were missed, and I will continue to miss you. But I do want what is best for you...Neal. If that's a life in New York, then I only wish you the best."

Bruce came forward then, his movements telegraphed as he took hold of Neal's cheeks. His hands were warm and comforting as they cradled Neal’s face, and then Bruce dipped his head, so he could press a gentle kiss to Neal's forehead.

"I'm also glad you are all right."

He released Neal as the door opened and June entered without warning. "Oh, I'm so sorry to interrupt, Neal. I just thought I heard yelling."

"We're all right, June. Thank you. Mr. Wayne was just leaving."

Bruce nodded once, then turned to June with a similar gesture, and left without another word.

As Mozzie peeked out from behind the hallway door, June raised an eyebrow. "A man of many words, I see."

Neal sighed. "You have no idea.”

Peter did not have "house call from billionaire Bruce Wayne" on his list of things to do that Saturday, but there the man stood, in Peter's foyer, wearing a polo shirt and black slacks. He stood with his hands in his pockets with practiced ease, his face a terrible scowl, a contradiction of the warm, open expression of a grieving father Peter saw just a few days ago.

"Agent Burke, may I come in?"

Peter stood in the doorway, blocking Bruce's entrance. "I don't like surprises, Mr. Wayne. Can this wait until Monday?"

"I'd rather speak with you when Neal isn't in earshot."

Peter could empathize with that. He stepped aside and allowed Bruce to enter his home, which the man took in with an appraising eye. In the short time Peter has known Bruce Wayne, he'd come to see the man had many sides, and the persona he put before the media and most of the world was a facade. Bruce was a keen observer, a private man, and perhaps a dangerous one. Peter had yet to decide the last one.

Until he did, he'd give the man the benefit of the doubt.

"Honey?" he called, and Elizabeth came around the kitchen island with her usual, welcoming smile. "Mr. Wayne, I'd like to meet my wife, Elizabeth. El, this is Bruce Wayne."

"A pleasure, Mr. Wayne. Can I get you something to drink? Water? Coffee? Rum?"

Bruce's laughter was light but fake. "Coffee, please. Black."

"Hm. Somehow, I figured that."

"Why don't we talk in the back?" Peter offered, gesturing toward the patio.

They settled into the garden table and chairs that hugged the side of the house, while Bruce sipped his coffee and took everything in with critical eyes. Peter decided to drink his own coffee, endure the scrutiny, and wait until Bruce decided to reveal why he'd shown up at Peter's door.

He didn't need to wait long.

"Agent Burke, how did you meet Mr. Caffery?"

Peter let out a short breath. "Why do you want to know, Mr. Wayne? Why are you interested in my CI?"

"He...reminds me of someone. Someone I knew a long time ago."

The way Bruce's hands trembled about his mug, the way finger pads brushed against the edge just to give him something to do – Peter could tell Mr. Wayne wanted to say more but didn't.

"Neal has had many lives and many aliases. He tells me he doesn't know you, but I'm beginning to suspect you may not quite know him."

"Enlighten me, Agent Burke." As if showing his hand, Bruce met his eyes with a desperate plea. "Please."

Peter looked away before letting out a deep sigh. "I'll tell you what you can find on the internet and in public records. Neal was arrested five and a half years ago for bond forgery. He was charged and convicted and served forty-four months. He broke out when the woman he loved was in trouble."

"What happened to her?"

Peter hated the look of pain that crossed Bruce's face when he said, "She was murdered by a sociopath. An explosion."

Bruce's shaky hand wiped down his face as he processed the information. "And Neal?" he asked, earnest. "How did he – "

"He was there. It tore him up for a while." Peter hesitated before revealing, "Only by the grace of God, y'know?"

Swallowing hard, Bruce nodded his acquiescence.

"Neal landed in my care when I captured him for a second time, when he broke out of prison. He offered to be CI, so he didn't spend another four years behind bars and he could help Kate."

Bruce continued to nod, as if hearing Peter but not quite understanding. He must have been trapped in his thoughts and memories, and a part of Peter wanted to know what he was thinking.

He decided to try to put Bruce's mind at ease. "Now I'll tell you what you won't find in the records."

Bruce's eyes sharpened and shifted to alert, almost frightening fast.

"Neal submitted the fake bonds to that specific bank because its manager was corrupt, stealing funds from non-profits and its low-income customers. When the FBI didn't catch on the first time, he submitted a second one. I took a closer look than my partner did."

Bruce's cheek indented; he took a sip of his coffee.

"Neal then went after Vincent Alder, who was running a ponzi scheme that incorporated children groups, charities, legal aid organizations, to name a few. Though Vincent said Neal wanted to scam him, I don't believe that was the case. Neal wanted to steal the funds and give them to the causes and people who had been affected."

"A modern-day Robin Hood." Bruce's gruff voice sounded gutted but was tinted with pride.

"Yes, I believe so. That's why I can work with him. He isn't just a con man. He's a con man with a heart."

"Hm."

Peter shifted forward, placing his elbows on the table and catching Bruce's gaze. His turn. "Mr. Wayne, do you mind if I ask you a few questions about Richard?"

Bruce placed his coffee cup on the table and folded his hands before him, a clear move to wall himself off from Peter and perhaps, the truth. "You may ask."

"What happened between you two? Why did he run away?"

Bruce's sharp inhale was audible, and when he spoke, his voice was low and full of regret. "Richard – Dick – loved his job. It was...dangerous but good work."

"What did he do?"

"Security detail. He helped the unfortunate in Gotham, people who couldn't help themselves. He focused his work in places that most people wouldn't dare to go, like the Narrows and Crime Alley."

Peter let out a low whistle. "Gotham, itself, isn't an easy city."

"No, but she’s worth the fight."

And Peter believed that, even if he never wanted to step foot in it.

"One day, Dick was injured," Bruce began again, his voice soft but firm. "Nothing life-threatening but...close. I demanded he quit, go to college, live a normal life."

"As opposed to helping people who couldn't help themselves," Peter reiterated. "As opposed to, say, playing a modern-day Robin Hood."

Bruce paused for a moment, those brilliant and calculating eyes once more scrutinizing Peter, and Peter simply returned the gaze and waited. He wouldn't back down. He wouldn't shy away from the truth, and he was close to it. Now more than ever. After everything – Kate, Alder, Keller, the treasure – he was the closest he had ever been to cracking the mystery that was Neal Caffery.

Whatever Bruce was looking for, he found, for a moment later, he inclined his head in agreement.

Peter let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Dick, of course, refused, and I handled it poorly," Bruce continued, as if he hadn't just handed Peter the answer to his greatest case. "There are so many things I wish I could take back."

"Did you hit him?" Because if this man hit Neal, Peter didn't care if he was worth a billion dollars or fifty cents, Peter would haul his ass to the bureau.

Thankfully, Bruce shook his head. "No. I said things I shouldn't have. Treated him in a way a father should never treat his son. I should have spoken my reservations to him rather than simply demanding he give up a part of himself. And I didn't realize my mistake until after he was gone and Jason came into my life. But by then, it was too late. I couldn't find him."

"He didn't want to be found," Peter amended, to which Bruce nodded.

The suits, the debonair façade, the grace that was Neal Caffery all made sense in a single moment, but Peter couldn't fathom the strength it must have taken for Dick to leave Gotham and the man across from him now. He couldn't believe that Neal wouldn't have fought this person with every fiber of his being to do what was right at the age of twenty-five.

Unless...

"Mr. Wayne, do you mind if I ask how old Dick is now?"

Confusion swept through Bruce's gaze, but he didn't hold back. "Twenty-five. Why do you ask?"

Peter fell back into his chair and cursed under his breath.

Monday came around all too soon, and Peter was acutely aware when Neal stepped off of the elevator and into the bullpen of the White Collar Division. The usual chorus of good mornings and other greetings heralded his path up to Peter's office, and then Neal knocked on his door, half swinging inside with a coffee in his free hand.

"Hey, Peter. Brought you your favorite – no riffs black coffee from that no-name place on Franklin Street."

As Neal placed it down on the desk, Peter took in the smooth curve of his skin, slight tan complexion, and the pitch dark hair that had yet to turn a single gray hair.

Neal, of course, must have caught his stark gaze. "Peter, what's wrong? I swear, I didn't go even close to my radius this weekend, and I have alibis for anything you think I may or may not have done."

Peter swallowed down the lump in the back of his throat and croaked, "Neal...did I put you in prison at the age of twenty?"

Neal bit his lip before shifting sideways, so his body was angled toward the door for a quick exit. A cool, morose countenance overtook his youthful features. "Yeah, Peter. You did."

Peter threw down his hands and shot to his feet. "God, Neal! You were a child!"

"I wasn't a – "

"You couldn't even order a drink at the time. Your brain wasn't fully formed!" He turned his back to Neal, hands under his jacket and on his hips as he stared out into the unforgiving New York morning. "Why would you ever say you were older?"

"To throw off the trail of anyone who was looking for me. If Neal was older with a reputation to go with it, then people who were looking for...well, for who I was, wouldn't look twice at me. And it's not like I'm some naive kid, Peter. The things I did before I came to New York – well, let’s just say the cases we investigate now are usually less dangerous."

"If that was supposed to make me feel better, it didn't. You were still a kid, Neal."

"How did you know?" The urgency in his voice coaxed Peter to turn, and once more, he cursed himself. How had he never noticed how young Neal looked? "Who told you?"

Well, there was no way to cover this up. "Mr. Wayne came to see me over the weekend. He wanted to know more about you."

"And what did you tell him?"

Why did that sound like an accusation, and why did Peter suddenly feel guilty? "I didn't tell him anything he couldn’t find out on his own."

Neal collapsed into the seat in front of Peter's desk and put his head in his hands. "He just won't leave me alone."

"Hey, hey, hey." Peter perched on the edge of his desk and put a hand on Neal's shoulder. Those muscles were stiff and taut with nervous energy. "It's going to be okay, Neal. You don't have to do anything you don't want to, including talk to Mr. Wayne. I can handle any liaison from now on."

"No one deserves that," Neal said with a bitter laugh.

"Well, I can handle him. You're my responsibility and..." Peter forced the words to come out. "...my friend. I don't want you to feel uncomfortable, and I won't let anyone make you feel that way."

Neal cocked his usual wicked grin. "Did that hurt as much as it looked?"

"More so," Peter grimaced, then smiled. "We'll get through this, Neal. One day at a time, one gala at time."

Neal nodded, and though he still looked shaken, he appeared calmer and more like his confident self. "Okay. So what time is the gala tomorrow?"

"Nine p.m. Don't any of these people know that's passed my bedtime?"

"Don't burn the midnight oil all that much, do you?"

"Only when I have to capture you."

Neal narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "You arrested me in the broad daylight."

"The first time. Since then, you keep me on my toes at all hours of the day and night."

"I make your life exciting. You're welcome."

Peter laughed and hit Neal on the shoulder. "Get to work. Those numbers on the Eastin case aren't going to crunch themselves."

"Yeah, yeah." Neal stood and headed out of the office, only to turn halfway around. "Peter?"

"Hm?" Peter asked without looking up from his latest file.

"You met with Bruce, and you didn't ask me any questions."

Peter looked up and gave a tiny shrug. "Mr. Wayne gave me some background about his relationship with his son, but…you’re allowed your private life, Neal. If you want to tell me something, I'm more than happy to listen, but all that matters to me is that you're here, now, and doing what you want." He amended with a cringe, "Or close to it. If that changes, let me know, okay?"

Neal's eyes softened, and he nodded once. "Okay," and then he left.

Peter let out a tiny breath and went back to his file. Tomorrow would come all too quickly.

To Be Continued…