Chapter Text
Red sky at night, shepherds' delight; red sky in the morning, shepherds' warning. It's the old wives' tale. Dick had heard it time and time again from Alfred but never really thought enough about it to investigate whether or not it held any truth. Of course, he had to think about this as he watched the sun rise before work. Eh, he had watched plenty of sunrises, what could go wrong after watching this one.
Without even realising it, in that moment, Dick had just jinxed himself. It was Sod's Law, after all.
Neal Caffrey's chair was swung back, teetering on its hind legs. The man himself was the embodiment of casual: leant back; eyes closed; fedora covering his eyes, preventing the bright summer sun that was shining through the White Collar windows from interrupting his peace.
A cough interrupted Neal's peace; clear, crisp, the kind of cough you'd use to get someone's attention.
Neal peeked under his hat and then instantly made a fake snoring sound.
"Neal," Peter Burke started, exasperated.
Neal continued his fake sleeping regime.
"Neal," Peter continued, louder this time. He slammed his hands on Neal's desk, startling a probie who was passing by.
"Oh, hey, Peter!" Neal grinned brightly at him, moving the fedora from his face to rest it on his hair. "Didn't see you there!"
Peter gave him a glare before sighing. Diana Berrigan snickered from her desk opposite Neal. Neal sent her a cheeky smirk.
Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. "Get up, we have a case."
Neal scrambled to his feet with the grace of the world's shortest giraffe on drugs, that is to say, with no grace at all.
Diana openly laughed at him, laughing harder when Neal sent her a mock glare.
Peter shot them both a glare.
"What's the case, boss?" Diana asked, moving to join them both at Neal's desk.
"Some rich guy from a city I've never even heard of has travelled to the city for an art show. He's donating a piece from his personal collection. His security team had an alert that the safe was being broken into but nothing was taken. They worry there's going to be another attempt."
"Who's the rich guy?" Neal tilted his head in curiosity. "What's the piece?"
Peter looked at the file in his hands. "The man's name is Bruce Wayne. He's a billionaire from Gotham. The painting is an original by his only son Damian."
"Ouch," Neal said, dramatically clutching chest.
"What?" Peter ground out.
"'His only son,'" Neal parrotted back. "'His only son.' Bruce Wayne has like five sons and a daughter. Maybe more since last I checked."
"Oh," Peter said, surprised. "His file says he has one biological son, Damian. I wasn't aware you knew so much about Bruce Wayne. Did you con him?" He added, suddenly suspicious.
Neal laughed. "Nope! I've been to Gotham a couple of times. Thought I might learn a thing or two from the Catwoman," he winked at Diana, who snorted. "Bruce Wayne is famous in Gotham for serial adoption. He's adopted a lot of kids over the past few decades. It's pretty much all he's famous for these days."
Peter eyed him suspiciously but ultimately let it go for the time being.
"We're needed at the gallery to speak with Mr. Wayne and his security team. So cowboy up team, let's go. Someone go get Jones."