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65 hours. Wasn’t even a record. Not even close to a record. Really, it was hardly anything to blink at, let alone actually be concerned about, no matter what his family said. A little coffee and Tim would be just fine.
He walked over to the kitchen area of his apartment but hesitated as he got to the coffee maker, suppressing a yawn. Yeah, this was a Death Wish Coffee kind of night. He made a quick detour to the “special” cabinet, shifting around the pasta Jason had insisted he keep in his apartment because it was “real food” that’s “easy enough even you can’t screw it up”. Tim hadn’t protested because pasta seemed like a very Neal Caffrey sort of thing to keep around. And since that was the part Tim had been playing for the last year while he was undercover in the FBI, it only made sense. And besides, Jason’s forced boxes of pasta made for a great distraction from what was really in that cabinet.
Tim opened up the false bottom and pulled out his forbidden drug of choice, breathing deeply as he took in the scent of the strongest coffee known to mankind. With how insistent his family was that the stuff would kill him, he had to keep it hidden and only pull it out when he really needed it. But 65 hours without sleep with a case he needed to get to the bottom of seemed like a decent time. And it smelled so good. What his siblings didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.
He put the grounds into the machine and started it running before quickly returning his magic beans to their hiding spot. It would take a few minutes before his brew would be ready, so he pulled out his laptop and started working on his case. Or at least… He would have started working on his case if he could make himself focus. Every time he tried to read through the files, his computer betrayed him and started going fuzzy. Coffee. He just needed his coffee, then he’d be able to focus.
It only took a couple more minutes for the machine to stop dripping and Tim didn’t bother wasting time with a mug. He popped the lid off the pot and took it with him back to the table as he downed half the burning liquid before he even sat down. It was like a weight lifted off his shoulders. Now he could focus.
He cracked his knuckles and got to work, fingers flying across the keyboard as he hacked his way into the servers the FBI couldn’t get a warrant for. They didn’t need that information for a trial, only to figure out where to go next, so it wouldn’t matter how Tim got the information. And Peter wouldn’t ask questions. Plausible deniability and all that.
Tim smiled to himself as he got into the servers, downing the last of the pot as he waited for the screen to load. Sometimes, he really loved this job. It was all the fun of being a vigilante while actually helping put criminals away without the courts having to rely on the word of a vigilante. That could get messy sometimes.
There.
The screen loaded and with it all the information Tim and Peter would need. They could follow that lead tomorrow no problem. Tim could even call it an early night and turn in. Only he wasn’t tired. Even as he sat there, his leg bounced under the table almost as fast as his fingers found the keys of his laptop. 15 more seconds and he had a sheet of paper running through his printer with all the information they’d need in the morning. The night was perfect.
And his leg wouldn’t stop bouncing.
He pushed out from the table just far enough to glare at the offending limb, catching sight of the anklet attached to it as he did.
Well. He wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon and he might as well get rid of some of his energy while doing something productive, right?
Tim turned back to his computer, his fingers moving once more almost before he’d realized what he was doing. Who exactly he was hacking.
He’d done it so many times in the last year it was second nature, get into the site, deactivate, slip the bulky jewelry off, reactivate, erase all tracks he’d ever been there, and boom. Just like that. Tim was a free man.
He stood, grabbing the anklet and his computer and walking over to his bed to toss the overweight jewelry onto the mattress where his feet would normally be when he slept, and then to hide his contraband laptop. Then he turned off all the lights in the apartment and slipped into his closet to change. It was only 11:29PM on a Tuesday night. He could patrol for a few hours, make it back, re-hack the US Marshals, put the anklet back on, get a few hours of sleep, and be ready for Peter to pick him up bright and early in the morning.
It was perfect.
Foolproof.
Just a little exercise, blow off some energy as Red Robin, then get back.
He slipped out the window, then to the balcony, then over it, catching himself with his grapple just like Dick had always taught him. Then he was off, climbing skyscrapers, diving into alleys to rescue would-be-muggees from would-be-muggers, breaking up a scuffle or preventing a robbery every now and then. Nothing huge, just patrolling. Keeping the city he was living in safe. Doing his part.
It wasn’t until the fourth mugging that something went wrong.
It was 2:56AM on a Wednesday morning, Tim was just about to call it a night and go get some sleep, when the mugger he’d thought he’d been dealing with turned out to be a whole group. Tim had no idea how he missed that.
But he was Red Robin. It shouldn’t be a problem. It really shouldn’t have been a problem…
There was a group but that group still only had five people. He could take them. He had three unconscious and backed the other two deep into the alley when it all went South.
There was a sixth man he’d somehow missed. Or maybe it was a woman. Tim had no idea. He never saw who hit him. All he knew was it was 5:07AM when he came to with a splitting headache, laying in a heap in a dumpster.
Maybe his family was right… Maybe he did need at least three hours of sleep per night before he goes out on patrol… Or maybe he just needed more coffee. He was probably building up a tolerance to the stuff again and needed to up his intake to have the same effect. Some more coffee would definitely help.
Peter would be by in less than two hours to pick him up, and Tim needed to be back in his apartment in a suit and tie by then, anklet on and ready to go. They had a case they were working on, right? Tim had found something but he couldn’t quite remember what. Oh well, he’d figure it out when he got home.
He drug himself out of the dumpster, thankful it was still dark out as he made his way home.
It was 5:32AM when he snuck back into his apartment and stripped his suit, carefully tucking it away in the most secure hidy-hole in his closet.
It was 5:41AM when he brewed another pot of Death Wish Coffee.
It was 5:58AM when he got the anklet back on, and tried to remember what he’d forgotten about with that case. He glanced around his apartment but couldn’t find any hint as to what he’d found a few hours before.
It was 6:01AM when Tim saw an email from Dick, asking for help on a case.
It was 6:52AM when Tim remembered the time and shot Dick an email with the results he’d found.
It was 7:03AM when Tim was ready for Peter to walk in the door.
…but Peter was supposed to be there at 7:00AM.
Peter was never late.
Tim frowned, tapping his foot impatiently as he sat on his couch and stared at the clock. He reached for his phone to check for messages, but his hand hit nothing. He could have sworn he’d left the device on the end table last night, but there was nothing there. He must have misplaced it when he’d been so tired. Simple as that.
It was 7:13AM when Tim gave up the search for his phone and started to worry about Peter. His friend. He’d never been late before, no less this late.
It was 7:17AM when Tim left a note with the maid in case Peter came by late.
It was 7:18AM when Neal left his apartment and started his trek toward the FBI building a mile and a half away.
~~~~~~~~~~
It was 6:39AM on a perfectly normal Wednesday morning when Peter kissed his wife goodbye and walked out his front door.
It was 6:41AM when Peter pulled out of his driveway and headed to his friend’s house.
It was 6:56AM when Peter parked his car and walked up the front steps.
It was 6:57AM by the time a maid opened the door for him and nodded him toward the stairs.
It was 6:58AM when he knocked on Neal’s door.
It was still only 6:58AM on a normal Wednesday morning when Peter got a sinking feeling that something was wrong. Neal had never taken this long to answer his door. Even if the man couldn’t come to the door, he would at least yell out to Peter.
It was 6:59AM when Peter used his key to open the door, his hand hovering over his gun, ready for anything.
It was 7:00AM on a completely unusual Wednesday morning when Peter found nothing in Neal’s apartment.
It was 7:01AM when Peter’s world stopped spinning, grinding to a holt as he caught sight of the seemingly insignificant piece of hardware sitting on Neal’s bed. Right where his foot should be had Neal been in said bed.
Only he wasn’t.
The bed was made like no one had slept in it all night, the apartment empty of all human life.
It was 7:03AM when the truth of the situation really sunk in: Neal had found a way to slip the anklet and run.
It was 7:04AM on the worst Wednesday of Peter’s life when he called in the news that his friend was gone.
It was 7:05AM when Peter started looking for clues and the manhunt started.
~~~~~~~~~~
Peter shoved back from his desk and ran a hand over his face, struggling not to hurl the nearest object against the wall. Considering the nearest object was Neal’s phone and the only thing that could maybe count as a lead in this investigation, it was a good thing he held himself back. There’d been precious little to find in Neal’s apartment. The conman’s phone and a piece of paper on his printer pertaining to their latest case. No clues as to why he’d run, no signs of a struggle, nothing to go on. He just… Up and left one day.
It was 8:05AM on an otherwise normal Thursday, Neal had been officially declared missing for 24 hours, and Peter was no closer to tracking him down. The man was just… Gone. His tracking data had showed him in his apartment, then he went to bed around 11:30, and his tracker didn’t move until Peter found it the next morning. It just didn’t add up.
Peter groaned, massaging his temples in a desperate attempt to reduce the growing headache the pain killers hadn’t been able to help. He’d barely slept four hours last night on the couch in his office, hadn’t seen his wife since yesterday morning, and had three half eaten takeout containers filling his waste bin. When he found Neal, he was going to…
Something clattered to the floor in the bullpen, followed by a flutter of papers as someone presumably dropped a file. Then a shattered coffee mug.
Peter narrowed his eyes and stood up from his desk, immediately making toward his door. Whatever was going on in the bullpen to to be big to make at least three agents drop—
He froze at his door, staring out into the bullpen where Neal Caffrey was casually flipping his hat onto the Socrates bust on his desk like it was just a normal Thursday. He was all smiles, seemingly calm but Peter could see the way he subtly eyed the agents, confusion written behind his eyes. It was almost like…
No, that wasn’t possible.
Peter shoved open his door, all but storming to the railing a few feet away.
“Caffrey!” he barked out, not even trying to disguise the pain, confusion, and anger in his voice, even as Neal jumped and spun toward him. “What is the meaning of this?”
Neal opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. He cocked his head instead, flashing Peter something close to a signature Neal Caffrey grin, only there was something off about it.
“What’s the meaning of what, Peter? You didn’t pick me up for work this morning so I had to walk in myself. Sorry I’m late!” He grinned fully then, really trying to sell it, but there was still something…confused. Hidden behind his eyes. Neal was missing something. And Peter didn’t feel like his picture of the situation was any clearer.
If Neal had run, why show up again like he’d never left? Why pretend nothing had happened? Why come back at all when he knew what this would mean for his deal? It wasn’t adding up.
Peter narrowed his eyes, determined to find the truth. “Where have you been?”
Neal looked surprised for all of a second and a half before he composed himself and shrugged. “At my place? I haven’t left since you dropped me off yesterday.”
Yesterday.
Peter hadn’t seen Neal yesterday, no less dropped him off at his place. It was either a blatant lie or…
Suddenly Neal’s confusion started to make just a little more sense.
“Neal…” Peter started slowly, watching the man carefully. “What day is it?”
For a split second, Neal just looked confused and unsure, then something close to panic and understanding flashed across his features, fast enough Peter may have been the only one to catch it.
“Uhh…” the conman started intelligently. “Wednesday?”
Peter’s mind screeched to a halt as he froze.
Neal… Neal thought it was Wednesday. He phrased it as a question but not because he was trying to pull a con, he was far more confident when he did that. He was unsure. Because Peter had asked. He knew it was Wednesday walking in the door and only started to question it after Peter asked.
Neal had no idea they thought he ran.
More confusingly, Neal had apparently slipped the anklet and not ran.
“Show me the anklet.” Peter barked out an order for the second time that day, to which Neal only hesitated a moment, just long enough to process the strange request, then lifted his pant leg to show the anklet back on his leg where it had seemingly always been. Where it should have always been. There was really only one explanation.
Peter groaned, internally cursing out his friend and the headache he’d caused him, plus the inevitable paperwork Peter would need to deal with. And the sinking feeling their time together was over. He knew there was no salvaging this.
“How long have you been a hacker?”
Neal froze at the question, opening his mouth to protest, but Peter wasn’t about to let him.
“No, Neal, don’t try to deny it.” It all made far too much sense. The way Neal seemed to always just know things, no matter how tightly they were locked up. The inexplicable access he had to every file the FBI had, the way he only needed to go home and spend some time alone to have everything they needed for their cases. Neal was a hacker. Maybe one of the best. “How long, Neal?”
The conman opened his mouth again, but Peter gave him a look, one that undeniably meant he was positive beyond anything Neal could come up with, and the younger man deflated. He let his shoulder sag in a very un-Neal-like fashion, bowing his head in the same motion and suddenly making himself look far younger and smaller than Peter had ever seen him.
“I uh…” he took a deep breath, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “I started when I was seven… Then started training under the world’s best when I was thirteen.”
Peter froze, caught off-guard by the sudden reference to Neal’s childhood. And the “world’s best”? What was that supposed to mean? The best hacker on the planet was the legendary Oracle, and there was some speculation the second best might be the Gotham vigilante Red Robin. Had Neal… Trained under either of them? Or both of them?
“What gave it away?” The conman looked up at him, something close to a cringe on his face as he continued to hold the back of his neck nervously.
Peter couldn’t see any harm in answering. Though his voice came out quieter than he expected, almost gentle.
“It’s Thursday, Neal.”
He watched as the man’s eyes widened, then he tilted his head back and seemed to be internally screaming at the ceiling. Somehow, Neal had lost a day.
“You want to tell me where you’ve been? Where you’ve actually been?”
Neal sighed, running a hand over his face much like Peter had done just ten minutes earlier.
“There’s no salvaging this, is there?”
Peter shook his head in answer and Neal sighed again, dropping into a chair in defeat.
“I was unconscious in a dumpster, Peter.”
Peter reeled back in shock along with most of the office, but Neal didn’t seem to notice or care.
“I thought I was out for 2 hours. I guess it was 26.”
Somehow, that was even more concerning.
He wanted to ask who did it, he wanted to hunt them down, protect his friend. But he couldn’t find the words. There was too much to unpack there, and it was suddenly sinking in just how tired Peter was. Neal must have seen the confusion on his face as he took a deep breath and kept talking.
“It’s really not that unusual for people in my line of work, Peter. You don’t need to worry about me.”
How was he not supposed to worry?!
“What…” Peter swallowed, looking for the words. “What kind of work?” It didn’t sound like the type of thing a non-violent conman would run into every other week.
“Oh,” Neal chuckled nervously, back to rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, see, I’m actually Red Robin.”
Peter could swear his heart stopped.