Work Text:
Neal Caffrey had gotten comfortable.
He’d lived a lot of lives, worn a lot of names overtop his real one, and seen more things than anyone should. But for the first time in his life, the alias ‘Neal’ felt almost as much like him as ‘Dick’ ever had.
Dick Grayson, Nightwing, had done a lot of good, but he was so… tired.
Tired of running from rooftop to rooftop with the world crumbling under his feet. Tired of hurting. Tired of failing. Tired of losing people, his brother died, his best friend died, his… whatever the hell Bruce was, died-
And then they came back.
Dick was happy, of course, but the strain didn’t vanish just because they’d returned. Each death, he’d wondered if this was the start of being all alone all over again.
He’d nearly crumpled under the mantel of Batman, he’d done his best to be what Robin had needed, to be what Gotham needed, he’d tried his best to hold the world together, and he had.
But he couldn’t keep giving. No matter how much he wanted to.
He broke. It wasn’t even spectacular, not like he’d always imagined. Just a simple thug who’d ambushed him in the half-decent side of Bludhaven, bashed his head in, and stabbed him while he was down.
He’d lain there for hours as he bled on the street, staring at the gravel and old litter.
All he could think was; Is this it? Is this all he’d come to be?
He’d survived so much worse, yet-
He still found himself lying there, human . Watching as the blood from his mouth seeped into the gravel, like even it couldn’t stand to be with him at the end.
It had been pure chance that Catwoman had been in town. That she had found him passed out and his body nearly bled dry. She’d gotten him medical care and waited by his bedside in the manor as he healed.
Then one day she asked him a question.
“How long are you going to run pretending you’re not tired?”
He’d said something full of bravado like he always had.
“Until I can’t”
She’d smiled at him, it was so warm, even thinking back on it, he could remember the feeling, even now.
Until she replied.
“You’ve reached that point already. I’ve seen it again and again, each time quicker than the last. You know, there’s so much more to this world than the shadows; there’s light too.”
He’d repeated what Batman had always told him, and something he’d always believed.
“I know, Cat, I know. That’s why I do this, so they can still have it. So it can still be light.”
What she said next was something he’d heard before, but for some reason it felt different this time.
“How do you know it’s still there? Have you even seen it? Can you even remember it? How do you know what is out there if you have never been there? When was the last time you did something just to see the light, just to be happy, to explore what’s out there? Something that didn’t matter at all? Something that made you smile instead of bleed?”
A tear had dropped across her cheek as she looked down at his hand held between her own.
“I know why Bruce does this. I know why you do this. I understand, I do. But I don’t want to see you die like this, Kitten.”
He’d thought to himself later, would his parents have wanted this for him? Bruce had tried to make him quit before, Selina too, hadn’t he even steered countless wanna be heroes away from that life?
In the following days, he’d watched his family move without his help, watched his little Robin flourish under the true Batman. He’d watched the world continue to turn as he lay in bed.
Then, one day, after Alfred had given him the all clear, he found himself on a rooftop in Blud.
He’d called Selina.
He asked her where her light was.
He told her he’d like to see it. Just for a little while.
Just so he could understand what he was protecting.
Somewhere along the way, he stopped calling home. First a few days. Then a week. Then a month.
And the world didn’t end.
He traveled. Sometimes, assisting Selina. Other times just… wandering. Taking in the world. Taking in the light, and god, there was so much light, he found himself believing again.
Eventually, he found himself breaking into places on his own again. Painting the kind of beautiful art he knew his Robin loved. Running jobs, not because he had to, but because the thrill of it made him feel alive in a way the cape hadn’t in years.
He knew he should go home, see his brothers…
But when was the last time he’d done something just for him?
He knew they could find him if they wanted to. He also knew from the updates from Selina that they were doing fine without him, acting almost as though he’d never been there in the first place.
The thought hurt at first.
But…
He shook his head, shaking himself out of the past.
Neal Caffrey.
He was Neal.
He was a conman who’d only lasted a month on a two-year sentence before breaking out of maximum security and turning himself in an hour later just for the hell of it.
He worked with the White Collar division of the FBI as a criminal informant.
He enjoyed the last eight months. He’d integrated into the team well. Even found a Nazi submarine of all things.
He hoped Littlewing and his Robin were enjoying the history and art he’d dug out of the ocean. He thought they would anyway.
Neal sighed.
One thing he hadn’t liked about White Collar was the mortgage fraud. How was there always more?
It was the afternoon, two, maybe three, when a tall man with a slightly baggy suit and crooked glasses entered the Manhattan White Collar Crimes Division.
Neal didn’t notice. People came and went all the time.
Clark Kent carried a notepad, a coffee from the deli across the street, and wore an earnest smile that tended to disarm even the most suspicious people.
“I’m here to see Agent Peter Burke,” he said to one of the passing agents. “Clark Kent, Daily Planet. Do you know…?”
The agent pointed him towards Peter, who was discussing a case with Diana near her desk.
Peter looked up as Clark approached. “Kent, right?” He asked, catching sight of his press badge, extending his hand. “You wanted to talk about the Nazi submarine case.”
Clark shook the offered hand with another honest smile. “Yes! It made headlines everywhere, and the Daily Planet would love to hear about how that was made possible.”
Peter smiled. He was being considered for Washington because of that case. No other case made headlines that big in the entire history of the division. “Well, that has a lot to do with our CI, Neal Caffrey. We couldn’t have done it without him.”
“Yes, I’ve heard a bit about him, which is another reason I’d like to talk with you. I’m writing a piece on prison reform and rehabilitation initiatives. I thought he and his handler might make a great focus.”
Peter grinned. “Neal does love an audience.”
Peter turned slightly, now facing the open bullpen. “Caffrey!” He called.
Neal’s head shot up and looked towards the voice, and nearly choked.
Because standing next to his handler, clear as day, was a man he hadn’t seen in over a year.
A man who knew him. Not Neal.
Neal smoothed his expression before standing, grabbing a file from his desk to sell the illusion of calm. He walked over, easy as ever, charm painted across his face like it was natural.
“Neal Caffrey,” he said, offering his hand and a tense smile as he cut off Clark’s startled exclamation.
Clark was slow to take his hand, and he lingered just a second too long. His wide eyes blue eyes, thoughtful, familiar, studied him like he was flipping through pages of a file no one else could read.
“Clark Kent,” He offered belatedly. “Nice to meet you.”
Peter glanced between the two strangely. The reporter, Clark, had been all smiles as he greeted him, but when faced with Caffrey, he lost his smile and welcoming tone. And Neal… Neal was tense and ready to bolt.
Peter gestured toward the conference room. “We can talk in here. Diana’s got the case files if you need any background info, but I figured you’d want the personal angle.”
Clark nodded distractedly, still staring at Neal. “Always do.”
They stepped inside. Peter sat on one side of the table, Clark the opposite, and Neal took the seat next to Peter, just far enough from Clark to feel in control. He leaned back, resting an ankle on his knee.
“So,” Clark began, fully back in reported mode as he flipped open his notepad. “A former art thief turned FBI consultant finds a Nazi submarine full of priceless lost art. That’s quite a headline. Can I ask what drove you to cooperate?”
Neal smiled smoothly. “A sense of civic duty. Or maybe I just got tired of cement walls. You pick.”
Peter huffed a quiet laugh.
Clark jotted something down. “And the escape from maximum security prison? Some would say that undermines your rehabilitation narrative.”
Neal arched a brow. “Some would say it’s part of what made me valuable.”
“Mm.” Clark smiled, but as he wrote in his little notebook, his smile dropped. “So I’ve heard some big rummers about you and a stolen Raphael? Do you have anything you’d like on the record about that?”
Neal’s eyes narrowed. “Unproven.” He grinned his Caffrey grin.
Clark’s smile never faltered, his eyes did narrow, though. “Of course. Hypothetically speaking, if someone’s father was, say, a detective with strong opinions of justice, but a complicated history of looking the other way for loved ones… would that explain the leniency in sentencing?”
Peter’s eyes narrowed and his teeth ground as he examined the two once again. They knew each other. Without a doubt. “We’re not here to rehash his trial.” He said to attempt to break the tension.
Clark lifted a hand. “Right, right. Just… curious. Family support can go a long way.”
Neal leaned back in his chair, jaw tight. “My father’s dead. Long time ago. You know that.” Neal knew Peter had already figured out they knew each other and decided to drop the show.
“Of course,” Clark said lightly. Then, “And how would Bruce feel about all this?”
The silence that followed felt as though it lasted an eternity. Peter had leaned back, subconsciously attempting to extricate himself from the simmering whatever the hell was going on here.
Neal didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He knew Clark would break long before he did.
“Sorry,” Clark smiled kindly. “We don’t need to go there, I know you’ve always been independent, Richard.”
Peter looked between them once again. “Wait- Richard?”
Clark gave a sheepish shrug. Which was a total lie because he did that completely on purpose. He must have been angrier than he let on. “Sorry. Don’t mind me. Sometimes names get all jumbled in the brain.”
Dick sighed, letting go of the last of the Caffrey posture, shifting his ankle off his knee. He sighed, dropping the smooth tone he always used. “You know I prefer Dick.”
“Wh-” Peter began.
“Dick is short for Richard; it only sounds back in English.” Dick interrupted preemptively. “Let’s just get this over with, Clark, we can talk about the rest in private.” He gave his best bat-glare.
Clark dropped his own fake smile and leaned forward. “Do you have any idea what’s been going on with your family?”
“I have a great idea,” Dick replied easily. “It’s going perfectly fine.”
Clark didn’t seem ready to drop it, though. “You even miss it? The spotlight? The city?”
Dick’s smile returned. Tighter, sharper, but practiced. “Some people outgrow the circus.”
Clark leaned forward. His stare boring into him. “And some just paint their faces a little differently.”
Neal rose, straightening the cuffs on his jacket. “Well, Clark, I hope you got what you needed.”
Clark stood too. “I did. Thanks for your time.”
Dick stood in the doorway, about to re-enter the bullpen, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“One last question,” Clark said. “Do you really think this is who you are now?”
Neal didn’t hesitate.
“I’m retired.”
Neal re-entered the bullpen and sat at his desk like nothing had happened, leaving behind a confused FBI agent and a betrayed hero.
It had been only a week since “the incident,” as Peter had come to think of it.
The reporter left quickly that afternoon and later emailed a draft of the article, asking for any additional quotes or input Peter might have.
Peter still didn’t understand what had happened in that conference room. His CI’s name was Richard, or rather, Dick, and his father (dead father, Bruce?) was some kind of detective. Something about a circus?
To put it simply, Peter was confused.
He knew his friend—or CI—was a complicated man. He’d lived his life on the run, lying about everything, including his name. But Peter had thought he had the right one when he arrested him.
Neal (or was it Dick?) was even less helpful than usual; he refused to so much as look at Peter when he brought up the topic.
Meanwhile, Dick was still trying to shake off the lingering anxiety from the interview. Clarked had declined a private meeting, Dick was partially grateful and partially anxious.
He knew Clark wouldn’t keep this secret it was only a matter of time until someone else came.
As if summoned by his anxious thoughts, the glass doors to the office banged open, revealing a lean young man with Black hair wearing an expensive suit.
Tim Drake-Wayne stepped inside, jaw tight, eyes hard, cold fire blazing behind them.
He walked purposefully through the office, stopping abruptly in front of Dick’s desk.
“Thought I’d find you here,” Tim said, voice clipped, words sharper than glass.
Dick didn’t bother to look up. “You always do.”
“You can’t keep doing this,” Tim said, folding his arms, voice low.
Dick still didn’t look up. “Doing what?”
“This,” Tim gestured vaguely at the bullpen and his desk. “Running away. Just like last time. When we needed you. Pretending the past never happened. Pretending we don’t matter.” Tim hissed.
Dick’s jaw tightened. “I’m not running.”
Tim took a slow breath, then leaned forward, practically whispering. “You left. You left Gotham, the family, the fight. You gave up being Robin, being Nightwing-” Tim cut himself off. “You left us.” His voice was suddenly weak.
“I needed to stop,” Dick finally said. “Stop bleeding, stop falling, stop carrying everything.”
Tim shook his head. “That’s not how it works. The- I need you.”
Dick finally met his brother’s eyes. “I’m so tired, Tim.”
“And so am I.” Tim’s voice cracked with honesty. “But that’s not a good enough reason to walk away.”
There was a long pause. Tim’s face softened. “Come back. I need my brother.” Tim saw he wasn’t getting anywhere and changed tactics. “The little demon needs his brother.” A crack in the mask, but not enough. “You have a responsibility.” Time tried one last time.
Dick swallowed hard. “I don’t. It never should have been my responsibility. It shouldn’t have been yours either.”
Tim flinched back. “You know that’s not how it works.”
“It doesn’t matter Babybird. I’m retired.”
Tim’s eyes narrowed, the fire flickering but not dying.
“Retired?” He echoed, disbelief lacing every syllable.
“You think this is retirement? Walking away from everything you built? You’re running, Dick. Running from yourself.”
Dick shook his head. “I’m living for myself now. Not anyone else. I’m done carrying it all. I like this, I get to help people still, but I get to go home every night, it’s simple.”
The bullpen was near silent as the agents froze in place to watch a random kid tear into the room and snarl quietly with their resident, kinda reformed criminal, before storming out, wiping his face as he walked out the door.
The White Collar office had hung in a strange tension the day following “the other incident”. Most gave the young con man a wide berth as the current rumor going around was that Neal had organized crime roots.
The moments following would be all the proof that most of the office would need.
The hum of the White Collar bullpen shattered with a sharp crack as the glass in the floor-to-ceiling window exploded inward. Shards rained down like rain.
Heads snapped up, agents floundering, as a figure dropped into the room. Sturdy boots hit the floor hard, leather jacket flaring, showing twin pistols in holsters. The red helmet shone as the man stood tall, eyes burning with cold fire.
Dick’s eyes locked on him, narrowing but calm, he knew his Littlewing wouldn’t be able to help himself. Without rising, he said, “That’s one hell of an entrance, kid. We don’t get many uninvited guests this far off the ground.”
The Red Hood’s gaze swept the room. “Why are you here?” Hood asked as he strolled the room casually, as if taking in the cluttered desks and scent of bureaucracy.
“No one here needs you.” The voice was distorted through the helmet, but it was clear to everyone that his voice practically dripped with bitterness and anger. “You know… You’re nowhere to be found where it counts. Time and time again. Never there.”
Dick rose slowly, hands raised in mock surrender. “I did the best I could. I’m doing what I can here. The FBI needs me. Problems don’t stop at Gotham’s border.”
Jason stepped closer, voice low but sharp. “No, they don’t. You made that choice, Dick. You walked away from us. From the fight. It isn’t something you hang up when you get tired!”
Dick met his gaze evenly. “And you made your choice, too. To keep fighting in your way. Good for you.”
Hood’s voice dropped into an even deeper growl. “That’s different. I still stayed. You don’t get to just- just fuck off and leave. I’m not letting you gallop off into the sunset and leave us behind!”
Dick’s voice was calm, resolute. “I’m not asking you to. I’m asking for the same respect. I’m retired.”
Hood’s disbelief was clear. “Retired? So that’s it? You just fucking disappear?”
“No,” Dick said firmly. “I choose this life now. Not rooftops, not shadows. But something else. Something I can live with.”
Hood’s voice got quieter. “You owe us, Dick.”
“I know,” Dick said quietly. “But I owe myself, too.”
Hood finally stepped back toward the shattered window.
“Don’t forget what you owe,” he warned, voice low.
With a final glance, Hood vaulted through the broken glass and disappeared into the city’s darkness.
The room fell silent.
Peter Burke finally broke it, voice tense, curious. “What the hell was that?”
Dick ran a hand through his hair, a tired smile tugging at his lips. “That was Red Hood. My brother.”
Peter blinked, processing the revelation. “Red Hood? Brother?”
Dick nodded. “It’s complicated.”
Peter’s gaze sharpened. “And the retired part?”
Dick’s smile turned rueful. “I’m retired.”
The entire office waited with baited breath for the next visitor. Diana, Jones, Peter, and several other agents had attempted to get information from Dick over the past few days.
Peter’s attempt had been the most memorable; he’d dragged Dick into an interrogation room for hours. Dick hadn’t used any of his Caffrey charm the entire time—he sat silently, staring forward blandly. Not defiant. Not smug. Just… absent.
It unnerved Peter more than anything else ever had.
By day four, the bullpen was jumpier than a wiretap operation. No one said it out loud, but everyone was waiting for the next explosion—figurative or literal. So when the elevator dinged in the middle of the day, chairs creaked and heads turned.
No glass shattered this time. No dramatic entrances. No red helmets, just a teenager wearing a turtleneck and dress pants.
Not unusual on its own, rich victims came and went all day, but the click of polished shoes on tile was too controlled. Too confident. Too precise. Too deliberate.
Dick glanced up from his paperwork. As the hair on his neck stood up.
A boy, no more than fifteen, strode into the bullpen. Black-on-black attire with spiky black hair and a hint of a tan. His presence was sharp enough to cut through the ambient noise of phones ringing and agents murmuring.
Peter stepped out of his office just in time to intercept him. “Hey, are you waiting for anyone?” The kid didn’t answer. “Can I help you find someone?” The kid sidsteped him with a glare. “You can’t just walk in here, this is a federal-”
“I’m not here for you,” Damian said coldly, not even sparing him a glance. “I’m here for him.”
Dick stood with a quiet sigh. “I should’ve known you’d be next.”
Damian stopped in front of him. “Baba.”
The word wasn’t soft. It was an accusation.
There was a beat of silence, sharp, pressurized.
“You left.” Damian’s voice was cold, but the edges frayed with something rawer. “You left me.”
Dick’s mouth opened slightly. “Dami—”
“You told me I wasn’t alone anymore.” The kid’s voice wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t soft either. “You told me I had a brother. A family.” His arms crossed, defensively sharp. “You lied.”
“I needed to step away.” Dick’s voice was gentle. “It wasn’t about you.”
“You were the only one I trusted,” Damian snapped, too fast, too harsh. “The only one who didn’t look at me like I was still… After father. I trusted you.”
Dick swallowed. “It wasn’t about you abni. It wasn’t your fault.”
Damian looked furious, but underneath, he clearly felt brittle. “I don’t care about your reasons.”
Dick looked away.
“I would’ve followed you anywhere,” Damian said, voice lower now. “I did. I believed in you. You left me to play criminal.” His gaze swept the bullpen with disgust. “You traded us for this.”
Dick exhaled shakily. “I made my choice.”
“And what? That means I don’t matter anymore?”
“No,” Dick said. “It means I finally chose me for once.”
That stopped Damian. His brows furrowed, like the idea physically didn’t make sense to him.
“I never got to choose,” he said. “None of us did.”
“I know,” Dick said. “And I hate that. But I’m done bleeding for a city that doesn’t know how to stop taking. I gave it everything I had. And then it asked for more. You know this work isn’t sustainable. We both know that no one can do it forever. I chose to retire while I still have a life to live.”
Silence stretched between them. Damian’s expression was unreadable, rage and grief and a child's pain barely hidden behind a soldier’s mask.
“…You said you’d always be there.”
“I meant it,” Dick said. “And I still am-”
“But you’re not!” Damian turned sharply away, leaving the office just as quickly as he’d come under the cover of a smoke pellet.
Peter, who’d been standing awkwardly behind the nearest filing cabinet like it might shield him from emotional shrapnel, finally cleared his throat.
“Okay,” he said. “So… uh. What the hell was that?”
Dick didn’t turn around.
“My little brother.”
“Right,” Peter said. “And the ‘Baba’ thing?”
Dick gave a tired smile. “It’s what he called me when I raised him for a while.”
Peter blinked. “You raised that?”
Dick’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Considering everything? He’s not so bad.”
The next time a visitor showed up it was much quieter. Just a man in a T-shirt and jeans with bright red hair, walking rather quickly with purpose. He had a cup of coffee in one hand and something unreadable in his eyes.
Peter stood halfway from his desk.
Jones leaned toward Diana. “You think this one’s gonna throw a smoke bomb?”
She gave him a look. “Honestly? At this point, I’m hoping for a normal bomb.”
The man nodded to reception but didn’t stop. He looked around for a split second before walking straight toward Dick’s desk and setting the coffee down in front of him.
Dick didn’t look up. “So it’s gotten outside the family then?”
“Yeah,” the man said. “Then Jason said if I didn’t, he’d break another window. So.”
Dick finally lifted his eyes. “You chose the lesser evil?”
The man snorted. “I chose the quietest plane ride on daddy’s dime.”
Peter, now confused but no longer surprised, stepped forward. “And you are?”
The man turned just enough to give Peter a flat, vaguely amused look. “A friend. Don’t worry. I’m not here to punch him.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “That’s been happening more than you’d think.”
Dick, finally, smiled—just a little.
Roy leaned on the edge of the desk. “What’s with the fed cosplay, by the way?”
“Trying it on,” Dick said, tone unreadable. “Seeing if it fits.”
Roy grunted, examining his nails. “Doesn’t.”
Dick shrugged. “Maybe not. Still better than Kevlar and a target on my chest.”
“You always had a target on your chest,” Roy muttered. “Even as a civilian, we both did.”
Silence stretched between them.
Then Roy’s voice dropped. “You really not coming back?”
“I made my choice,” Dick said.
“And now you think you get to stick with it?”
“I know I do,” Dick said, quiet but firm. “You made yours. I didn’t like it. But I respected it.” He referenced him leaving the team.
Roy looked away. “Yeah, well. My choice was sane.”
“And mine's not?” Dick said.
Another pause.
Roy exhaled through his nose, something like resentment and reluctant understanding twisting behind his eyes.
“You always were the moral compass,” he muttered.
“And I’m telling you now,” Dick said, “it’s pointing away from that life.”
Roy stood. “Fine. Run from the mess. Let someone else deal with the damage.”
“I did my time. I’m retired now.”
Roy didn’t argue that. He just nodded once and turned to go.
Peter stepped forward again. “Wait. Who was that?”
Dick leaned back in his chair, the coffee still untouched. “My friend.”
Peter blinked. “Not another brother?”
Dick huffed a quiet laugh. “Well, there’s still more of those. But no. This one’s just someone who stuck around anyway.”
The sky above Manhattan shimmered.
It started as a heat haze—barely noticeable, like rising steam off blacktop. But then the clouds twisted into geometric spirals, unnatural patterns folding in on themselves like a kaleidoscope spun too fast.
The first ship appeared in silence. Sleek. Silver. Watching.
By the time the second tore open the sky with sound like shearing metal, most of the city had already frozen.
Peter slammed the office window shut as the sirens started. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Dick was already on his feet, eyes locked on the skyline. “That’s not local.”
“No,” Peter muttered, his hand still hovering over his holstered weapon as if he could do something. “And that’s not normal, either.”
At that moment, the news alerts began flooding in. Every screen flickered. Phones, monitors, the wall-mounted TVs in the bullpen.
ALIEN PRESENCE IN MANHATTAN
EVACUATION PROTOCOLS BEGINNING IN LOWER EAST SIDE
HERO SIGHTINGS REPORTED NEAR WILLIAMSBURG BRIDGE
GOTHAM VIGILANTIES REPORTED ON SCENE
And then the broadcast changed. A live feed, shaky, panicked, but it got the message through.
A red cape blurred across the screen. A flash of green. A streak of yellow.
And at the center of it, standing in front of the charging alien vanguard, Red Robin, mask on, cape fluttering in the wind, very much not subtle.
Dick swore under his breath.
Tim ducked under a blast of energy, turning slightly toward the camera and yelling into his earpiece, loud enough to be picked up by the hovering news drone.
“We’re pushing them west! Toward the financial district! Repeat, west! They need to see that New York has defenders too!”
It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t even coded as most directions were during a battle.
Dick stepped back from the window, jaw clenched.
He was already pulling off his tie jacket and tie when the window to white collar shattered again, only this time a duffle bag was thrown through after.
Dick ran forward, snatching the bag and stripping off his shirt in the same moment. Next, he shed his pants right there in the middle of the office. He’d never been one to be shy; an alien invasion only added to the urgency. His cover was well and truly blown anyway.
He tugged on his ankle braces and the legs of his suit in record time; his shoulder brace and the arms were next, and then the zip.
Dick stood fully, enjoying the shock on Peter’s face as he took in the blue bird across his chest and the fingerstripes. Dick grinned as he settled his mask across his eyes and ran for the window, shooting the grapple as he jumped.