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The conference room felt wrong.
Not in any obvious way — the lights weren’t flickering, the windows weren’t cracked, the thermostat wasn’t broken. But the air had a weight to it, a pressure that settled low in the chest. A heaviness that didn’t belong in a room usually filled with Neal Caffrey’s effortless charm and restless energy.
Today, Neal sat perfectly still.
He was at the far end of the table, but he felt miles away. His posture was rigid, shoulders drawn tight beneath his crisp shirt, spine straight as if bracing for impact. His hands — normally expressive, graceful, always in motion — were frozen around a small printed photograph. His knuckles were white, the tendons in his hands standing out sharply beneath pale skin.
The lights overhead hummed, casting a cold, sterile glow that made the shadows under his eyes look deeper than usual. His hair was slightly mussed, like he’d run his hands through it too many times earlier in the morning. His tie was crooked — Neal’s tie was never crooked. Even his breathing seemed off, too shallow, too quiet, as if he were trying to take up as little space as possible.
Peter didn’t notice at first. He was pacing, marker in hand, voice sharp as he tried to force the case into submission. Diana was tapping her pen with increasing irritation. Jones was leaning back in his chair, watching the room with the wary patience of someone waiting for a storm to break.
But eventually, the silence became impossible to ignore.
“Neal,” Peter said, expecting a smirk. “Thoughts?”
The silence that followed wasn’t just quiet — it was hollow. It swallowed the sound of Peter’s voice and left nothing behind. It was the kind of silence that made the hair on the back of your neck rise.
Jones leaned forward, his chair creaking. “Hey, man. You good?”
Still nothing. Neal didn’t even twitch. His eyes were fixed on the photograph, unblinking, as if he were staring through it into some distant memory.
Diana’s voice softened, though her brow stayed furrowed. “Neal… say something.”
He didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Didn’t react at all.
Peter stepped closer, irritation fading into something quieter, something uneasy. “Neal?”
That’s when he saw the photo.
A teenage boy. Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Dark hair. Bright eyes. A smile that radiated mischief and warmth — the kind of smile that made you want to protect it. The kind of smile that made you think the world wasn’t as cruel as it really was.
The edges of the photo were worn, frayed, softened by time and touch. Like someone had held it through sleepless nights. Like someone had carried it through grief.
Peter’s voice dropped. “Who is he?”
Neal didn’t answer.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t move.
It was like he’d turned to stone.
Peter’s frustration snapped. “If you’re not going to help, you can wait outside. We don’t have time for—”
The door slammed open.
The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot. Papers fluttered. Diana flinched. Jones reached instinctively for his holster. The fluorescent lights flickered for a split second, as if startled by the sudden movement.
Seven figures stormed in — fast, coordinated, purposeful. Teens and young adults, each radiating a different flavor of intensity. Fear. Anger. Determination. Love. Their presence hit the room like a physical force, shifting the air, tightening the space, making the conference table suddenly feel too small.
Damian reached Neal first.
He moved with the precision of someone trained to assess threats in a heartbeat. His boots barely made a sound on the floor as he cut a straight path toward Neal, his expression carved from stone. His eyes flicked briefly toward Peter, sharp and assessing, before he dismissed him entirely.
“Move,” he said, voice low and commanding.
Peter stepped back without thinking.
Tim stumbled in behind Damian, breathless, his hair slightly disheveled as if he’d run the entire way. His eyes were wide, frantic, scanning Neal’s face with a mixture of fear and guilt. His hands shook as he pushed them through his hair, trying to steady himself.
“Dad — Bruce — why didn’t you answer your phone?”
His voice cracked on the last word, raw and desperate.
Steph and Cass were already at Neal’s side. Cass moved like water, silent and fluid, lowering herself into a crouch beside Neal with a grace that made the agents blink. She didn’t speak — she didn’t need to. Her hand hovered near his knee, close enough to offer grounding, far enough not to overwhelm. Her eyes were soft, reading every micro‑twitch of his muscles, every tremor in his breath.
Steph placed a steadying hand on Neal’s shoulder, her thumb rubbing small, soothing circles. Her expression was soft but firm, the kind of look someone used when they were trying to coax a loved one back from a dark place. She leaned in slightly, her presence warm and steady, a quiet anchor in the chaos.
Dick arrived next, skidding to a stop with the momentum of someone who had sprinted through half the city. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his eyes bright with panic and relief all at once. Sweat clung to his hairline, and his hands trembled as he braced himself on the back of a chair.
“We’ve been calling you for hours,” he said, voice trembling. “Hours. I left so many voicemails I started sounding like a worried soccer mom.”
The attempt at humor didn’t land — not because it wasn’t funny, but because the grief in the room swallowed it whole.
Peter blinked, trying to process the scene unfolding in front of him. “Dad? Bruce?”
Neal — Bruce — finally looked up.
And the transformation was immediate.
The façade of Neal Caffrey — the charm, the polish, the effortless confidence — fell away like a mask slipping from trembling fingers. What remained was raw, unguarded grief. His eyes were hollow, rimmed with exhaustion, the kind of exhaustion that came from years of carrying a weight too heavy for one person.
His voice, when it came, was barely more than breath.
“I didn’t want to… interrupt your day.”
The words trembled as they left him, as if speaking them cost him something. His shoulders sagged, the tension in his spine faltering for the first time.
Tim’s expression softened instantly. He took a small step closer, his movements careful, like approaching a wounded animal. “You’re not interrupting anything.”
Bruce swallowed hard. His fingers tightened around the photograph until the paper crinkled. His shoulders rose and fell in a shaky breath, the kind that rattled in the chest.
“I thought I could… manage. Just for today.”
The last word broke in half.
Jones whispered under his breath, “What the hell…”
Then Jason stepped forward.
He had been lingering near the back of the group, as if unsure whether he had the right to approach. But now he moved slowly, deliberately, each step heavy with emotion. His shoulders were tense, his jaw clenched, his eyes locked on the photograph in Bruce’s hands.
Older now. Broader. Scarred. But unmistakably the boy in the photo.
Bruce’s breath hitched — a small, broken sound that cracked something in the room.
“Jay,” he whispered, voice raw. “Jay…”
Jason froze mid‑step. His breath stuttered, his eyes shining with something fragile and painful. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening.
“Don’t—don’t say it like that.”
Bruce’s voice broke open, the words spilling out like a confession he’d been holding back for years. “I’m sorry. I just… I see you, and I still—” His breath trembled. “I still remember the last time I held you.”
Jason’s face crumpled. His breath hitched, sharp and painful. “B…”
Then he collapsed into Bruce’s arms.
Not gracefully. Not dramatically. Just… collapsed. Like his legs gave out under the weight of everything he’d carried.
Bruce caught him instantly, pulling him close, burying his face in Jason’s hair. His hands trembled as they curled into the back of Jason’s jacket, gripping like he was afraid Jason might slip away again.
“I’m here,” Bruce whispered, voice shaking. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”
Jason clung to him, burying his face in Bruce’s shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Bruce’s shoulders shook once — a violent, involuntary tremor. The kind that came from a wound that never fully healed.
Cass leaned in, resting her forehead against Bruce’s shoulder. Her eyes were closed, her breathing steady, grounding him with her presence. Her hand found Bruce’s arm, gentle but firm, a silent promise of support.
Dick wrapped an arm around both Bruce and Jason, pulling them close. His voice was thick with emotion. “We’ve got you. We’ve always got you.”
Damian hovered stiffly for a moment, his hands clenched at his sides. Then he stepped forward, pressing his forehead to Bruce’s temple. His voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of sincerity.
“Father.”
Bruce let out a shaky breath, the sound catching in his throat. “I should’ve called you. All of you. I just… I didn’t want to be a burden.”
Dick’s voice cracked. “You’re never a burden.”
Tim placed a hand on Bruce’s back, steady and warm. “We’ve seen you at your worst. We’re still here.”
Steph squeezed in, her hand finding Jason’s shoulder. “You don’t have to be strong today.”
Bruce closed his eyes. “I don’t feel strong.”
Jason tightened his grip. “You don’t have to.”
The huddle tightened — a knot of grief and love and history binding itself together in the middle of an FBI conference room.
The agents stared, stunned, silent. None of them dared to move. None of them dared to speak.
Peter finally found his voice. “Someone explain. Now.”
Tim looked up, eyes red but steady. “Neal Caffrey isn’t Neal Caffrey.”
Dick added, “He’s Bruce Wayne.”
Jason sniffed. “And Batman. Don’t forget that part.”
Diana blinked, her pen frozen in her hand. “He’s who?”
Damian scoffed, not even looking at her. “Your comprehension skills are lacking.”
Jason elbowed him. “Not now, demon.”
Tim continued, voice soft but firm. “Today is the anniversary of my brother’s death. Jason. He—” Tim swallowed. “He died when he was fifteen.”
Jones looked at the photo in Bruce’s hand. “That’s him?”
Jason nodded, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve. “Yeah. That’s me. Before.”
Steph added quietly, “Bruce was the one who found him.”
Silence fell again — heavy, suffocating, reverent.
Bruce finally lifted his head, eyes wet. “I found him,” he whispered. “I found my son. And I couldn’t… I couldn’t save him.”
Jason grabbed his face gently, forcing Bruce to meet his eyes. “B. Look at me. You did save me. Just… not the first time.”
Bruce let out a broken laugh — a sound full of pain and love. “You always were stubborn.”
Jason huffed. “Wonder where I got that from.”
Bruce pulled him close again, pressing his forehead to Jason’s. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Jason whispered, “Me too.”
Bruce looked at the rest of his children, his voice barely steady. “All of you… thank you. For coming. For finding me.”
Dick squeezed his shoulder. “Always.”
Tim nodded. “We’re family.”
Damian murmured, “We protect our own.”
Cass pressed her forehead to his. “Always.”
Bruce exhaled, long and shaky. “I thought I could handle today alone. I was wrong.”
Jason leaned into him. “That’s why we’re here.”
And for once, Bruce didn’t argue.