Work Text:
Keller swept his arm to encompass the dimly lit barroom, inviting the bar’s occupants to get a good look at the place his other arm was pointed at: the subject of his increasingly loud rant, which had lasted the last couple of minutes and had shown no sign of stopping.
It hadn’t been a rant, though -- more like a call to arms to gather their weapons, to skewer this traitorous conman who dared to leave his shady-ass occupation to be a helpful elf for the FBI.
Dick regarded Keller with a blank look, wholly unamused by the uncalled-for dramatic gesture.
The bar’s occupants glanced at each other, unsure why this buffoon tried to rally a bunch of people to gank this poor guy, on a Tuesday. "Chill Tuesday ," no less.
Inconveniently, half of the bar-goers looked contemplatively at Dick, as if weighing whether a little maiming was worth the potential bar fight and bruises.
Even more inconvenient were the people who nodded along to Keller’s speech.
“Aren't you afraid to be recognized as the traitor you are and getting killed?” Keller asked loudly.
Dick raised an eyebrow at Keller‘s obvious manipulation and continued to stare at him, half amused and half annoyed at his attempt to stir up the crowd. Keller probably knew that he was on an FBI sting, being outside his radius was a dead giveaway, and Keller therefore couldn’t actually lay a hand on Dick. Instead he tried to get the crowd to do it.
For some reason, two guys sitting at a table behind Keller almost fell out of their chairs, looking mildly terrified…not of Keller (who just alluded to a plan to potentially kill him in the future) but of Dick, who was casually sipping a fruity monstrosity, like he was the Devil in a three-piece suit slurping souls of the innocent.
Unfortunately, Dick couldn't just ignore Keller. That would come to bite him in his expensively clothed behind sooner rather than later. In this case probably imminently, judging by the grins of some patrons. Not all patrons, thankfully. It would be majorly inconvenient if an entire bar decided he would make a fine punching bag.
The two groups closest to him – the ones almost falling out of their chairs, and some patrons at the bar a few seats down – looked respectively uneasy and curious but not murderous. Thus a win for Dick.
Nonetheless, Dick couldn't use another persona to distract them or do a gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss – Keller obviously knew who he was, so no talking himself out of this situation.
And he couldn’t beat Keller up (probably along with half of the bar) since the FBI was breathing down his neck by listening in.
Dick could make a break for it. But such an anticlimactic exit was neither Neal’s style ( base jumping from a building? Sure. Running out a back door? Hell no. ) nor fun or thrilling ( Don’t look at me like that, Bruce. You literally jump-scare every person you come across ).
Also, the FBI’s mark hadn’t shown up yet. Dick could still complete this operation. He only needed to place a bug in the mark’s pocket. He could do that while Keller drew their contemptuous gazes towards him.
Speaking of which, Keller crossed his arms over his chest and turned a piercing glare on Dick. “A con man turned snitch, or is it ‘FBI consultant’? What are you doing outside your radius? Spying on someone?”
A plan to stall Keller took shape in Dick’s head. He was ready to rise to Keller’s challenge, when suddenly, one of the three patrons sitting at the bar counter – let’s call them… Huey, Dewey and Louie – spoke up:
“What are you talking about? Conman for law enforcement?” "Huey" chugged his beer in one go and leveled an exasperated look at Keller. “I’d bet he doesn't even know in which state he is in right now, never mind being able to spy on someone.”
The man’s friends snickered into their beers. Keller started to retort but was unanimously ignored as they busied themselves with their phones.
Dick could only raise his eyebrows in surprise. Isn't this a bit familiar? Too familiar?
Keller tried to get his momentum back. “Someone like you, who can’t even stomach killing when someone stands in his way. And then sabotaging the heist. You're a weakling. We could have split the money, you know. But you got us caught.”
”Weak?“ Louie, remembering something exhausting, sighed heavily. “Not with this trapeze-like ceiling, he isn't.”
“‘Can’t stomach killing’?” One of the two patrons – ehh, Jim and John? – sitting at the table behind Keller chimed in, bewildered. “Didn't he gank that cartel last month, 'cause they made a comment about his nephew? What’s weak ‘bout tha’? His love for his family?”
Keller turned slightly at that comment.
“I don’t think we're talking about the same person. This guy –” Keller pointed at Neal “– may know how to shoot a gun. But a cartel?!” He scoffed. ”I assure you, he'd be dead in less than ten seconds. He doesn't like killing.”
The ducklings descended into a round of unhinged laughter, startling Keller.
“D-did you hear that?!? T-tell me you heard that!” Louie slapped the counter trying to not fall off the chair laughing.
Intrigued by the noise, another man came over, casually leaning on the bar beside Dick.
“Yeah, man. ‘Knows how to shoot a gun’?” Dewey agreed. “Hahaha… this is hilarious.”
At the confused faces around him, Huey elaborated, wheezing: “The last time he was holding a gun. H-he…”
“He threw it, I kid you not. He threw it at Black Mask .” Dewey finished chuckling before all three broke out again into full-bellied laughter.
“No, what?” John exclaimed. “Black Mask would have killed him for that!”
“Ah.” The man who recently joined Dick at the bar – call him Gary – spoke up. “That’s who you're talking about.”
“Pah! Who are you talking about?! The only thing Richard knows how to do is his super-comfortable hug.” Dewey corrected John indignantly.
“Both are true.” Gary said knowingly.
Keller wasn’t the only one who didn’t know what to say to that. Because, honestly, what?!
Keller’s eye twitched. But not discouraged, he continued: “Where’s your minder? Did you get off your leash?”
Dick had to hold back a snort; these insults were pretty lame. Even Alfred could come up with better ones.
”Minder…?” Dewey flinched. “Don’t fucking tell me he's here as well. I can’t deal with both of them in a room.”
“God, you're right! Imagine their antics.” Louie agreed.
“Or the property damage. I’d get the hell outta Dodge,” Jim whispered to his friend.
“I’d say it depends on the place and time, whether you get family stories or champagne chugged all over,” Gary chuckled. He was ignored.
Dick blinked, confused. What was that guy implying?
“Fuck, what happened to Chill Tuesday? I don’t want to think about this stuff!” John groaned.
The J-duo shared a short glance and shuddered. “Yeah, no. He is lethal with a gun. And he doesn’t even need it because any weapon he gets his hands on will decimate you! I was there, thankfully out of the line of fire. But yeah.”
Keller’s eyebrows vanished in his hairline. He huffed his disdain, leveling a glare at the two.
“That’s laughable, we already went over this. The only thing that traitor has going for him are his looks. And who knows, maybe those are fabricated along with his entire charming character.”
Dick couldn’t help himself. He gaped at Keller: “Did you just insinuate I got plastic surgery?!”
Dick would have let these people talk and forget that he was there while he slipped away. But such an attack on his circus-boy-turned-trust-fund-kid pride!? That was outstandingly rude. Even if Keller couldn’t know that, he just got boosted to the top of his "tell Stephanie about it" shit list.
Keller only shot a smug look his way. “Why wouldn’t I be right? Who would believe you ?”
“Sorry, man.” Dewey chimed in, shaking his head apologetically. “But he didn’t have any surgery done.”
“ How would you know? ” Keller demanded indignantly. Why did these people always contradict him? “The smaller operations only leave small scars, or none at all. Therefore my p-”
“ Still no.” Huey raised a challenging eyebrow. “I've known this kid since he was, what, nine? ten? And we'd have noticed if he got any surgery at all. ”
“There could have been a fat removal operation, at least, or there could be – And what do you mean, you've known him since he was nine ?!”
“Also a no.” Louie snorted. “His body's the same as ever.”
“ What ?” Keller snapped.
“Aquarium scandals, dude.” Dewey shrugged. “Aquariums. At least twice a year over the whole time I’ve known him.”
“And he likes those cropped rainbow tops.” Huey tagged on. “They don’t hide much.”
Keller turned and looked Dick up and down. “Rainbow tops?!”
“LGBTQ+ is a thing.” Dick explained. “Why wouldn’t I support them?”
“Of course you support them.” Huey raised an eyebrow. “But that has nothing to do with your horrible choice in clothing.”
“That’s not true!” Dick gasped, mock-hurt. “I have a perfectly whelming avant-garde wardrobe. You're just uncultured.”
Huey looked unimpressed, reaching out to snatch Dewey’s phone out of his hands, ignoring a surprised exclamation and tapping rapidly on it. After a few seconds he flipped the phone around, showing something to Dick.
Keller tried to get a glimpse but it wasn’t necessary. The picture was turned towards him soon after.
“As I said,” Dick continued, as if the picture had not burned out Keller’s eyes, ”I see nothing wrong with it.”
Keller, who was used to him wearing suits and only suits, had to gather his bearings after seeing the picture of him in a neon – neon – floral-print shirt, paired with colorful striped shorts, sandals, and socks, as well as a cap proclaiming “Off with their heads” — Queen of Hearts Red Hood and heart-shaped sunglasses.
The next picture wasn’t better. Who would have thought the ducklings would save and file all of Richie Grayson’s recent appearances into their respective directories with time stamps and everything: "the Richie fashion disaster" and the classic "Richard ‘Boy Hostage’ Grayson" were only a few of the memorable ones.
Dick really had missed his fellow Gothamites. New York was great, but it was missing flair.
So. Much. Flair.
Only Gothamites could potentially expose him at his undercover FBI job to some villain who would like to see him dead, by showing said criminal pictures of him in colorful outfits while discussing plastic surgery.
Dick sighed. Ah, good times.
In the meantime Keller’s confusion was increasing steadily. The person in the pictures might look like Caffrey. It was not Caffrey. He knew that with absolute certainty.
Otherwise Neal was strolling around in Gotham – Neal the weakling in Gotham. Isn’t that a wild thought – while actually being in prison (or being into BDSM like the pictures in that one folder suggested. And why did they show that to him?!?).
Therefore, Keller drew several obvious conclusions. First of all, the man in the pictures was not Neal Caffrey. Second, Neal might have impersonated that person at some point since he looked suspiciously like him. Third, those people hadn’t grasped the previous facts yet, and Neal was trying to get them on his side by pretending to be that person, to get out of this bar unharmed like the coward he was.
“I think there's been a misunderstanding.” Everyone looked curiously at Keller. He pointed again at Neal. “ This man is Neal Caffrey , and not whoever you think he is and who is in those pictures.”
The ducklings shared glances and waited for Keller to get on with his explanation.
Dick only sat there enjoying the show; this was gonna be fun. He had an inkling of what Keller wanted to say.
“He cannot be that person…” Keller trailed off gesturing at the phone.
“Richie.” Huey supplied.
“He can't be Richie, because when those pictures were taken he – Neal – was doing time in prison . He only got out two years ago,” Keller finished, satisfied with his foolproof statement.
“He is Richie.” Gary grinned sharply.
“He is not Richie —” Jim was interrupted by Louie, who raised an eyebrow.
“That’s not how prison works. That’s only how they are supposed to work. But everyone knows how to skip or shorten prison time.”
Dick almost did a spit take but managed to keep a straight face. If anyone bothered to look at him they could have seen his innocent face proclaiming: Who skipped prison time? Me? No way! Not me. I definitely sat in prison.
At Keller’s dumbfounded face Louie continued: “You have several, at least a dozen, different ways.”
“ A dozen ?” Keller laughed out loud. ”What have I been doing in prison, then?” He waved his hand encouragingly. “I need to hear those. Please go on.”
“I’m not sure they work outside of Gotham.” Huey stated matter-of-factly. “First, bribe the police to scratch your record.”
“That works at least a third of the time,” Dewey added.
“Second, kill the police officers and delete it yourself. And if there’s a witness to your alleged crime, kill them as well.”
“Third, bribe the jury.”
“Works like a charm, especially during an ‘R-attack’.” Jim nodded knowingly. “Rogue Attack,” he clarified for Keller’s benefit.
“Those seem surprisingly sensible.” Keller acknowledged “For Gotham inhabitants, that is.”
“ ‘Gotham inhabitants ’,” Jim mimicked.
“Fourth, get yourself shipped to Arkham.” Everyone in their vicinity chuckled.
Keller blinked. “Isn’t that an insane asylum?”
“Yeah.” Gary lowered his voice in a mock whisper. “But it has revolving doors.” That received a few snickers.
“Fifth, get yourself shipped to Blackgate. And escape through the land bridge to Gotham. You know? That bridge that developed when Gotham got razed to the ground several years ago.”
Dick made a mental note: Tell Bruce about the apparently still existing bridge.
“Sixth,” John piped in, “tell the police you went to a psychiatrist who told you to do whatever it is you did.”
“They'll have to let you go on the basis of 'absence of criminal responsibility,'” Louie nodded sagely.
“Especially if you can convince them your doctor has the initials H.Q. It works like a 'get out of jail' Monopoly card.”
“Seventh, tell them you can’t remember the crime. The last thing you can recall is some stupid top-hat enthusiast and something about Alice.”
“Eighth, give a Rogue your number and volunteer for ‘Richie duty’. They'll pull some strings to get you out of prison to fulfill that promise,” an audience member shouted.
“Holy furry, why didn’t I think of that?” Louie lamented.
“Ninth, call in a favor from Clayface, if you have one.”
“Tenth, if you have money, ask Luthor to make a clone for ya,” Gary added.
“Eleventh, get a deal by ratting out an upcoming villain of the month. But obviously stay away from the Rogues.”
“Twelfth, save Robin from a villain and Batman will get ya some nice place to work at or make you do community work, if your previous crimes weren’t so bad.”
“Thirteenth, flee Gotham and never come back. The States don’t prosecute Gotham felons. And Gotham police won’t follow you over the borders.”
“Fourteenth, if you have a life sentence and have no escape: get killed. Chances are 1 in 50 you'll get resurrected at some point. And previous charges are invalid after resurrection.”
Keller sucked in a long calming breath. These people were messing with him. If it hadn’t been obvious by the first few points, the last few made it clear. He generously ignored the few people who had shuffled closer to take diligent notes.
“We strayed from the topic at hand.” Keller enunciated every word carefully. “Neal. Is. Not. Richie.”
Still, the ducklings regarded him with doubtful expressions.
“You're right, he isn’t Richie,” Jim and John nodded. “He's Robbie.”
“Huh?” Huey spat, dumbfounded. “The hell, this ain’t Robbie.”
“Robbie…?” Keller asked, confused once again.
“Yes, Robbie Malone. Maybe he doesn't have the Sunshine-murder-vibes, but he's the spitting image!”
“Malone…?” Some bar occupants recoiled in shock.
The name didn’t necessarily help Keller. Gotham was just too weird to keep track. But Malone actually rang a bell — wasn’t that like a small mob family or something?
Someone had been in the papers a few years back, catching Keller’s attention. It was something ridiculous: "Somebody Malone massacres a party of poor circus clown enthusiasts who stole his pet bird" or something similar. It stayed in his memory because it was almost as strange as "Florida man…."
If Gotham’s crime rate was as high as they wanted others to believe, they should at least report the real crimes going on there. Like that one guy who dressed up as a bat — a bat, how ridiculous was that — and beat up poor passersby.
Keller shook his head, grinning, and turned to listen to the hopefully real information.
“The Malones are a ruthless family. Everyone in it has a family complex the size of Jupiter,” Gary explained matter-of-factly. “If anyone hurts someone in the family… Let's just say, it would be healthier to upset the Joker, because chances are a Bat distracts him from you. However, a Malone will never forget or forgive you. It’s not a question if they come after you. But how fast. ”
Keller suppressed a disbelieving scoff.
“Thanks for the history lesson. But this ain’t Robbie. I can prove it!” Huey declared smugly. He took a deep breath and shouted. “What does the Penguin say...?"
Across the bar several heads shot up, swiveling to search for a specific person. Unerringly their eyes landed on Dick, narrowing in suspicion.
Dick snapped his mouth shut. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t do it! But… he couldn’t help himself, he burst out singing:
“~blub-blu-blu, blu-blub-blu-blu-blu-blub~
“~ran-ran-ran, ra-ra-ra, ra-ransom~
“~ca-ca-ca, ca-ca-ca, ca-call Bruce~
“~Pen-wen-wen, wen-wen-wen -wen-wen-guinn~”
“...” Keller squinted at Dick like he was an alien creature.
Well, shit…, Dick thought.
Various heads hit the table or palms according to the principle " See no evil, hear no evil. " Others hurried to pay, speed walking out of the bar, mumbling about " The ceiling!!"
“That’s Richie, all right.” Dewey shrugged with a satisfied expression. “He wrote the lyrics himself.”
“Why ‘blub’ though?” Jim asked, utterly confused.
“Well,” Louie sighed. “Blub… as in " fish go blub," because to ‘Richie’ penguins are fish. Since they swim and everything.”
“Hm. I can agree, this probably means he isn't Robbie,” John pouted. “But come on, they look awfully similar.”
“Now, listen up. I know this might be horrifying but bear with me.” Gary proclaimed, catching the attention of the remaining bar occupants. ”You —” he pointed at the ducklings, “have presented good proof that this man to my left is Richie Grayson.”
Several groans, a more insistent mantra of " See no evil, hear no evil, " and " Shut your mouth, it’s Chill Tuesday!" floated through the bar.
”And you...” Gary pointed at the J-duo, “argued he was Robbie Malone. Now which is it? Is it the one or the other, or is it…” Gary trailed off, leaving a tense silence.
The ducklings and the J-duo shared a confused look, and Louie suddenly groaned.“You're one of those , aren’t you?” Louie asked.
Gary threw his hands into the air, “Or is he both !”
Louie facepalmed.
“Both?” Dick asked, because holy hell did this guy figure him out?
“Yes, you are both. Robbie and Richie.” Gary smiled triumphantly.
“How does that work?” John asked, flabbergasted.
“You all know Two-Face, right?” Gary started.
Oh thank god , Dick breathed, Gary’s just a conspiracy theorist.
A round of “ Ah”s swept through the bar. Just someone advocating the Wayne-Malone theory . They turned back to their beers, either having lost interest or blissfully ignoring the "definitely not Richie" debate.
Keller, apparently the only non-Gothamite, didn’t get it. He waited for Gary to explain.
“Two-Face has two personalities, a good one and a homicidal one.” Gary made jazz-hands as if that explained everything.
“ ‘Good’ might be misleading,” Huey chimed in. “More like slightly nicer than the homicidal one.”
“So, what do you have to say for yourself?” Gary asked Dick.
The two groups, and Keller, turned to Dick.
“Well,” Dick leaned closer, mock-whispering: ” l’m Batman! ” He smiled beatifically. ”Nice to meetcha.”
This time the J-duo did fall out of their chairs.
The ducklings paled and dived for cover, because every time someone uttered that cursed phrase in jest, the Batlings — or god forbid the real Batman would materialize behind them, without fail.
In contrast Gary’s eyes widened in realization, though only a few words could be picked up from his mad rambling: "Malone, Wayne, and Batman" and "The whole family! Triple trouble!"
Before someone could say or do anything more, Dick stood up from his chair and made his way to the door, "accidentally’" running into a certain someone who'd entered the bar a minute ago, slipping a tiny bug into the man’s pocket.
Then he vanished out the door.
Keller, having been distracted by the odd behavior of the bar patrons, while thinking about the Gothamites' odd fascination with bats, only caught a glimpse of Neal disappearing out the door.
He cursed mentally, speed-walking after the shrewd conman. But before he could get through the door, it opened again and he almost got whacked over the head by… an umbrella.
A condescending voice with a strange accent cut the chaotic atmosphere: “Now, does anyone want to explain to me what this fuss is about?”
“Richie just left the bar, boss,” Huey drawled.
Penguin sighed heavily. Louie flagged down the bartender to give the crime lord a drink.
“Aren’t you going to go after him, sir?” A goon asked.
“No,” Huey answered for the boss, while Penguin took a long gulp from his drink. “He's gone by now. Not necessarily in the right direction, but certainly gone.”
Having finished his drink, Penguin turned around and directed his most menacing glare at the only person he didn’t know in this bar (it was Chill Tuesday after all — the day his goons got a day off).
Keller stiffened, an arctic shiver running down his back.
“Tell me, why are you harassing Richard.” It wasn’t phrased as a question.
Well…this can't be good. Keller debated whether it was too late to run for the hills.