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Peter had only been living in Gotham for a week, but he didn’t think he’d ever get used to the hellscape of a city.
When he’d been told that he was being transferred, he had honestly not been surprised. Despite what some people ( Neal, whispered a voice in his head) thought, he was a pretty good detective. Or at least, he was good enough to know that he hadn’t been able to hide how hard Neal’s death had hit him. His work had taken a toll, and frankly he’d seen the writing on the wall well before his transfer became official.
Of course, he’d thought he’d be sent to some small city to work out a quiet living until his retirement. Apparently someone high up the FBI chain of command had it out for him, because everyone knew that Gotham was where agents’ careers were sent to die (Peter thought this had been a metaphorical phrasing when he’d heard it whispered among his peers in New York. He had realized pretty quickly upon arrival in Gotham that it was much more literal than he’d thought).
All of this was to say that Peter was nowhere near accustomed to Gotham’s charms as he unlocked the multiple locks on his apartment door.
He sighed as he stepped into his dark apartment, wishing that El was there with him. His transfer has come up so quickly that she’d had to stay back in New York to figure out her work before she could join him. On one hand he was happy she was so far from Gotham and all its charms, but on the other hand he really wanted to see his wife.
He slowly made his way to the kitchen to grab a drink, ready to wallow for at least a little bit. He’d just grabbed a bottle when a rustle sounded from his living room.
Peter turned to the sound, hand drifting instinctively to his sidearm, instincts on high alert. As he scanned his apartment for any danger, his eyes finally landed on the perpetrator and it was only years of work in the FBI that kept him from screaming out loud.
A ghost was sitting on Peter’s couch. A very realistic, very tangible, Neal-shaped ghost.
What little was left of Peter’s soul left his body as the Neal-ghost made eye contact and smiled softly.
“Hey Peter. I need to talk to you.”
***
Five minutes and several reassurances that no, Peter was not going crazy, he was not hallucinating, etc., Peter found himself sitting in his living room with his not-so-dead CI.
“I–I don’t understand what’s going on,” Peter said, breaking the silence. “How are you here? Why are you here?”
Neal took a breath, seemingly struggling to find the words.
“I want to start by saying I'm sorry Peter. I really never meant– I never wanted you to have to find out about this.” He spoke firmly, yet tentatively, as though he knew what he needed to say but had to steel himself to do so.
“There’s so much I need to tell you, but I only have clearance to give you a bit,” Neal shrugged apologetically, “I wish I could do more, but this is honestly all happening pretty suddenly.”
Now that Peter was starting to come back to his senses, he took a moment to observe his CI–sorry, former CI. Neal, or whoever he was, was different now than Peter had ever seen him. He hadn’t noticed in his initial shock, but now it was glaringly obvious that whoever this man was, he wasn’t Neal. Or at least, he wasn’t just Neal. This man held himself with a quiet confidence that felt deeper, realer than Neal’s charismatic bravado. He’s always thought that Neal was too comfortable in his own skin for his own good, yet this new not-Neal made him look wholly insecure by comparison. His gaze was kind, but it had an undercurrent of steel that Peter recognized from the more battle-worn agents he’d worked with.
“I’m here because you’re in Gotham now, and Gotham works differently than other cities,” Not-Neal began, a touch of nostalgia in his voice that Peter thought was a little odd given the city in question. “Your transfer was a surprise, and we’re rarely surprised. Consider this a necessary unofficial debrief.”
The man who was not Neal, not really, took a steadying breath.
“I was never Neal Caffrey, not really,” he continued, his tone having shifted to something authoritative and formal. Peter felt like he was back in a debrief with his team, getting all the details in a procedural, practiced manner.
“Neal Caffrey was a creation of Batman, a tool to be used by the Justice League to operate in situations that required more subtlety than most heroes can command. He was a thief in the eyes of the governments, but he was made to secure objects and artifacts that were deemed unsafe for civilian handling.”
Peter noted the man’s use of “civilian”, and for the first time in his career was faced with the realization that he, and the entirety of the FBI, were considered civilians to Neal. Just who was the man standing before him? And did he just say the Justice League?
“I played Neal Caffrey the most, and when we realized we needed someone inside the FBI I was given the mission. Deep cover is always difficult, but you all made it a little easier. I really do regret leaving the way I did.” Neal (Peter really needed to figure out what to call him), cringed minutely as he finished speaking. His remorse seemed genuine, though there was no real regret in his eyes. Clearly he was a professional… something.
An awkward silence stretched between them for a beat, before Peter finally spoke.
“Who are you?” Peter asked, at a loss for anything more intelligent to say.
Not-Neal winced. “That’s a little hard to answer, actually. But it's also why I’m here,” He looked at Peter for a moment. “What do you know about the Waynes?”
The Waynes. Gotham royalty. Peter hadn’t lived in Gotham long, but even in New York he knew the name Bruce Wayne, or Brucie as the tabloids loved to call him. One of the richest men in the world and yet also one of the most infamously vapid. In the short time he’d been in Gotham Peter had seen the name Wayne plastered across the entire city. It was clear that Wayne associated foundations were one of the biggest, if not only, financial supports to the struggling city.
There were other Waynes too, Peter knew, but they weren’t all famous in the same way as their father. Peter was pretty sure at least one of them was also a tabloid darling, and hadn’t he read an article about one of them running Wayne Enterprises?
Peter looked back at Neal, who was watching Peter’s face carefully, expectantly. Like he was waiting for Peter to figure something out.
There was something there, something in the fact that Neal had broken his cover, his literally dead cover, to come talk to Peter simply because he was in Gotham. Like Neal, like the Justice League apparently, had known that Peter being in Gotham would cause problems for Neal. As though Neal being alive would have to be explained before Peter realized on his own. And the Waynes…
Oh.
“Which one are you?” Peter said, meeting his former CI’s eyes.
Not-Neal smiled, a genuine smile that was more real than any smile he’d flashed as Neal Caffrey.
“I always knew you were a pretty good detective,” he said with a note of pride. “My name’s Richard Grayson, but you can call me Dick.”
Richard Grayson, the oldest Wayne child if Peter recalled correctly.
“When we realized you were being transferred here, this explanation was deemed necessary, because, in all honesty, I know you Peter, and I know that the second you realized how similar Richard Grayson and Neal Caffrey are you wouldn’t rest until you figured it out.”
Peter nodded along, but his mind was whirring away. He was probably in some kind of lingering shock, because everything Neal– or rather, Richard– said was just barely registering. He felt like he was still three steps behind in the conversation, only narrowly remaining afloat. There was so much that still didn’t make sense. And one thing in particular was gnawing at his mind.
“How does a moderately famous son of a billionaire end up working as a thief and undercover operative for the Justice League?” Peter asked, as he tried to fit all the pieces he’d been given together.
Richard looked apologetic. “Unfortunately that’s mostly classified. What I can tell you is that I have some connections to the Justice League through Bruce’s donations, and I worked as a police officer over in Blüdhaven for a couple of years. They needed someone, and I was there.”
Peter once again was left unsure of how to respond, so he let another silence descend. He really didn’t know what to make of all of this information. He could barely believe that Neal was alive, let alone the fact that he’d been working with, had hunted down, someone that was little more than a lie made up by heroes. Catching Neal Caffrey had been his greatest career success, and losing him had been his downfall. Was his whole career a joke?
Peter took a deep breath, and forced down the swirling storm inside his brain. He looked around his empty apartment, in this horrible city that he’d been forced to move to.
“Where do we go from here?” he asked aloud, sounding uncertain even to his own ears.
“That's mostly up to you, Peter. I know this has been a lot, and I don’t expect anything from you. I just thought you deserved to know some of the truth if you were going to be seeing my face all over the city. I get it if you want me to leave you alone,” Richard’s voice faltered somewhat at that, and Peter wondered if maybe Gotham was lonely for everyone else too. “But, you know, if you wanted to keep in touch we could. Only if you want to though.”
His eyes were soft, and vulnerable in a way that Neal Caffrey was not, and Richard Grayson had yet to be.
“Think I need a bit of time to process all of this,” Peter said carefully, and winced internally at the flicker of emotion on Richard’s face. “I mourned you, I mourned Neal. He was my friend, and now I know he was a lie.”
“He wasn’t all a lie–” Richard began, but Peter cut him off quickly.
“But,” he added, “I think it would be great to get to know you, genuinely this time.”
Richard smiled, and this time Peter saw a hint of Caffrey, which he realized must have been Richard shining through all along.
“I would really like that Peter.”