AN: So it hasn't even been a year and I'm updating! Reminder: this completely ignores the N52 and Rebirth (except for details that were available in early 2012. I always welcome comments/reviews.

Chapter 5

Dick leads Peter and El away. A wave of panic grips Neal and he has to fight the urge to flee after them. For not the first time since his fateful phone call, he considers just leaving them at the manor and taking off. His family can definitely protect the Burkes. Mozzie needs to be avenged (and just the thought of the man makes something inside him rebel, hurt, yearn for revenge), and assuming that his mother is not behind this (and it's very likely this is the case - she wouldn't go after his non-superhero friends just to get his attention), Neal figures he might find an ally in her. Of course, the entire situation begets the question: Why is the League after him in the first place? His grandfather might be inclined (especially if there was some task that required his certain set of skills), but his mother would never go for it and would show up and warn him if that were the case. But then if the League of Assassins - or at least part of it - is working without the purview of the al Ghuls...

It is not a pleasant thought.

And maybe it would be easier to just confront the League...except it wouldn't be, because as much as he hates to admit it, he is very out of practice and horror of all horrors, he likes having a partner behind him. He has become...soft, working with Peter and the rest of the team. He should just take off and seek out his mother and it would be a lot easier than dealing with the emotions and repercussions of his past meeting his present.

But Neal doesn't want to.

This is a huge problem.

"Master Damian," Alfred places a cup of lavender tea in front of him. The tea is fragrant and fresh and is prepared just the way he taught the butler to make it when he first arrived in the household and was aghast to learn that to most Americans - including Grayson - used tea bags instead of making tea properly. "Are you quite finished ruminating?"

Neal blinks and turns to really look at him. Alfred. The gentleman's gentleman. Trusted confidant to the Batfamily. Grandfather-figure. The majordomo of the Wayne household. All these names barely manage to sum up what Alfred truly is to the Wayne family - to Neal himself. El is going to love him, he thinks, what with his manners and temperament - never letting anyone get away with anything - and his cultured British ways and his wit. And Mozzie... Neal thinks Mozzie would have loved him too. In his own way, Mozzie had sort of become an Alfred to Neal, a confidant who worked behind the scenes, who he could be himself with. Except...Neal could be Neal around Mozzie, but he could never be Damian. Mozzie proved that when he walked out on him in the diner, and...

"I suppose not," Alfred answers his own question dryly. "Sip your tea, my boy, you don't want it to get cold."

"Yes, Alfred." Neal sips his tea obediently, his eyes trained on the elderly man, who turns and deposits a plate of cookies in front of him.

"Neal Caffrey," Alfred muses, making a cup of tea for himself. He chooses a decaffeinated green tea and the steam rises from the cup as he pours. "Now, the Caffrey is from that art teacher of yours - quite a brilliant teacher, I must say. He certainly worked wonders with you." Neal has to bite back a smile, knowing full-well that the butler is not referring to his artistic talents, but his personality as a teenager. He had been...difficult.

But when had he told Alfred his name? Dick didn't know until they were on the helicopter - and who was Batman now, then, Tim? But Dick didn't make any calls when they were on the phone and he supposes that Tim could have, but it seems unlikely. And Peter had called him Neal, of course, but had El perhaps mentioned it or Dick when he was having his, well, meltdown with Peter on the front lawn?

"And the Neal..." Alfred continues to muse. "That's also not the common spelling of the name. 'Champion' or perhaps referring to the old Celtic legend about the nine kings? Mistress Martha was Irish, though -"

"Dr. O'Neal." Neal takes a cookie and nibbles at it. "And when did you..."

"Ahh, of course. The esteemed Dr. O'Neal. She was a brilliant art therapist. It was such a pity that cancer took her." Neal nods. Alfred is right - it was a tragedy, and he has wondered over the years, when he's depressed and wondering where things went wrong in his childhood (there is a long list of potential events that could be the straw that tipped the camel's back, beginning with his conception and ending with his father's last betrayal), if things would have gone differently if she had survived. "And Master Damian, do you really think that you would not be recognized with all your escapades?"

Neal freezes. "Do they - who knows, Alfred?" He grips his tea tightly. Dick can't know. He knows that the minute the man learns his identity and whereabouts he'd be in the cave in an instant, using JLA resources if Wayne resources weren't enough - just like he did when Neal finally broke down and called him. But Drake? Todd? His father?

Alfred sets down his own tea and folds his hands on the countertop. "None of your siblings know, Master Damian. I would expect Master Bruce does," Neal's heart clenches, "but I am not positively certain. I only learned because I caught the news at the right moment, and how could I not recognize you?"

"So you know everything, then?" Neal closes his eyes, hangs his head. This is why he never wanted to face his family again. At the time, he didn't have much of a choice. But he knows how his family feels about criminal activities - even white collar crimes - and he doesn't have an excuse more than "I was pissed at you and ended up addicted to cons," like he's some alcoholic or drug addict and it makes him feel dirty.

Mediocre.

A failure.

His mother pounded it into his head - sometimes literally - that he was not a failure, that by the very nature of his birth he could not be anything but the best. And despite the years of therapy and Dick's completely annoying yet well-meaning guidance, he still is that ten year-old assassin who has just been handed the world on a platter - or so it seems.

"Once I recognized you, Master Damian, I did keep up with your case." Alfred comes around and hugs him. "Do not fret, my boy. Things have a way of working themselves out."

"Tt." He pulls away as soon as he hears Dick galumphing. "Carrying on in such a matter is not becoming, Dickiebird."

"Aww, it's so nice to have you back, give me a hug!" And before he can do anything more than look like a deer in headlights, Dick wraps him up in a huge bear-hug. But the years have changed him and dealing with other people who weren't prone to extreme issues and dressing up in capes and tights, and he finds himself able to relax into the hug.

Dick finally lets him go and shakes his head. The years have been kind to the older man - he's approaching fifty slowly, but still looks over a decade younger. There's a very slight tinge of grey in his hair, but the mischievous blue eyes are the same as is the huge smile. "You look good. Kiddo." He adds on for effect and Neal can't help but stick his tongue out at him. Yes, he's thirty-two years-old and supposedly more mature than that, but it's easy to fall back into the role of younger brother, and he misses it.

"So." Dick nabs a cookie from the plate. "What've you been up to?"

"So who was in the suit tonight, Drake?" Neal ignores his question. "I would have thought you would take over for Father once he retired. And how on earth did you manage that anyways?"

"I did take over." Dick eyes Neal's tea, and Neal grabs it close to him, glaring at the older man. Not that he would like it anyways - Dick prefers his tea with too much milk and sugar for Neal's taste, and he's never been a fan of the way Neal prepares tea - or has Alfred do it for him. "I had actually just gotten back from patrol when you called. Tim was around, doing some maintenance on the mainframe, and so I was going to drive out there, but thought it would take too long. And you called me, not Tim, so we figured he should put on the suit and I would play civilian."

"How is, um -" Neal fumbles. His homicidal urges against his youngest brother had waned over the years, but they had never become very close, and it seems like any progress they might have once made could disappear. He may not be actively trying to kill the man anymore (it would never cross his mind now), but there was still that awkwardness of being related to someone and yet not knowing what to do with them.

Dick smiles gently and Neal isn't sure whether to be annoyed or reassured. "Tim is actually downstairs."

"Correction, I'm here now." Unlike Dick who had announced his presence quite clearly to the entire manor, Drake still used his stealth. "I wanted to wait until I was sure that the Burkes were in bed."

"And of course every room in the manor is monitored with video and sound." Neal shakes his head.

"Of course." Drake looks surprised. "It has been for years. Before you even arrived here."

"It's nothing." Neal waves a hand and finishes his tea. And it really is nothing, just a minuscule detail that reminds him of how different everything is in Gotham, where vigilantes are a daily fact of life and his "overprotective" father runs the city. Not quite literally, because the last thing Bruce Wayne wants is to be mayor, but in essence, nothing in the city happens without Batman (or the former Batman, that is) knowing about it. Including in his own house. Or especially in his own house.

There was a reason he and Li always took off when they wanted to spend time together.

And damn, there was someone he had tried not to think about in fifteen years.

"Hey, don't get so gloomy on me, Lil'D." Dick slaps a hand on his shoulder. "Whatever happened - and by the way, I am waiting for an explanation on that, because we were worried about you, kiddo - it's in the past. You're back now and we'll deal with the League like we have before and then you can come back."

Except coming back is the last thing he wants.

"Maybe." He smiles thinly.

"Don't forget, Dick, this is Damian. He doesn't do anything but gloomy." Drake speaks up from his own glass of warm milk, while Alfred finishes putting the finishing touches on Dick. For a moment, Neal tries to think of him as Tim, but it's easier - more of a buffer - to think of him as Drake, and a buffer is what he needs now.

Neal says nothing.

Instead of continuing to tease Neal like expected, Drake frowns. "Really," he finally says, "it doesn't matter what happened. We've all left and come back for whatever reasons - and sure your absence has been a bit longer than most. But we're here for you, Damian." He finishes his in a few gulps and wipes away the milk-mustache. "I have to get home. I'll see you tomorrow."

Neal watches him leave, oddly grateful. Somehow, Drake seems to get it, seems to realize that they can't just pick up from where they left off fifteen years ago. Because fifteen years is a hell of a long time, and a hell of a lot has happened, and while the rest of the family seems to love dwelling in the past, Neal has tried his best to do just the opposite.

"Night, Timmy!" Dick calls out, before gobbling down another cookie. "Man, it's like after three am. You should get to bed, Dami."

Neal opens his mouth to correct him on the name, before deciding better and shutting it. "I -" He purses his lips and looks down at his empty tea cup, which he picks up and gives a sniff. He turns to Alfred. "You drugged this."

"Because I know you, Master Damian, just like I know all my boys, no matter how long you're gone. You'll be heading up to bed now, I presume? I turned your sheets down for you - of course you'll be in your room. And then tomorrow morning after a restful sleep you can start planning things." Alfred takes the empty cups and plate. "And that goes for you, Master Richard. I know you're just itching to run down to the cave, but things can wait."

"Actually, Alf, I have to write up tonight's patrol log. It won't take long, though, I swear!" Dick bounds up from his own stool. "And then I'll get home. Don't want the wife to murder me in my sleep tomorrow for not coming home tonight."

He backs quickly out of the kitchen before bouncing towards the study and the entrance to the Batcave. Neal watches after him, before turning to share a look with Alfred. "I bet you half of a missing treasure he ends up falling asleep in the cave tonight."

"I don't believe I will be taking you up on that bet, Master Damain, as interested as I am to hear of a missing treasure. Perhaps in the morning." Alfred sets down the dish towel and strides out of the kitchen towards his own quarters.

Neal sits alone in the kitchen for a moment, before standing and departing, flicking the lights off as he goes.

His dreams are a mishmash of memories and altered memories and future scenes that will never take place. He dreams of Lian for the first time in years, dreams of Kate, dreams of introducing her to his family, dreams of introducing the team to his family (Jones would likely get along well with Drake), and it's a scary thought, but he thinks Diana just might enjoy Jason. He dreams of what might be if he hadn't left, or if he had come back earlier. He dreams of what might be had the League not gone after him. He dreams of Kramer and Moz and Keller and Kate and Adler and Alex and Colin - oh my God, it's been years since I've dreamt of Colin - and Irey and Chris and Dr. O'Neal and Mr. Caffrey, and he dreams of his mother, rocking him to sleep. The idea seems absolutely ludicrous, yet she sings to him a haunting melody and he feels safe in her arms, and he dreams.

He gave up the hope over two decades ago of his parents ever getting together. His mother's terrorist ties, his father's role of Batman were at two completely opposite sides of the spectrum. In all honesty, he should never have existed. The pairing is unnatural. And yet here he is, and he too has become unnatural, because he fits into neither of their worlds.

But dreams are a place for the subconscious to play, and now, sleeping in his childhood bedroom, which stayed in the exact same condition he left it, complete with a half-finished, dog-eared copy of The Agony and the Ecstasy on his nightstand, his mind wanders and deals with all the issues he kept locked away.

When he finally wakes in the morning, sun streams through his now-opened curtains, and there is a bathrobe and a pair of sweatpants laid across the foot of his bed. He sits up and blinks in the light. His headache has receded, but he still does not feel like himself. Of course, he muses, who is he?

Until yesterday, he thought he knew.

Now...

He gathers up the clothes left out for him and stumbles into the bathroom across the hall. After a shower, he fumbles in the drawers for the extra toiletries Alfred keeps stocked for overnight guests. He finds a toothbrush and toothpaste, a comb and a razor, and begins the arduous process of making himself look human again. He gets rid of his stubble and rummages around for some type of hair product, but can't find any. Heaving a sigh, he he brushes his teeth and pulls on the pants and robe, turning to combat his unruly hair. He learned after a few years of living with his family that letting his hair grow out just a bit more worked wonders for its unruliness, but then it tends to curl just a bit at the ends and make him look a lot younger, and more like his father, not something he aspires to. The wound he received in Manhattan while running from the League is scabbed over, and he gently combs his hair around it - hair that is finally free of blood. He looks at himself in the mirror and nods his head, schooling his smile into Neal Caffrey's.

He is a con artist - a brilliant one - and he can do this.

Striding forward, he pulls open the bathroom door, ready to face his family.

And Peter and El.

The couple has just wandered past the bathroom door when he opens it. Their clothes are the same from yesterday, but they still look a lot better than he remembers, and Neal is reminded of how much sleep can help. "Peter? El? Good morning."

"Oh, Neal. Thank goodness. We're a bit..." El trails off, flapping her hand in the air.

"Lost?" Neal pulls his robe tighter around him. "I know the feeling. It took me months until I was able to find my way around here." He doesn't mention that those months were spent knocking on walls and looking up blueprints and trying to familiarize himself with the manor in such a way that he could find his way through any room to the outside or Batcave while blindfolded in less than five minutes. But it had taken weeks to feel completely comfortable in finding his way around, and he still remembers his first time trying to find his way to the kitchen from his bedroom and ending up in the previously-unknown music room.

"Really?" El smiles, while Peter just looks at him. He can't read Peter, and that is more than a bit worrisome. "That's right - you said you weren't born here, right?"

"Nope, moved in when I was ten." Neal strides off. "Come on, I'll show you how to find breakfast. And a hint - if Alfred offers to make waffles, do not take him up on it. His pancakes are exceptional, but he could never get his waffles to taste like anything other than paste."

Instead of veering to the kitchen, Neal hears voices on the veranda, and he steers the Burkes through the study. Dick is perched on a chair, trying to catch blueberries in his mouth, while Tim just rolls his eyes and flips a page of the Gotham Gazette. A blonde woman in a stylish business suit mutters into a cell phone. Neal smiles when he recognizes her. She had been part of his inspiration when beginning to create Neal Caffrey, and as much as he tolerated and respected his other sister-in-law, she had been his favorite.

"Cassie." He opens up his arms and her eyes go wide. She quickly ends the phone conversation and lets out a tinkling laugh that totally belies the kick-ass former-thief now-business woman she is. She launches herself into his arms, and he closes his arms around her tightly. Man, he missed her - hasn't realized how much until now when she's there again. Helena was nice, certainly, and he trusted her, but she wasn't fun like Cassie was. Is.

"By the gods, Damian." She pulls out of his embrace and reaches up to mess his hair. "It is so good to see you."

"You too, Cassie. But really - I thought you had standards. Marrying Drake? Really?"

She laughs and swats at him, both of them ignoring Tim's indignant "hey." "Oh D..." She steps back and fixes her suit jacket. "I -" She stops, thinks for a moment. "I've got to go, but you must catch me up later." He nods enthusiastically - this is going to be fun - and watches as she returns to her seat to pick up a fun-looking bag and give her husband a quick kiss good-bye. She gives Neal and the Burkes a quick finger-wave and strolls through the yard, taking the garden path that will leave to the front of the house.

"So...who was that?" Peter speaks up finally, surveying the table in front of him.

"Hey, Peter!" Dick stands up and nearly knocks his chair over, with only a lifetime of quick-movements saving it from toppling over. "Elizabeth! Sleep well?"

"Great, thank you." El smiles at him and steps forwards. "You have a very impressive layout here."

"Oh thanks, but it's all Alfred. Right, Al?" He looks off behind the three of them.

"Of course, Master Richard." Alfred stands ready with a tray of pancakes and three kinds of syrup. "Master Damian, Mr. and Mrs. Burke." He walks past them and sets his tray on the table, beginning to unload it. "Master Damian, I assume you still prefer blueberry pancakes? I have the batter ready. And Mr., Mrs. Burke - would you prefer pancakes or waffles this morning?"

"Oh, um, pancakes, please, Alfred." Elizabeth replies first.

"Yes, pancakes, thank you." Peter nods stuffily, and Neal recognizes it as his I-am-not-comfortable-with-this-but-I'm-not-going-to-say-anything-yet expression.

"Blueberry pancakes, Alfred. Thanks." Neal waits until Alfred turns and walks away, before he walks over and pulls a chair out, motioning towards it. "Elizabeth? Peter?"

"Why thank you, Neal." Elizabeth gives Peter a look and steps forwards, lowering herself into the chair. Neal pushes it in. "We slept just fine, Dick. What about you?" She turns to Tim. "And you are?"

"Tim." He folds his paper and stands. "Timothy Drake Wayne, but please, Tim is fine." He shakes first Elizabeth's hand then Peter's. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Yours too." Elizabeth smiles at him. "And that was your wife?"

"Yes, Cassie. Cassandra." He takes his seat again. "She would have loved to stay, of course, but work does have a tendency to get in the way." Neal wouldn't call Tim pretentious, but there is something about him that has always rubbed Neal the wrong way - and since Neal was pretty much the definition of pretentious as a kid, that's saying something. Maybe it's the fact that Tim isn't pretentious at all, and it's quite clear when you get to know him, but Neal always viewed Tim through those younger-brother-you-are-a-pretender-and-therefore-threat-to-me-eyes even when he finally accepted that it was not true.

Neal scrunches up his nose and takes a seat before anyone can call him on it. One of the definite downsides to returning to his family is all the issues they had, and the fact that now he's been gone for so long, he can look back at them and attempt to psychoanalyze it. And he hates psychoanalysis.

"Great, wonderful, I'm sure Dick told you all about the Burkes and our arrival." He pours himself a cup of coffee and breathes in; it's a wonderful Italian blend that reminds him of June and he has to take a second to push the memory away before he can drink. He will not get hung up on things like he did last night. He is no longer the little lost boy returning home; he is Neal Caffrey, con man extraordinaire, and this is just a large con.

At least that's what he tells himself.

"Of course." Tim smiles blandly.

Despite a decade and a half of distance, Dick seems to still know exactly when to step in between his younger siblings. "Yep, I was just telling Tim and Cassie about your arrival last night. I told Helena last night when I got in, and she's disappointed that she couldn't be here, but she couldn't miss work. My son would be here too, but same reason - he's a senior in high school, can't miss a day!" Dick prattles on. "Anyways, I am very glad to see you all rested and looking a lot better than last night and I'm glad Damian warned you about the waffles, Alfred is wonderful but I don't know what goes wrong when he tries to make waffles," he whispers, "and please help yourself to whatever's on the table, and if you have special wishes I'm sure we can do something about that."

Peter eyes the spread on the table. Neal smirks to himself, remembering the first morning at June's - and there he goes, thinking of her again - and takes a spoonful of fruit salad from the silver bowl in front of him. The table is spread with pastries of all kinds, different types of fruits, pots of coffee and hot water for tea, and even dishes holding still steaming scrambled eggs and crispy bacon. "I, um, I think we'll be fine," he manages not to splutter, and reaches for the coffee pot.

Neal hands it over with a knowing grin, and Peter rolls his eyes. "Timmy, shouldn't you be at work like your gorgeous and completely-out-of-your-league wife?" He teases, taking a sip of coffee to hide his smile.

Tim merely rolls his eyes, but stands again. "Actually, as much as I hate to admit it, Damian is quite right. I have a meeting in R&D with Tam in twenty minutes." He picks up his cup and swallows the last of his coffee. "Nice to see you again, Damian," he plays along, not mentioning last night, "and nice to meet you, Peter, Elizabeth. I will see you again this evening, with my wife and children in tow." And he strides off, choosing to go through the house.

Alfred passes by him, carrying another stack of pancakes. "Good-bye, Master Timothy. Master Damian, Mr. and Mrs. Burke, here are your pancakes." He doles out three plates and serves each of them, before returning into the house.

"Dig in!" Dick cries, spearing another pancake for himself and dousing it in maple syrup. Neal shakes his head at Dick's enthusiasm before digging into his own pancakes. The pancakes are light and fluffy and have the perfect ratio of blueberries, and his stomach quells with how much he missed this. It's not just the food, it's the atmosphere. At the time leaving seemed so easy to do, and when he was gone, it was even easier to come up with excuses to stay away. But now, being back - even for less than twelve hours - it's...home.

He tries not to think of his father.

The table lapses into companionable silence, with only utterances of how good the food is, or if someone can pass an item. Despite it being late October, the day is sunny and not too cold. Neal finishes his plate and leans back, watching the rest of the table. Elizabeth notices and gives him a smile, and Dick grins as well, but Peter avoids his eye, and inwardly he sighs. He knew that this would not be easy on Peter, after all the lies and hidden truths about his past, but he hoped that the man would have at least somewhat of an open mind, especially after last night.

Finally, Elizabeth decides to speak up. "So what do you do? I mean," she clarifies, cupping her hands around her cup of tea, "Tim mentioned a meeting and Cassie said she had to leave for work, but she didn't say what..."

Dick smiles and leans back in his chair. Neal knows that if the Burkes weren't around, he'd be propping his feet on the table. "Tim basically runs WayneTech. Cassie is actually an attorney for the Martha Wayne Foundation, and I technically run it, though I'm really a social worker and try to hand off as many administrative duties as I can."

"I've always admired that foundation - the work you do is wonderful." Elizabeth gushes. "I ran a fundraiser a couple of years ago in Manhattan for a subsidiary and the work really impressed me. If I had more time I'd volunteer."

"You ran a fundraiser?" Dick leans forwards and nabs a strawberry from the bowl. "What type of work do you do?"

"I'm an event planner," Elizabeth replies.

"That's great." Dick throws the strawberry up and catches it in his mouth, then sees Alfred and nearly chokes. "Erm, please excuse me."

"Master Richard," Alfred merely sighs. He approaches the table. "Is there anything else I can get you?"

Dick looks around the table, receiving negative answers. "No thanks, Alf."

"Very well." Alfred seems to stand even straighter if that is at all possible. "I have received word from Master Bruce. Master Bruce will not be able to make the journey back for another few days."

"Well, that is just such a shame." Neal tsks, reaching for the coffee pot once again, pointedly not meeting any of his family's eyes - or the Burkes either. He isn't sure whether he should be thrilled or upset. On one hand, not having to deal with his father is a blessing. He does not need the man's harsh glare or accusations, and even though it's been so long, he has no doubt that his father will have some pointed words for him once he gets back. But on the other hand, it hurts that his father won't drop everything and come racing home. It is just another reminder that his father never really cared about him, never really wanted him. If he did, he would make the time. If his father cared, he was more than capable of getting home in hours - or less, if he managed to sneak away and have the JLA beam him back to Gotham, or get Clark to fly him home. He had done it before, and the fact that he is completely unwilling to make even the slightest effort to get home before a "few days" have passed is testament to his father's feelings.

And Neal hates it that Grayson can read him so well, because the insufferable acrobat is staring at him. It makes his hackles raise, makes him feel like he's about to be picked apart. Neal refuses to meet his gaze and stirs in some creamer, even though he usually takes his coffee black. Alfred finally decides to take leave, and does so with a slight bow.

Then Grayson takes his cue. "Damian...you know...Bruce, he..."

"Actually, Grayson, I am quite relieved we don't have to deal with my father. We can get the League off of my back and deal with things ourselves, and Brucie can continue sunning himself in the South Pacific or hug orphans in Somalia or whatever he's up to at the moment." Neal pushes his chair up and stands. "But first I need to get dressed."

"In what?" Dick blurts out, and Neal freezes. "Face it, Damian - you've grown since you last lived here. I bet nothing in your closet fits anymore. And you didn't have any luggage with you. Neither did your friends. So just what are you planning on wearing?"

That...was a definite problem. As much as he hated to admit it, he could probably fit in his father's clothing, and with generations of Waynes living in the manor, there were wardrobes stashed away, full of period clothing. His grandfather more than likely had vintage Ratpack suits, and he'd bet his sizeable inheritance that there were Dior suits somewhere in the manor. Despite his upbringing, it took him until he was twenty-four and Vincent Adler to feel truly comfortable in a tailored suit, and until now he had never really thought of the abundance of outdated and classic clothing in the manor. But the fact remained that even if he could find suits that fit him, Elizabeth and Peter needed clothes.

"I imagine everything was destroyed that was in the car?" Elizabeth spoke up.

"I didn't get a real good look, but chances are pretty high that yes, if your car when up in a fiery inferno, then so did the contents, unless they were in fireproof cases." Dick stands. "But that's okay, because we'll just go shopping."

"We couldn't possibly -" Peter says, but Dick just shakes his head.

"Trust me, we have an expense account for this kind of thing."

Peter and Elizabeth both share a look. "You have an expense account for cars getting blown up?"

"That and property damage and a bunch of other things." Dick rolls his eyes. "You have no idea we've been kidnapped over the years, right, Dami?"

Neal finds himself nodding and has to suppress a shiver of glee at Peter's shocked look. "Oh yeah. At least once a year. And then there's the shooting attempts and everything else. It's like a rite of passage for Gotham criminals to try something at either a Wayne function, a Wayne-owned business, or something directly on one of us. And usually they concentrated on me, 'cause I was the youngest and all." Of course, he was also probably the deadliest of them all, but that wasn't something they ever advertised, and it was more amusing (and annoying) than anything else when someone tried to kidnap him and failed miserably. He wonders if Two-Face ever took off the bounty he had put on him years ago. After many failed attempts leaving the perpetrators in either Arkham, Blackgate or run out of the city, most of the villains gave up. Damian Wayne clearly had connections to the Bats, or at least most of Gotham's underworld believed so, and attempts of kidnapping were few and far between when he left. He might chalk his current troubles up to Two-Face, except that the League would barely spare Two-Face a glance, much less take up a nearly twenty-year vendetta for him.

"Oh my, Neal, that's awful," Elizabeth exclaims, looking like she wants to reach across the table and hug him. "It must have been traumatizing as a child."

"Actually, no, not really." He shrugs. "Most of the attempts fizzled out once Batman put out that anyone messing with me would have to deal with him."

"Yeah, the nice thing about funding Batman, Inc. is that the kidnapping and assassination attempts went way down after that came out." Dick sounds positively gleeful. Neal doesn't have to look at his brother to know that he's having fun with the Burkes. "Ergo, expense account. So...as long as you're content to not wear couture, I think we can manage to pay for some clothing for you...especially since it's my dear brother who got you into this situation in the first place."

Neal bites back a sigh as Dick knowingly brings up that particular sore point. Most people never realize that Dick Grayson - the first Robin, Nightwing, the second Batman, and all around feel-good guy - could be just as manipulative as the man who raised him. Grayson is the happier, more laid-back Batman to most, and it is true...for the most part. That doesn't mean that the man is unable to push buttons like the original Dark Knight.

"Well, then, thank you." Peter says and Neal knows it's killing him, because Peter is not a fan of hand-outs or being beholden to anyone and has a view on life of things being earned, not just given away. But Elizabeth is squeezing his hand tightly and Neal doesn't doubt that she has probably kicked him under the table, and so Peter has little choice other than to agree. It was so easy to manipulate Peter once Neal realized that Elizabeth was a wonderful ally.

"Great! Damian needs to find something to wear since I'm pretty sure Alfred tossed out those clothes he was wearing, and then we'll get going. I can't wait!" Dick bounds out of his chair with a stack of plates and takes off into the house. Neal just stands there, rolling his eyes, causing El to smile at him, before he retreats into the house, leaving the Burkes on the veranda.

He ends up wearing a pair of jeans and a polo shirt he "liberated" from his father. It isn't his first choice for clothing, but unfortunately none of his brothers' clothes will fit him, and even his father's clothes do not fall right. He might look a lot like his father, but they are built slightly differently. Neal has always had more of a slender figure - muscular, sure, but nothing overly apparent - looking like the perfect meld between his mother and father, with the Wayne blue eyes, of course. He picks at his shirt as he rushes down the stairs, Dick's and El's voices ringing through the manor. Thank God for Elizabeth, Neal muses. The woman is a cherished friend and is able to make Peter of all people see reason, and she's probably the reason Peter hasn't flipped out on him.

Yet.

"- Spot the fakes." Dick gestures to a particular Monet that Neal knows is one of his first reproductions. "He's incredibly talented." That was the game his father and he had begun after a couple years of living in the manor: Damian would copy priceless works of art (most of them owned by the Wayne family or corporation), and the rest of the family (and world, sometimes) would try to "spot the fake". For one thing, it cut way down on the amount of artwork stolen in Gotham: Damian hid his signature in a fake layer of paint and bonding chemical that only appeared when the correct chemical process was performed, and only a select few individuals from Wayne Chemicals knew of the process - and offered to check all paintings for free. The police and any art collector would take advantage of the process, and many thieves had been caught by stealing the wrong painting. It was legal art forgery, and the skillset - at least one of them - that allowed him to become Neal Caffrey in the first place.

Neal stills on the last stair, watching the three of them look at the painting with their backs to him. It's one of his oldest pieces, painted when he was thirteen. "He...definitely is talented." Peter admits with something in his tone that Neal can't quite place.

"Enough to fool the FBI." Dick rocks back on his heels, and Neal takes his cue to step out.

"I always did like that piece." He strolls over and claps both Peter and Dick on the back. "But you see that leaf in the upper left corner? It's smudged - and it isn't in the original. An obvious sign that it is a reproduction." He ducks his head in mock modesty, before looking up with his trademark Caffrey grin. "But I got better."

"Clearly. What an impressive rap sheet you have." Dick smiles, but there's worry in his eyes.

Peter looks back and forth between the brothers, visibly confused. "But - what -"

"He knows, Peter." Neal takes pity on him, before patting his back and stepping away. He knew it would come out at some point, and once he revealed his name, it was a given that Dick would start investigating who he has become in his absence. Still, though...he'd have preferred to explain things to Dick on his own terms - if explaining things was even possible. Neal hates how guilty his past as Neal suddenly makes him feel. But he mentally flicks the devil on his shoulder and straightens. "I'm guessing you called in some 'connections'?"

"Yep. I admit it - after learning the name you've been going by, I couldn't sleep until I looked you up." Dick turns his head to look at his youngest brother. "Damian, I -"

"Don't." Neal turns. "Not right now."

"So...I'm thinking lunch now." Dick thanks and tips the valet and the baggage man at the department store, and climbs into the car. The shopping trip was successful in that everyone got clothes, even if Neal wasn't able to take much joy in something he usually would have. Peter, of course, complained about the prices at Gotham's upscale and long-established department store, but El and Dick seemed content at least. "I mean," Dick continues, "I know that hasn't been too long since we had breakfast, but there's this great Italian place overlooking the wharf, and I don't know about you, but I don't feel like going back yet."

"That sounds fine." El climbs into the back and Peter slides in after her, while Neal takes the front. "But - would it be possible to see a bit more of the city?"

"Sure." Dick starts the engine and pulls away. "Is there anything in particular you want to see? Most places in Gotham are just fine during the daytime. We've got museums and the water, of course, and the park and then there's the University and Main Street and the Observatory on Wayne Tower - but I wouldn't go now since it's probably filled with tourists, and we can take you up there anytime you want. But, let's see...there's the Planetarium and -"

Neal tunes out his incessant chatter. The jazz from the radio is mellow and the sky is bright blue and if he crosses his eyes a bit, Gotham looks a bit like New York and he can pretend that he's home. Home, he wants to scoff, because he spent his entire life bouncing around from place to place, from identity to identity and while Dick and Alfred would insist that Wayne Manor is his home and always will be, he knows it to be untrue - perhaps it once was, but it certainly isn't anymore. And he doubts it will ever be again, not unless he truly is the last of his family, because that's what it will take for him to return willingly.

"D? Damian?" Dick prods his shoulder and without thinking years of experience come rushing back as Neal reaches up and twists the other man's arm back effortlessly. They freeze for a moment - blue eyes meeting blue eyes, the world ceasing to exist around them - before Neal lets go. Dick shakes out his wrist once as the world bursts back into life, the sounds of a bustling street breaking their trance. "I shouldn't have snuck up on you like that," Dick apologizes quietly, but the damage is done. Neal doesn't need to look at the Burkes to see their shock and disapproval. He has never shown such skill while working with Peter, not daring to let that side of him out. It took years of practice to fight his instincts to fight, to disarm, to kill, and it shakes him to his core that he has not been back in Gotham for twelve hours and he manages to surprise Dick - Batman - to such a degree.

"Well! I sure am hungry, is this the place you mentioned, Dick?" Elizabeth, ever the peace maker, breaks the tension. "It sure is quaint."

Dick nods, absent-mindedly rubbing his wrist, causing Neal to feel even worse, though he knows the older man doesn't intend to. "Yeah, this is it." He pulls into a space a block away, locks the car, and leads them into a familiar restaurant. The pizzeria has been in Gotham for decades, and he remembers many occasions where Dick had brought him to the restaurant. Sometimes it was for congratulatory occasions; sometimes it was for serious and somber occasions, but it was always their spot, and having Peter and Elizabeth there too...well, part of him feels betrayed, but it's also...nice, in a way, to share this spot with his other "family."

The lunch rush has just started, so they don't have to wait long to be seated. Dick opts for patio seating, so the Burkes can dine and take in Gotham at the same time. Neal orders quickly, reciting his favorite dish from memory, but also asking for a glass of wine - something he certainly couldn't order as a teenager. Dick stares at him as he discusses wine choices with the waitress, and Peter rolls his eyes while Elizabeth has a soft smile on her face.

"I had no idea you were such a wine connoisseur, Dami." Dick finally says once everyone has ordered.

"Don't call me that, and of course why would you have any idea, since I was clearly under the drinking age in this country when I left." Neal takes a slice of fluffy, warm bread and butters it expertly.

"Like that ever stopped you," Dick snorts, taking a piece of bread himself.

"Neal's tame after what I've seen of Moz -" Peter stops abruptly.

"Moz?" Dick asks, but instead the table stays silent. The thin film of the banter breaks.

Until now, Neal had been able to - well, not ignore Mozzie's absence, but work around it. It was bad enough dealing with his family and Peter and El at the same time, and for a split second, he was glad Mozzie wasn't there to add to the confusion. Especially as to how Mozzie seemed to take Neal's apparent betrayal. It made things easier, and Neal hated himself for daring to think that, even if it was a split-second, fleeting thought, and not his real feelings on the matter.

His real feelings, well...

Mozzie wasn't the first friend he lost, and he would undoubtedly not be the last, but that still didn't take away the pain of losing a close friend. The aftermath of Colin's death was what put him in the entire situation in the first place: the fight with his father, becoming Neal Caffrey. Now, however, Neal had nowhere to go, no place to run to. He already was running - but without Mozzie, he didn't want to.

If it weren't for Peter and El, well...

He may be out of shape as a superhero, but he kept in physical shape, and after his upbringing, he wondered how much of his old abilities would come back to him, despite being fifteen years out of practice.

"Mozzie was a friend, a good one," Peter finally says.

"Oh," Dick says quietly, putting the pieces together. "He's the one that the League took out."

"Yes." Neal confirms. "He was."

"You know, he might not be dead - the League is strange like that." Neal knows that Dick is alluding to Jason, and the Lazarus pit in general, but it doesn't help. For one thing, to explain it all to Peter and El would require confessing a lot of his background he is content to keep under wraps. For another, Mozzie was - by the League's standards - a common, low-talent human with no ties to anyone the League would care about, except Neal... and well, the League had already shown what they'd do to Neal's associates. Jones was okay, at least, but his apartment wasn't.

"What - what you were saying before - was Neal a bit of a wild child?" El changes the subject.

"Did he already have his criminal tendencies?" Peter asks playfully - or so it would seem, if Neal hadn't known him so well. Under that playful tone was a hint of accusation and more than a hint of disapproval, beyond the sadness of remembering Mozzie.

"...Not in the way you'd expect," Dick answers after swallowing a bite of bread. "Damian was just...different. He didn't exactly have a 'normal' childhood, so..." He shrugs and sips his water. "It took him awhile to lower himself to 'mortal' standards."

"I'm not sure I understand..." Peter accepts the coffee the waitress has just brought to him.

"Story of his life." Dick smiles.

"You mean, story of my life is people talking about me when I'm sitting right here." Neal sips his wine. "Look, the past is over and I know I was an entitled brat, so can we please move on."

Dick holds up his hands in a "who, me" gesture. "Hey, Lil'D, it's just...different having you back after so long. Not that I'm not thrilled that you're back, because I am," he hurries to say, "but we were so worried after you disappeared and there was absolutely no trace of you and we couldn't figure out why you left in the first place..."

Of course Father wouldn't tell them. Neal takes a swig of wine to give himself some time to think, because as much as he isn't surprised, he is surprised at how much that revelation hurts. "What did...my father say?"

Dick frowns and picks at his anti-pasti. "You mean why you left? Nothing. He just said that you had had an argument and had stormed off. I mean, it wasn't even until a couple of days later that we realized you had really taken off - Bruce thought you had just gone to hang out with me, and I figured things were just fine with you and Bruce, so it wasn't until I hadn't heard from you for a couple of days that I realized that something was up. And by that time, there wasn't really a trace of you left."

Neal isn't sure what hurts more - the fact that his father completely lied about what happened (he had expected some deception, but lying like that?), or the fact that Dick hadn't even noticed he was gone until days later. There's a part of him that knows Dick didn't have a reason to look for him earlier, that despite their daily communication, sometimes he did miss a day, and Dick certainly had had other things on his mind at the time. But it still hurts that his brother hadn't immediately rushed to his rescue, taken his side, tracked him down, dragged him back to Gotham. Neal had done his best to cover his tracks, and he apparently managed it admirably - so well that the world's greatest detectives (minus his father, of course) couldn't track him down.

But.

Why hadn't Dick come to find him?

Did Neal really mean so little to his father that he would actively lie about what had happened?

"You told us earlier that you had had an argument with your father, but what was so awful, hon, that you couldn't turn to anyone in your family?" Elizabeth finally breaks the silence, and Neal is thankful. Of course, it would have been better if she had asked about the weather or made some comment on the anti-pasti instead.

"It's...complicated." Neal gulps down the rest of his glass and signals the waiter for another. "What a lovely day it is." He avoids Dick's gaze. "Perhaps we can take the yacht out."

"No, no, you're not changing the subject that easy." Neal freezes - he had expected a protest, but not from Peter. Of course, he realizes belatedly, that is rather foolhardy of him, because Peter was like a dog with a bone when it came to puzzling out Neal. "You disappeared for fifteen years and became a con man. Some little family tift was not enough to cause that."

"Oh look, it's our food." Dick changes the subject for him, but Neal knows the subject isn't closed. This is a family matter, a Batfamily matter, and while it can't be discussed in front of outsiders, Dick is not going to let it go. And maybe, just maybe, Dick will be able to see past his con man past and understand what drove him away in the first place.

Neal isn't going to ask for forgiveness or understanding for his cons, but perhaps he won't feel so isolated from his family if Dick at least gets why he started in the first place.

The subject seems closed as the group begins to eat.

Unfortunately this is Gotham, and things never stay quiet for long.

Elizabeth has just taken a bite of her spaghetti when screams are heard from down the block. The three men at the table all turn to look as a comically dressed figure comes running down the street and leaps over the fence separating the patio from the sidewalk, landing on top of their table. The table is upset, and Neal throws himself down on the ground, Peter and Dick following suit, with Dick pulling Elizabeth down as well. Neal is crouching in his own pasta, and there's just a little bit of glee that he's likely ruined his father's pair of jeans. Elizabeth has a large sauce stain on her dress and Peter's kneeling in salad and Dick ended up wearing his water and the rest of the patrons are scrambling out of the way, back into the restaurant as one of Gotham's infamous villains - albeit one Neal doesn't recognize - terrorizes the restaurant with what looks like a water gun but turns out to squirt acid from the way it eats away at the table cloth the villain has squirted it at.

The villain is female in a rainbow skin tight spandex suit, bright pink platform boots, a floppy straw hat with a large bow of the same rainbow print of her suit, long blonde hair flowing out behind her, and armed with an apparatus connected to the squirt gun. In the hand not holding the squirt gun she clutches a duffel bag overflowing with cash. "You!" She twirls around and points the gun at Neal's group. "One of you, come here! I need a hostage!" Peter fumbles for his weapon, but it only takes a look between Neal and Dick before they're lunging at her. Before she can aim the acid-gun at them, Dick's disarmed her and Neal has her down on the ground, his knee digging into her shoulder blades.

"We've called the cops!" A waiter rushes out of the restaurant. Elizabeth and Peter stand up shakily, and Neal nods, staying put. Dick puts on a shocked expression.

"Holy - Would you look at that? That move I learned in the movie last night actually worked!" He "accidentally" drops the acid gun, though he's made sure it won't work anymore. "That is so cool!"

"Grayson, stop carrying on." Neal rolls his eyes, and presses his knee harder into the villain's shoulder blades as she tries to squirm and knock him off. "And you - who the hell are you anyways?"

"I am Color Blind - I blind you with my colors!" She tries kicking, but Peter ends up sitting on her legs. "Get off of me, you fools!"

"Hoo boy," Neal eyes the woman beneath him. "Color Blind? Really? I know I've been gone a long time, and Gotham is known for its insanity, but that's just ridiculous. And ableist," he adds as an afterthought. Not that villains exactly strove to be social justice icons.

"Oh, she isn't the worst. But yeah, almost makes you miss the Condiment King," Dick rolls his eyes as a team of patrol officers and a detective Neal doesn't recognize finally show up.

"Color Blind! We lost her two blocks back when she robbed a flower shop." The detective nodded, and a young officer took out his handcuffs and Neal and Peter both got off of her once she was secured.

"Oh thank you so much, Officers!" Dick gushes. "Here we were, eating lunch, and she just jumps onto our table and then tries to take us hostage, but Peter here - he's an FBI agent, and she was no match, and we're just so glad that you can take her away now!"

"Right, well, you're welcome," the detective answers and waves the patrol officers on, as they march Color Blind out of the patio and into a waiting patrol car.

Neal and Dick share a look, and Dick takes out his wallet and throws down more than enough cash to cover their meal. "Come on," Dick says, "lunch is over."