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Hughes caught him after lunch. “Burke,” he called over the bullpen, just as Peter was planning to head out. Hughes turned and headed back into his office. Peter followed.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Hughes waved his hand; Peter, following directions, closed the door. Hughes placed his hands palm down on his desk and leaned.
“Sir?” said Peter.
“Washington,” Hughes said.
Something raced through Peter at that—a chill, a thrill, joy—
“Neal’s coming back,” he said.
“They’ve reached an agreement,” Hughes nodded. “Obviously, you won’t have to—he won’t have a handler, this time round. No anklet.”
“Obviously,” Peter said.
“But he’ll be back in the office, sort of, when his schedule permits,” Hughes continued, and Peter thought of all the things on Nightwing’s schedule. “He’s to be the first official liaison between the Justice League and the FBI. He might get pulled out from time to time.”
“Of course,” said Peter. “He’ll—we’ll try not to overload him with, you know…” He gestured. “I mean, he won’t have time for the whole caseload, if he’s… liaising, for everybody. But you know he’s central to the team we’ve built here—” He stopped. “I’ll deny it if he asks, but we need him; at least, we’re better with him and I don’t want to restructure every time there’s an alien attack—”
Hughes raised his head and gave him a look that Peter felt in his soul. “Dick Grayson-Wayne,” he said, and then: “For the purposes of this position, he remains Neal Caffrey. No new aliases, no—whatever his name is, understand? When he’s in this building, he’s Neal Caffrey.” He sighed. “No masks.”
Peter breathed in. “Some of them know already,” he said. “Some of them know about Dick Grayson-Wayne, I mean. On this floor, at least. And some of them know about—”
Jones had been squirrely since Mozzie’s nonsense. Breakdown. All of that. Diana, in contrast, had settled, like questions had been answered.
Peter should talk to them both. Separately.
“Some of them might know some other things,” he said now, and Hughes shook his head.
“I don’t want to,” he said. “If it becomes a thing I need to deal with, bring me in. For now,” he gestured, “I’ve got my hands full.”
Peter nodded.
“You’re not his handler,” Hughes said again and—Peter knew that. Why was he— “Peter. I want to say this before he comes back and this all starts getting… out of hand.” Peter met his eyes. “Neal, Dick. Whatever his name is. You’re not his handler. You’re not—you haven’t signed anything, this time. And the things you signed before…”
A chill up Peter’s back.
“Justice League matters,” Hughes said. “It’s all being sealed. Or struck. Don’t look like that, I know you get creative sometimes. Point is, now you didn’t. None of it stays.”
Peter said, distantly: “We did good work.”
“With a lot of latitude and the fear that every time you tested the length of the rope, you or he would end up hanging from it. That fear’s gone now.” It might have been the longest speech Peter’d ever heard come out of Hughes’ mouth. “Now, you’ll have all the latitude you need, if he’s involved. You’ve got a shield from OPR, from all of it—the whole department.” He shook his head. “I’m getting off track. Peter. I know you handled him, I know you felt responsible for him. I know, legally, you were responsible for him. What I’m saying is, now, you’re not. If anything, it’s the other way around.”
“Sir.”
“Whoever he is,” Hughes said, heavily, “I don’t think you need to protect him.”
“Sir.”
Hughes sat, slowly, not meeting Peter’s eyes, and said: “But you’re still going to?”
“Sir.”
“Alright.” Hughes sighed. “Let me know if there’s anything you need.”
Peter left the office.
***
Neal’s text arrived around three.
Peter! Sorry about the late notice. I’m in town. Any chance you and El want to come for dinner?
And then:
June’s.
Peter texted back. They settled on seven.
***
June greeted them at the door.
“Good to see you,” Peter said, as she and El clasped hands. “Dinner at Neal’s?”
“Just like old times,” said June.
Peter paused. “Who’s cooking?”
El gave him an odd look; before, he wouldn’t even have asked. He’d eaten takeout at Neal’s so many times, he just assumed that Neal was saving up his cooking competencies for flirting.
“Neal said carbonara,” June told him.
If Peter remembered, pasta was on Neal’s list of capabilities. List—well, it was two items, but pasta was one of them.
“Sounds lovely,” said El, as they headed up the stairs.
Neal yelled, “El!” as they walked in and Peter tensed, but there wasn’t a threat. Just Neal, effervescent, a hopeful smile splitting his face from side to side.
“Hi, Neal,” El said, and they hadn’t seen each other face-to-face, since everything had happened, since those moments at the Bureau months ago, laden with secrets and double meanings and relief.
Maybe Peter was over-protective.
But Neal was tense.
El said, “It’s great to have you back with us,” and some of the bubbling nerves went out of Neal’s shoulders.
“Thanks,” he said quietly. “I know it’s all—thanks. For everything you’ve done, for… thanks.”
El squeezed his hand and he stood for a minute. Then he spun away, saying, “Wine!” He poured them each a glass of red and distributed them, shepherding people towards his couches as he went.
The apartment was almost the same. He’d left it without warning, after all; left his furniture and books and art, like Neal Caffrey had just been plucked out of the fabric of reality, like a stray thread. He fit back in now, almost perfectly, but there were slight differences.
A cheap poster, expensively mounted over the sink: the Flying Graysons. A thick knitted blanket over the back of the couch, robin’s egg blue. A chin-up bar over the washroom door. A—
“That’s lovely,” El said, pointing at the cat statuette. Pale, striated, color too pearly for marble.
“Thanks,” said Neal. “It was a gift. Qing dynasty jade.”
Peter looked at him. Reserve cost was probably in the thousands then, and at auction, tens of thousands was possible. “It’s safe here?” he asked.
Neal looked back. “Why not—oh.”
Peter shrugged. “It is a cat.” Wouldn’t be his first thought for most people, but Neal had already established that he was closer to Gotham’s villains than most—
“Yeah, no,” Neal said. “It’s. Um. Catwoman gave it to me. Welcome-home present.”
There was a pause, and then El said, carefully, “I’m sorry, what?”
“Catwoman? She’s kinda… Well, my… Bruce, my dad, I mean, knows her pretty well, I guess. From all the times she’s. Um.” He coughed. “Anyway, she’s not going to come for it.”
“Of course not,” said June, sipping at her wine. “She’d never break in here.” Peter looked at her, and she added, “She’s my niece.”
Neal turned, mouth open. “Wait, what? Since when?”
“Well. Vaguely,” June shrugged. “Byron worked with her early on in her career. Late in his. We took her in, you might say. I assume she did the same for you, eventually?”
Neal stammered. “Kinda. Um. Not—not exactly but…”
“Neal,” said Peter. “Hughes said you’re able to put certain things, you know, under League jurisdiction.”
“Yeah,” he said, looking away from June. “Yeah, Suh—Catwoman’s there. She helps.” Peter relaxed.
“Like you,” said El.
“From time to time, yeah.” Neal returned to staring at June. “Did you know when we met? Or, wait, did she tell you—” A knock at his door interrupted him. “Hang on.”
He answered the door, wine glass in hand. “Great,” he said. “Hi, Moz.”
***
The carbonara was good.
***
Things weren’t quite how they used to be. There was tension arcing over the table, between Neal and June, Mozzie and Neal, El and everyone. Peter did his best to defuse it, but socializing had never been his strength.
It was okay, he figured. Mozzie had done alright with the Nightwing news and the confiscation of whatever the hell had been in that box (which Peter had deliberately not asked). Neal had said Peter could tell El everything, if he wanted, but Peter needed Neal to be there, for that part. He didn’t like keeping things from her, but…
Came with the job. She understood. And this wasn’t Peter’s to tell.
Now that Neal was back, they'd talk about it. They’d be okay.
Moz, El, June, they’d be okay—
Another knock on the door.
Neal looked around in confusion. “You invite somebody, Peter?”
Peter shook his head.
“Huh. Okay,” Neal said, standing.
And then, opening the door: “Dami?”
***
The kid had not expected Neal to have company. That much, at least, was clear. He was diffident and nervy, looking around himself like a high-strung horse. Assassin cult, Peter reminded himself.
“Everyone,” said Neal, “this is my youngest brother, Damian. Dami, this is—Peter you know, but this is El, and Mozzie, and June. June knows Catwoman,” he added, which Peter understood to mean, Only Peter knows you’re Robin.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” said Damian, as though coached.
El said: “You painted together, right, Neal?”
Neal nodded. “At the Venner. Three weeks ago now.”
“I heard about it,” El said. “Not just from him, I mean,” she smiled, with a nod in Peter’s direction. “But I heard you’ve got a lot of talent!”
Robin, sailing out a window.
“He does,” Neal said, with paternal pride. And then he put his head to the side, realizing something. “He also has school tomorrow. And did he—”
“No, Father does not know I’m here,” said the teenager.
Neal pursed his lips and June made a disapproving noise.
El said, “If you need to deal with this, Neal—”
“His name is Richard,” Damian spat, precise and emphatic, bringing El up short.
Peter bristled, but Neal beat him to it.
“No,” Neal said, remarkably calmly, to El, “you’re my guests. Make yourselves comfortable, please.” He turned to the teenager, who was staring firmly at the corner of the room. “Damian. Do you trust me?”
The boy blinked. “What?”
“Do you trust me?”
“Of course,” Damian said.
“Do you trust me to speak for myself?”
Damian clicked his tongue, but said nothing.
“I need an answer, Dami.”
“I… you don’t.” He met Neal’s gaze. “You don’t always. You put other people’s comfort above your own.”
Neal closed his eyes. After a few seconds of silence, still with his eyes closed, he said, “Maybe that’s true. I’ll work on that and you work on believing that I’ll do it, alright?”
Damian nodded. He turned back to El. “My apologies, Mrs. Burke.”
And Neal said: “Neal’s good, El. Neal’s great, actually. The cover’s still partly in place, for the FBI at least. I like Neal.”
Peter nodded as El said, “Okay. If you ever—”
“Of course,” said Neal. “Promised Dami, after all.” He went into the kitchen and unearthed an electric kettle from the cupboards. “Tea, Dami? I’m afraid the pasta’s got bacon in it. Wasn’t expecting you.”
“We should go,” Moz said, standing.
“Give me a minute,” Neal said. “Dami? Do I call Bruce now?”
There was a pause, and Damian, who was still standing awkward by the door, said, “You may notify him.”
“Right,” said Neal, pulling out his phone. “Okay. Cool. Wanna stay over, kiddo?”
Kiddo stiffened.
Then, small-voiced, he said, “Yes, please.”