Fic: Running Backwards (3/?), Fandom: White Collar/DCU, Rating: PG-13
Title: Running Backwards (3/?)
Author: in_excelsis_dea
Fandom: White Collar/DCU (Batman)
Characters: Neal, Peter, Elizabeth, Mozzie, Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne
Genre: Drama, Action, Angst, Family
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Neal thought that he’d be safe on a tropical island. Unfortunately, someone managed to track him down, and it isn’t the FBI…
Chapter Summary:As they head away from danger, Neal reluctantly makes a phone call to someone from his past.
AN: I’d like to thank my lovely beta-reader, leonie_alastair. I planned out the route the characters take on Google Maps, so it does exist. Finally we get a taste of the Batfamily and Neal’s past. I'm sorry for taking weeks to update this. I started working -- nights -- so I have to totally readjust my schedule, and I've had this sitting for weeks and just never got around to updating it. I am not completely certain when Chapter 4 will be posted, since I have technically to Chapter 6, but I need to rewrite a lot of it, so...hopefully soon, is all I can say. Anyways, comments and constructive criticism are always appreciated and I hope you enjoy the chapter.
Chapter 3
Neal lied directly to Peter.
This is something he has never done before. He has never outright lied to the man, and he had hoped he would never have to. Stretch the truth, sure. Leave information out, sure. Try to distract the man, sure. But he once said he would never lie to Peter, and he meant it.
That the League of Assassins has forced him to lie infuriates him. Neal isn’t all right. His head is pounding, but he’s definitely had worse. Much worse, including at the hand of his own family. He was trained to fight through the pain, to fight not only to the point of exhaustion but beyond that. But even beyond the considerable pain in his head, he suffers a deep emotional pain.
He’s not going to get through this alone.
Mozzie manages to guide them through the subway tunnels until they get out onto the streets. Peter, thankfully, keeps his mouth silent and follows all orders, herding Elizabeth along as well. They are both dirty and look exhausted -- it’s the middle of the night after all -- but he can’t do anything about it. They need to get some distance quickly.
When Mozzie hot-wires a car, Peter doesn’t even say anything. He just slides into the back seat with Elizabeth. It’s Peter’s silence that affects him the most. The pain of leading Peter on, the realization that Peter trusts him enough to just follow without questioning - yet - the knowledge of what has to come next, the proverbial Pandora’s box he is about to open. But Neal knows he cannot break down. He only allows a small frown to show, rummaging in the glove compartment for some napkins to wipe the blood away from his temple. “Moz, get driving.”
“I’m on it,” His friend replies, and they merge into the traffic of the city that never sleeps, heading northwest until they hit I95 and head out of Manhattan into the greater state of New York. It isn’t until they hit the junction of the 4 and the 208 that anyone speaks again.
“Take the 208 until it hits Wyckoff Ave. and then turn south, turning eventually on Franklin Lake Road. We’ll get back onto I287 after some twisting and turning.” Neal tells Mozzie, trying his best to stay awake as the scenery flashes by them. Mozzie nods, taking the ramp. Neal leans back, sighing. It took them over a day to get to New York, counting the time it took to fly off of their island and get into the continental US. Then they had to make the DVD, make contingency plans, and here they are, once again running for their lives.
He managed to sleep a little bit on the plane, but most of the time he meditated instead, trying to work through the barrage of emotions. Now he is both mentally and physically exhausted, but doesn’t dare sleep. For one thing, he can’t rule out a concussion. For another, he can’t relinquish control of the situation. He’s been pushed farther, gone days on end without sleep. His body can handle it to a point, and even though he’s out of practice, he needs to continue to push himself.
There is no other option.
He realizes now that he can’t do this alone. If it were just him, if he were a free agent without any friends -- any family, his mind substitutes -- he would let things go. He might even confront the League himself: ask them what the hell they wanted after all these years. Fifteen long years -- and several before that where he had been on his own, relatively left alone. Drawn in on various plots, but never outright approached -- or hunted, not after his mother lifted the outrageous bounty on his head. What had changed things? Why now? He was useless to the League. He hadn’t really kept up his skills, at least not the skills the League would be interested in. After all, he was a forger and thief, a white collar criminal. He didn’t assassinate people and his disgust of guns was well-known to both the police and the criminal element.
He can’t fight off the League alone. He can’t continue on and ignore them -- not when they’re actively tracking down his friends. This has evolved from just his fight, and as much as he hated it as an adolescent and teenager, he had learned that there was a time and a place to ask for help.
This is one of them.
And that acknowledgement brings on an entirely new pain.
He jolts as they turn onto Franklin Lake Road. Elizabeth is asleep on Peter’s shoulder, and Peter is staring out of the window. Mozzie yawns, but keeps driving.
“What are we going to do?” Peter asks, and Neal knows he isn’t asking about their next meal.
“I don’t know.” Neal twists toward him. “We need to get rid of the car. Unfortunately, it’s got our prints and,” he winces, “my blood on it, so we’re going to have to trash it. Then we’re going to find a place to stay.” He pauses, tries to collect himself. “And then we’re going to get something to eat and I’m going to…call someone.” Admitting this to Peter is a challenge, but he knows he has to make that call. He can’t avoid it any longer.
“Who are you going to call?” Peter asks, his voice steady. “The US Marshalls are looking for you. And any US -- or international -- law enforcement agency is going to report you to them. Plus, as much as I hate to admit it, the FBI, local police, the Marshalls -- no one is capable of dealing with the League of Assassins. The JLA is going to have to deal with them, and while any LEA around is going to call them up once they get an idea of what’s going on, you’ll be in custody and easy pickings for the League.”
“I know.” And Neal does know this, has known it for years. He could directly call the Justice League, and he thought about doing it while they were traveling through the US on a train, trying to reach New York. But the JLA wouldn’t take his call without him outing himself, and even then they’d call his family, and that would create a whole new mess. Plus Neal doesn’t want everyone to know he’s back, and as much as he tolerated the Supers (and had even been close friends with one of them), news like this wouldn’t stay hidden long. Superman is too much of a boy scout not to share his return with the others in the League. But Neal’s family on the other hand, is known for its discretion and secretive nature. They would keep things on the down-low until the absolute last minute.
He can trust them.
And it burns, this knowledge. Because he can trust them -- at least some of them. And he will have to, after all this time. It’s better to take the Justice League out of the equation and directly call his family. They will know how to deal with the situation. They will work things out for him. And sure, it will be painful to go back, to look…certain people in the eye again, Neal will do it -- not for himself, but for Peter and El and Mozzie.
Peter is still watching him, waiting for an answer, an explanation. Neal takes a breath and sighs, closing his eyes. “Right now, we need a place to stay, somewhere off of the radar. Some place no one will look for us. And then we can formulate a plan of what to do.”
“And we’re heading to that place now?” Peter leans forwards. “You’ve seemed to pick a roundabout way to get wherever we’re going, since we just got off I287 and now you want to get back on it. And just what are you going to do, once we get to our destination? Give yourself up? Run and disappear? The League isn’t known for giving up on its quarry. Even if you manage to run, you’ll be running your entire life, and it won’t be like the FBI or Marshalls tracking you down. They at least follow laws and international treaties. The League doesn’t, and you know that, Neal. The League -- they make Matthew Keller look like a boy scout. You can’t seriously be thinking of going after them by yourself or making a deal or whatever.”
“I’m not, Peter.” Neal shakes his head and resolves never to do that again because it makes it hurt that much more. “I am not going to go after the League alone, though I will admit that my plan is still in the works.”
“Neal speak for ‘I’m flying by the seat of my pants,’” Mozzie snarks and Neal scowls at him.
“I have some ideas,” Neal corrects. “But you’re right: going at this alone isn’t going to work. And no, where we’re going now is not where we’ll be holing up for the rest of the time. I chose this roundabout way for a reason. You don’t see any assassins after us, do you? It’s a…meeting point. Once we get there I’m going to make a call and we’ll get picked up and moved.”
“This is sounding like a spy novel,” El speaks up, yawning. She lifts her head off of Peter’s shoulder and rubs her eyes. “Clandestine meetings, the League of Assassins…are we going to meet Batman next?”
Neal forces a laugh. “Haha…no, this is not a spy novel and the Bat is not going to meet us.”
“You too prefer the Dark Knight to America’s Golden Boy?” Mozzie asks, merging onto the 287. “I always thought Superman was too light-hearted to really show what America is like.”
“I like how Batman seems more human -- is human.” El smiles. “I used to pretend to be Batgirl, and I even dressed up as her for Halloween once. I thought it would be so fun to run around rooftops like that, though I realized eventually that it was extremely dangerous.”
“Hmm, yes, well if we could get off the subject of Batman and Batgirl, maybe we could talk about what we’re going to do next.” Neal segues into another topic. Peter gives him a Look, but Neal ignores it. Not wanting to talk about superheroes is nothing strange -- for all the hero-worshippers and hero-despisers, there’s a healthy population of citizens who just don’t care and Neal would like to consider himself part of this bunch -- at least for the last decade and a half. Caring too much, either way, is what causes problems, he knows. It’s way too easy to become a super villain, what with his particular talents, and that would just make things…messy.
Neal doesn’t do messy.
Well, unless it has to do with his art.
“You’ve already said we’re going to some tiny town and wait there for a contact. What I want to know,” Peter leans forward, “is who your ‘contact’ is, and how we can be sure he’s trustworthy. You still haven’t told us why the League is after you -- and no,” he adds before Neal can protest, “I don’t believe that you don’t have any idea. Surely you can at least hazard a guess why the most notorious group of super villains is after an admittedly gifted con man, thief and forger, but with no powers -- and yes, you know your DNA was tested thoroughly before you went to prison,” Peter again cuts Neal off, “and no apparent ties to any of the super villains associated with the League. I want answers, Neal.”
“And you’ll get them, Peter.” Neal runs a hand through his hair. His hair crusted with blood and he winces, resolving to shower as soon as they get to a hotel room. “Just…give me time.”
“You said you’d tell me everything, back when we were waiting during your computation hearing. You promised, Neal, and I am getting real tired of being chased by assassins and getting kidnapped and blown up and putting my career and family at risk because you won’t tell the damn truth if it kills you!” Neal reels backwards at Peter’s onslaught of words and even the man himself seems taken aback by his fury.
“I’ll tell you, Peter.” Neal dips his head. “I promised you and I will honor that promise. But I wasn’t kidding when I said even Mozzie doesn’t know the whole truth of it all, and it’s very…challenging to face my past. This wasn’t exactly what I had planned,” he forces a trace of a smile onto his lips. “But fine. I’ll tell you…the person I need to contact? Is my brother.”
Mozzie turns the silent car onto a county road. They’ve passed Raritan Township, and now is the time to ditch this car and find a new one, just for the ride back to town. As much as Neal wants to leave Peter and Elizabeth at some hotel while he and Mozzie complete this errand, he knows it’s safer to keep them with him. Alone, neither Peter nor El will have any chance against the League, and though they don’t know much of his plans, Neal can’t let them let the little knowledge they have slip if it came down to it. They don’t know who his brother is, but the League certainly does.
“I really don’t like this.” Peter speaks up for the first time since Neal’s admission of a brother, and Neal closes his eyes. At least it isn’t accusations.
“It’s not my favorite thing either, Peter. But if it makes you feel better, I have the license plate of this car and when we get back to New York, I’ll see what I can do about apologizing or replacing it.” Mozzie stops the car next to a darkened strip of road with a lone car, and Neal gets out. “Come on, you two.”
He manages to get into the car easily -- it’s an older car, and the window isn’t even shut all the way, which makes it easy to jimmy the door open. Hotwiring it takes a few more seconds and soon it’s started. He waits for Peter and El to have a quick conversation, knowing it goes something like Peter being worried about getting into a stolen car and El standing up for him, because what else are they to do, and Peter going on again about how he’s against the idea, but El manages to give him that Look and Peter finally gives in. Neal hates how they have been drawn into this, but besides Mozzie, they’re his closest friends, and easy targets for the League.
The League of Assassins doesn’t just assassinate people; it murders hopes and dreams and relationships as well.
Peter climbs in the front seat with him, taking in the blood smeared on his temple and in his hair, the splatters on his once-expensive shirt. He opens his mouth to say something before apparently changing his mind, turning away. Neal pushes the gas pedal and follows after Mozzie, stopping once they pass over railroad tracks. Mozzie continues on and comes back several minutes later, a shadowy figure walking the road.
“It’s done,” he simply states, and climbs in the back.
“Great,” Neal says, but he doesn’t know if he means it or not. “Let’s go.”
It occurs to him a mile later that driving with a concussion really isn’t the wisest move. What’s worse is that Peter notices too. “That’s it,” he heaves a sigh. “Switch with me. Just tell me where we’re going.”
“Continue on the 31, then turn into Flemington and find some kind of hotel,” Neal mutters, closing his eyes.
“What about an all-night dinner instead?” Peter asks and Neal is suddenly jerked awake. Shit. He certainly hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Maybe it isn’t a concussion after all, but a horrible migraine. He looks out of the car into a sparsely populated parking lot next to a diner with a blinking sign advertising all-you-can-eat pancakes all day long.
“Whatever,” Neal mumbles, wincing as he opens the car door.
“Go inside,” Mozzie waves everyone away. “I will sterilize this car.”
Neal forces himself to stand up right and take a few steps. Peter is there instantly, putting his arm around his shoulders and half-supporting him until they reach the diner. Elizabeth looks concerned and starts rooting through her purse. “I thought I had -- here, Neal. Take two of these with some water as soon as we get inside.” She hands him the Aleve bottle, and he takes it from her, mumbling a thanks.
Peter steers him towards the restroom in the alcove by the hostess desk, while Elizabeth chats with the hostess, explaining how Neal had fainted earlier and hit his head hard on a wall while they were at a rest stop before the waitress could gasp in horror at his condition. The water in the restroom is cold and he manages to clean off the blood in his hair and on his face, though his shirt is a lost cause. He downs the pills with a handful of water, staring into the mirror as if it’s the last time he’s going to see himself in it.
And it might be, if he finally sheds Neal Caffrey.
“Feeling better?” Peter asks him with concern instead of judgment, and Neal feels hope. By all rights, Peter should be furious at him for drawing El and himself into his mess. And Neal knows Peter is still waiting for answers. But instead of yelling at him, or forcing him, his friend is worried about him. It helps, helps a lot, to know that someone’s got your back. Neal’s friends like that have been few and far between since his eighteenth birthday.
He’s thankful he’s got Peter.
Now, if he can keep him once Peter finds out the truth…
“A bit, yeah.” Neal takes a sodden paper towel and lays it across his forehead. “I really need to wait for the pills to kick in.”
“Well, let’s try some food. It’s been awhile since dinner and I don’t think our night is over yet.” Peter glances at Neal, who nods. No, the night is definitely not over.
By the time they make it back to the booth, Mozzie is seated at the table with a cup of tea, while Elizabeth pursues the menu. “Hey hon, Neal. How are you feeling?”
Neal tries his charming smile. “Better. Thanks for the pills. Good thinking with the story.”
“Well,” El shrugs, still concerned, “you did look a mess. I assume we don’t want to attract a lot of attention, so I came up with a simple excuse. Try to eat something; you might feel better with some food in your stomach.”
“I will, thanks.” Neal scans the menu in front of him, though he keeps an eye on the diner at large. It’s after two in the morning, but there are still a few patrons: a group of young adults, a few truck drivers, a couple dressed in scrubs. There’s a waitress behind the bar, and he can make out a figure in the kitchen -- likely the cook. A bus boy wipes down a table. The diner is clearly a product of several decades ago, but it is clean and welcoming and Neal tries to relax some tension from his shoulders. First he’s going to order. Then he’s going to make that call.
He can do this.
The waitress appears again and everyone orders. Peter goes with the pancakes while El gets a soup, salad and sandwich. Mozzie finally goes with the rib and a salad and Neal can’t make up his mind if he should fill up or not -- if his stomach can take it. He finally decides on the spaghetti. It isn’t until the waitress departs again that Peter takes a sip of his water and says, “Well?”
Neal closes his eyes, grabbing his own water, but instead takes the straw and stirs the ice around. “I need to call my…brother.” The tabletop is chipped Formica and the placemats are light-weight paper perfect for drawing on. His fingers itch for a pen. “He’ll come get us.”
“I didn’t know you had a brother.” Peter says slowly.
“You don’t know a lot about me, Peter.” Neal shrugs. “You’ve said it yourself -- I’m a mystery before I turned eighteen. And this…well, this is your introduction into my childhood.” He finally sips some of his water. “I don’t know where to begin. I…haven’t been in contact with my family since I walked out when I was eighteen.”
“Oh Neal.” Elizabeth looks like she wants to hug him, and truthfully, Neal isn't terribly sure he'd mind. He could use some unbiased help. Peter is not going to be happy when he finds out about the family and past Neal has hidden from him, and Mozzie...well. It's clear that the older man is not going to understand Neal's reasons for leaving, nor is he going to let it go. Neal's past is a con man's dream, after all. Which is probably one of the reasons Neal has always been an exceptional sort of con man. He came from the life they all yearn for, found it relatively lacking, and ended up conning for the thrill of it.
There's no way Mozzie will understand. Or Peter. Or Diana or Jones or anyone else. So yes, some support is very welcome.
“What happened? Are you all right?” Elizabeth grips her tea harder, a frown on her face. “It must have been bad to make you leave and never look back.”
Neal makes a half-laugh and half-sigh sound. If only she knew. “You could say that...” He trails off, buying some time to think. The problem is that when he first created the Neal Caffrey persona and in the subsequent years created a past for himself, he never came up with a plan of what to do when he would have to reveal parts of his true past. The cover story of having a dirty-cop father who died when he was too young to remember him and a mother who tried hard but wasn't really capable of keeping her brilliant and tenacious son out of trouble was easy to create, and it kept most people from asking too many questions. When people did inquire further - like Mozzie, or June - he was able to tell pieces of the truth mixed with simple lies: yes, his father was alive and in prison; no, he hadn't spoken to the man since he had 'died' and hadn't even known that the man was alive until he was eighteen and his dear old family friend Ellen Parker had finally revealed the truth to him. It silenced most people and the ones who did guess there was more - like Mozzie and June - realized how much it pained him, and ceased questioning him.
In nearly fifteen years this is the first time he has to cobble together some kind of half-truths about his family, and despite being a brilliant - if he does say so himself - con man, this is the type of lie that is...impossibly hard to do.
Just what does he dare reveal?
“My father and I had an argument on the night I turned eighteen, and I left. There were some other...issues that were going on, and my father and I had always had a bit of a strained, you could say, relationship. My mother was completely out of the picture at that point, and my siblings --”
“Wait, you have siblings?” Peter interrupts. “As in more than one?”
Neal nods his head slowly and sips some water. “Yes. I have four, actually - three brothers and a sister. But at the time, I did not feel as if I could...intrude upon them. So I left.”
“So why haven't you contacted them since then?” Elizabeth asks. “Surely after so long...”
“Easier said than done.” He cannot meet her eyes - any of their eyes. “It's hard to explain, but the argument between my father and I was not a simple tiff over taking out the car without permission or sneaking out or one of those other common teenage indiscretions. He felt as if I had broken one of his cardinal rules - the rules our family lived by - and, well, one of my brothers is still barely a step above estranged and he broke the 'rule' about twenty-five years ago. My father is not a man who forgives easily, Elizabeth.”
“But surely your siblings, especially the estranged one.” Peter sips his coffee. “If he knows what it's like...”
“Jay?” Neal barks out a laugh. “Oh no. Believe me, Peter, the last person you want me taking up with is Jason.” He pauses, tilts his head for a moment. “Though really, if we wanted a fast and rather messy solution to our problem, he would be a good person to go to. But getting involved with him - I didn't want to bring him down with me then and I still don't, and I doubt you would approve of his methods, so...” Neal pauses as the waitress brings drink refills and their food. “Look, my family is incredibly complicated; let's just leave it at that. But at this particular moment in time, with this particular foe after us, taking up with my family is pretty much the only option we have.”
“Unless your family is a bunch of superheroes or supervillains, how could they have any hope against the League of Assasins?” Mozzie leans forwards and whispers. “You said yourself that the League is out of our league, and the FBI won't touch them either.”
“Like I said, Moz, it's -”
“Complicated, we get it.” Peter cuts into his pancakes. “I think you need to make that call and contact whatever brother you need to contact to get things worked out, because who knows when the assassins are going to appear again.”
Neal forces a blasé smile. “Then I guess I will.” He brings a prepaid disposable phone from his jacket pocket and flips it open. The number he begins to dial is familiar to him and his fingers dial it instinctively despite the fact it has been so long. He hesitates before hitting the “send” button with his thumb, but Elizabeth reaches over and pats his hand and Peter puts his hand on his shoulder and even Mozzie toasts him with his salad, and Neal gathers the courage to begin the call. It rings once before the phone picks up - this is an emergency number with a special ring tone and message that his brother would know to pick up instantly, but it's still a shock to hear his brother's voice.
“Hello?” His brother asks, without a hint of sleep in his voice, and Neal figures he must have been out patrolling.
“Dick? I need your help.” He forces out the words in a nonchalant tone, even though his stomach is churning. He hates the physical reaction and wants to blame it on the food, but so far he's only had water, so he can't.
“Who - who is this?” It's not accusing, but more wistful, and something inside Neal breaks as he breathes into the phone.
“It's Damian.”
Author: in_excelsis_dea
Fandom: White Collar/DCU (Batman)
Characters: Neal, Peter, Elizabeth, Mozzie, Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne
Genre: Drama, Action, Angst, Family
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Neal thought that he’d be safe on a tropical island. Unfortunately, someone managed to track him down, and it isn’t the FBI…
Chapter Summary:As they head away from danger, Neal reluctantly makes a phone call to someone from his past.
AN: I’d like to thank my lovely beta-reader, leonie_alastair. I planned out the route the characters take on Google Maps, so it does exist. Finally we get a taste of the Batfamily and Neal’s past. I'm sorry for taking weeks to update this. I started working -- nights -- so I have to totally readjust my schedule, and I've had this sitting for weeks and just never got around to updating it. I am not completely certain when Chapter 4 will be posted, since I have technically to Chapter 6, but I need to rewrite a lot of it, so...hopefully soon, is all I can say. Anyways, comments and constructive criticism are always appreciated and I hope you enjoy the chapter.
Chapter 3
Neal lied directly to Peter.
This is something he has never done before. He has never outright lied to the man, and he had hoped he would never have to. Stretch the truth, sure. Leave information out, sure. Try to distract the man, sure. But he once said he would never lie to Peter, and he meant it.
That the League of Assassins has forced him to lie infuriates him. Neal isn’t all right. His head is pounding, but he’s definitely had worse. Much worse, including at the hand of his own family. He was trained to fight through the pain, to fight not only to the point of exhaustion but beyond that. But even beyond the considerable pain in his head, he suffers a deep emotional pain.
He’s not going to get through this alone.
Mozzie manages to guide them through the subway tunnels until they get out onto the streets. Peter, thankfully, keeps his mouth silent and follows all orders, herding Elizabeth along as well. They are both dirty and look exhausted -- it’s the middle of the night after all -- but he can’t do anything about it. They need to get some distance quickly.
When Mozzie hot-wires a car, Peter doesn’t even say anything. He just slides into the back seat with Elizabeth. It’s Peter’s silence that affects him the most. The pain of leading Peter on, the realization that Peter trusts him enough to just follow without questioning - yet - the knowledge of what has to come next, the proverbial Pandora’s box he is about to open. But Neal knows he cannot break down. He only allows a small frown to show, rummaging in the glove compartment for some napkins to wipe the blood away from his temple. “Moz, get driving.”
“I’m on it,” His friend replies, and they merge into the traffic of the city that never sleeps, heading northwest until they hit I95 and head out of Manhattan into the greater state of New York. It isn’t until they hit the junction of the 4 and the 208 that anyone speaks again.
“Take the 208 until it hits Wyckoff Ave. and then turn south, turning eventually on Franklin Lake Road. We’ll get back onto I287 after some twisting and turning.” Neal tells Mozzie, trying his best to stay awake as the scenery flashes by them. Mozzie nods, taking the ramp. Neal leans back, sighing. It took them over a day to get to New York, counting the time it took to fly off of their island and get into the continental US. Then they had to make the DVD, make contingency plans, and here they are, once again running for their lives.
He managed to sleep a little bit on the plane, but most of the time he meditated instead, trying to work through the barrage of emotions. Now he is both mentally and physically exhausted, but doesn’t dare sleep. For one thing, he can’t rule out a concussion. For another, he can’t relinquish control of the situation. He’s been pushed farther, gone days on end without sleep. His body can handle it to a point, and even though he’s out of practice, he needs to continue to push himself.
There is no other option.
He realizes now that he can’t do this alone. If it were just him, if he were a free agent without any friends -- any family, his mind substitutes -- he would let things go. He might even confront the League himself: ask them what the hell they wanted after all these years. Fifteen long years -- and several before that where he had been on his own, relatively left alone. Drawn in on various plots, but never outright approached -- or hunted, not after his mother lifted the outrageous bounty on his head. What had changed things? Why now? He was useless to the League. He hadn’t really kept up his skills, at least not the skills the League would be interested in. After all, he was a forger and thief, a white collar criminal. He didn’t assassinate people and his disgust of guns was well-known to both the police and the criminal element.
He can’t fight off the League alone. He can’t continue on and ignore them -- not when they’re actively tracking down his friends. This has evolved from just his fight, and as much as he hated it as an adolescent and teenager, he had learned that there was a time and a place to ask for help.
This is one of them.
And that acknowledgement brings on an entirely new pain.
He jolts as they turn onto Franklin Lake Road. Elizabeth is asleep on Peter’s shoulder, and Peter is staring out of the window. Mozzie yawns, but keeps driving.
“What are we going to do?” Peter asks, and Neal knows he isn’t asking about their next meal.
“I don’t know.” Neal twists toward him. “We need to get rid of the car. Unfortunately, it’s got our prints and,” he winces, “my blood on it, so we’re going to have to trash it. Then we’re going to find a place to stay.” He pauses, tries to collect himself. “And then we’re going to get something to eat and I’m going to…call someone.” Admitting this to Peter is a challenge, but he knows he has to make that call. He can’t avoid it any longer.
“Who are you going to call?” Peter asks, his voice steady. “The US Marshalls are looking for you. And any US -- or international -- law enforcement agency is going to report you to them. Plus, as much as I hate to admit it, the FBI, local police, the Marshalls -- no one is capable of dealing with the League of Assassins. The JLA is going to have to deal with them, and while any LEA around is going to call them up once they get an idea of what’s going on, you’ll be in custody and easy pickings for the League.”
“I know.” And Neal does know this, has known it for years. He could directly call the Justice League, and he thought about doing it while they were traveling through the US on a train, trying to reach New York. But the JLA wouldn’t take his call without him outing himself, and even then they’d call his family, and that would create a whole new mess. Plus Neal doesn’t want everyone to know he’s back, and as much as he tolerated the Supers (and had even been close friends with one of them), news like this wouldn’t stay hidden long. Superman is too much of a boy scout not to share his return with the others in the League. But Neal’s family on the other hand, is known for its discretion and secretive nature. They would keep things on the down-low until the absolute last minute.
He can trust them.
And it burns, this knowledge. Because he can trust them -- at least some of them. And he will have to, after all this time. It’s better to take the Justice League out of the equation and directly call his family. They will know how to deal with the situation. They will work things out for him. And sure, it will be painful to go back, to look…certain people in the eye again, Neal will do it -- not for himself, but for Peter and El and Mozzie.
Peter is still watching him, waiting for an answer, an explanation. Neal takes a breath and sighs, closing his eyes. “Right now, we need a place to stay, somewhere off of the radar. Some place no one will look for us. And then we can formulate a plan of what to do.”
“And we’re heading to that place now?” Peter leans forwards. “You’ve seemed to pick a roundabout way to get wherever we’re going, since we just got off I287 and now you want to get back on it. And just what are you going to do, once we get to our destination? Give yourself up? Run and disappear? The League isn’t known for giving up on its quarry. Even if you manage to run, you’ll be running your entire life, and it won’t be like the FBI or Marshalls tracking you down. They at least follow laws and international treaties. The League doesn’t, and you know that, Neal. The League -- they make Matthew Keller look like a boy scout. You can’t seriously be thinking of going after them by yourself or making a deal or whatever.”
“I’m not, Peter.” Neal shakes his head and resolves never to do that again because it makes it hurt that much more. “I am not going to go after the League alone, though I will admit that my plan is still in the works.”
“Neal speak for ‘I’m flying by the seat of my pants,’” Mozzie snarks and Neal scowls at him.
“I have some ideas,” Neal corrects. “But you’re right: going at this alone isn’t going to work. And no, where we’re going now is not where we’ll be holing up for the rest of the time. I chose this roundabout way for a reason. You don’t see any assassins after us, do you? It’s a…meeting point. Once we get there I’m going to make a call and we’ll get picked up and moved.”
“This is sounding like a spy novel,” El speaks up, yawning. She lifts her head off of Peter’s shoulder and rubs her eyes. “Clandestine meetings, the League of Assassins…are we going to meet Batman next?”
Neal forces a laugh. “Haha…no, this is not a spy novel and the Bat is not going to meet us.”
“You too prefer the Dark Knight to America’s Golden Boy?” Mozzie asks, merging onto the 287. “I always thought Superman was too light-hearted to really show what America is like.”
“I like how Batman seems more human -- is human.” El smiles. “I used to pretend to be Batgirl, and I even dressed up as her for Halloween once. I thought it would be so fun to run around rooftops like that, though I realized eventually that it was extremely dangerous.”
“Hmm, yes, well if we could get off the subject of Batman and Batgirl, maybe we could talk about what we’re going to do next.” Neal segues into another topic. Peter gives him a Look, but Neal ignores it. Not wanting to talk about superheroes is nothing strange -- for all the hero-worshippers and hero-despisers, there’s a healthy population of citizens who just don’t care and Neal would like to consider himself part of this bunch -- at least for the last decade and a half. Caring too much, either way, is what causes problems, he knows. It’s way too easy to become a super villain, what with his particular talents, and that would just make things…messy.
Neal doesn’t do messy.
Well, unless it has to do with his art.
“You’ve already said we’re going to some tiny town and wait there for a contact. What I want to know,” Peter leans forward, “is who your ‘contact’ is, and how we can be sure he’s trustworthy. You still haven’t told us why the League is after you -- and no,” he adds before Neal can protest, “I don’t believe that you don’t have any idea. Surely you can at least hazard a guess why the most notorious group of super villains is after an admittedly gifted con man, thief and forger, but with no powers -- and yes, you know your DNA was tested thoroughly before you went to prison,” Peter again cuts Neal off, “and no apparent ties to any of the super villains associated with the League. I want answers, Neal.”
“And you’ll get them, Peter.” Neal runs a hand through his hair. His hair crusted with blood and he winces, resolving to shower as soon as they get to a hotel room. “Just…give me time.”
“You said you’d tell me everything, back when we were waiting during your computation hearing. You promised, Neal, and I am getting real tired of being chased by assassins and getting kidnapped and blown up and putting my career and family at risk because you won’t tell the damn truth if it kills you!” Neal reels backwards at Peter’s onslaught of words and even the man himself seems taken aback by his fury.
“I’ll tell you, Peter.” Neal dips his head. “I promised you and I will honor that promise. But I wasn’t kidding when I said even Mozzie doesn’t know the whole truth of it all, and it’s very…challenging to face my past. This wasn’t exactly what I had planned,” he forces a trace of a smile onto his lips. “But fine. I’ll tell you…the person I need to contact? Is my brother.”
Mozzie turns the silent car onto a county road. They’ve passed Raritan Township, and now is the time to ditch this car and find a new one, just for the ride back to town. As much as Neal wants to leave Peter and Elizabeth at some hotel while he and Mozzie complete this errand, he knows it’s safer to keep them with him. Alone, neither Peter nor El will have any chance against the League, and though they don’t know much of his plans, Neal can’t let them let the little knowledge they have slip if it came down to it. They don’t know who his brother is, but the League certainly does.
“I really don’t like this.” Peter speaks up for the first time since Neal’s admission of a brother, and Neal closes his eyes. At least it isn’t accusations.
“It’s not my favorite thing either, Peter. But if it makes you feel better, I have the license plate of this car and when we get back to New York, I’ll see what I can do about apologizing or replacing it.” Mozzie stops the car next to a darkened strip of road with a lone car, and Neal gets out. “Come on, you two.”
He manages to get into the car easily -- it’s an older car, and the window isn’t even shut all the way, which makes it easy to jimmy the door open. Hotwiring it takes a few more seconds and soon it’s started. He waits for Peter and El to have a quick conversation, knowing it goes something like Peter being worried about getting into a stolen car and El standing up for him, because what else are they to do, and Peter going on again about how he’s against the idea, but El manages to give him that Look and Peter finally gives in. Neal hates how they have been drawn into this, but besides Mozzie, they’re his closest friends, and easy targets for the League.
The League of Assassins doesn’t just assassinate people; it murders hopes and dreams and relationships as well.
Peter climbs in the front seat with him, taking in the blood smeared on his temple and in his hair, the splatters on his once-expensive shirt. He opens his mouth to say something before apparently changing his mind, turning away. Neal pushes the gas pedal and follows after Mozzie, stopping once they pass over railroad tracks. Mozzie continues on and comes back several minutes later, a shadowy figure walking the road.
“It’s done,” he simply states, and climbs in the back.
“Great,” Neal says, but he doesn’t know if he means it or not. “Let’s go.”
It occurs to him a mile later that driving with a concussion really isn’t the wisest move. What’s worse is that Peter notices too. “That’s it,” he heaves a sigh. “Switch with me. Just tell me where we’re going.”
“Continue on the 31, then turn into Flemington and find some kind of hotel,” Neal mutters, closing his eyes.
“What about an all-night dinner instead?” Peter asks and Neal is suddenly jerked awake. Shit. He certainly hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Maybe it isn’t a concussion after all, but a horrible migraine. He looks out of the car into a sparsely populated parking lot next to a diner with a blinking sign advertising all-you-can-eat pancakes all day long.
“Whatever,” Neal mumbles, wincing as he opens the car door.
“Go inside,” Mozzie waves everyone away. “I will sterilize this car.”
Neal forces himself to stand up right and take a few steps. Peter is there instantly, putting his arm around his shoulders and half-supporting him until they reach the diner. Elizabeth looks concerned and starts rooting through her purse. “I thought I had -- here, Neal. Take two of these with some water as soon as we get inside.” She hands him the Aleve bottle, and he takes it from her, mumbling a thanks.
Peter steers him towards the restroom in the alcove by the hostess desk, while Elizabeth chats with the hostess, explaining how Neal had fainted earlier and hit his head hard on a wall while they were at a rest stop before the waitress could gasp in horror at his condition. The water in the restroom is cold and he manages to clean off the blood in his hair and on his face, though his shirt is a lost cause. He downs the pills with a handful of water, staring into the mirror as if it’s the last time he’s going to see himself in it.
And it might be, if he finally sheds Neal Caffrey.
“Feeling better?” Peter asks him with concern instead of judgment, and Neal feels hope. By all rights, Peter should be furious at him for drawing El and himself into his mess. And Neal knows Peter is still waiting for answers. But instead of yelling at him, or forcing him, his friend is worried about him. It helps, helps a lot, to know that someone’s got your back. Neal’s friends like that have been few and far between since his eighteenth birthday.
He’s thankful he’s got Peter.
Now, if he can keep him once Peter finds out the truth…
“A bit, yeah.” Neal takes a sodden paper towel and lays it across his forehead. “I really need to wait for the pills to kick in.”
“Well, let’s try some food. It’s been awhile since dinner and I don’t think our night is over yet.” Peter glances at Neal, who nods. No, the night is definitely not over.
By the time they make it back to the booth, Mozzie is seated at the table with a cup of tea, while Elizabeth pursues the menu. “Hey hon, Neal. How are you feeling?”
Neal tries his charming smile. “Better. Thanks for the pills. Good thinking with the story.”
“Well,” El shrugs, still concerned, “you did look a mess. I assume we don’t want to attract a lot of attention, so I came up with a simple excuse. Try to eat something; you might feel better with some food in your stomach.”
“I will, thanks.” Neal scans the menu in front of him, though he keeps an eye on the diner at large. It’s after two in the morning, but there are still a few patrons: a group of young adults, a few truck drivers, a couple dressed in scrubs. There’s a waitress behind the bar, and he can make out a figure in the kitchen -- likely the cook. A bus boy wipes down a table. The diner is clearly a product of several decades ago, but it is clean and welcoming and Neal tries to relax some tension from his shoulders. First he’s going to order. Then he’s going to make that call.
He can do this.
The waitress appears again and everyone orders. Peter goes with the pancakes while El gets a soup, salad and sandwich. Mozzie finally goes with the rib and a salad and Neal can’t make up his mind if he should fill up or not -- if his stomach can take it. He finally decides on the spaghetti. It isn’t until the waitress departs again that Peter takes a sip of his water and says, “Well?”
Neal closes his eyes, grabbing his own water, but instead takes the straw and stirs the ice around. “I need to call my…brother.” The tabletop is chipped Formica and the placemats are light-weight paper perfect for drawing on. His fingers itch for a pen. “He’ll come get us.”
“I didn’t know you had a brother.” Peter says slowly.
“You don’t know a lot about me, Peter.” Neal shrugs. “You’ve said it yourself -- I’m a mystery before I turned eighteen. And this…well, this is your introduction into my childhood.” He finally sips some of his water. “I don’t know where to begin. I…haven’t been in contact with my family since I walked out when I was eighteen.”
“Oh Neal.” Elizabeth looks like she wants to hug him, and truthfully, Neal isn't terribly sure he'd mind. He could use some unbiased help. Peter is not going to be happy when he finds out about the family and past Neal has hidden from him, and Mozzie...well. It's clear that the older man is not going to understand Neal's reasons for leaving, nor is he going to let it go. Neal's past is a con man's dream, after all. Which is probably one of the reasons Neal has always been an exceptional sort of con man. He came from the life they all yearn for, found it relatively lacking, and ended up conning for the thrill of it.
There's no way Mozzie will understand. Or Peter. Or Diana or Jones or anyone else. So yes, some support is very welcome.
“What happened? Are you all right?” Elizabeth grips her tea harder, a frown on her face. “It must have been bad to make you leave and never look back.”
Neal makes a half-laugh and half-sigh sound. If only she knew. “You could say that...” He trails off, buying some time to think. The problem is that when he first created the Neal Caffrey persona and in the subsequent years created a past for himself, he never came up with a plan of what to do when he would have to reveal parts of his true past. The cover story of having a dirty-cop father who died when he was too young to remember him and a mother who tried hard but wasn't really capable of keeping her brilliant and tenacious son out of trouble was easy to create, and it kept most people from asking too many questions. When people did inquire further - like Mozzie, or June - he was able to tell pieces of the truth mixed with simple lies: yes, his father was alive and in prison; no, he hadn't spoken to the man since he had 'died' and hadn't even known that the man was alive until he was eighteen and his dear old family friend Ellen Parker had finally revealed the truth to him. It silenced most people and the ones who did guess there was more - like Mozzie and June - realized how much it pained him, and ceased questioning him.
In nearly fifteen years this is the first time he has to cobble together some kind of half-truths about his family, and despite being a brilliant - if he does say so himself - con man, this is the type of lie that is...impossibly hard to do.
Just what does he dare reveal?
“My father and I had an argument on the night I turned eighteen, and I left. There were some other...issues that were going on, and my father and I had always had a bit of a strained, you could say, relationship. My mother was completely out of the picture at that point, and my siblings --”
“Wait, you have siblings?” Peter interrupts. “As in more than one?”
Neal nods his head slowly and sips some water. “Yes. I have four, actually - three brothers and a sister. But at the time, I did not feel as if I could...intrude upon them. So I left.”
“So why haven't you contacted them since then?” Elizabeth asks. “Surely after so long...”
“Easier said than done.” He cannot meet her eyes - any of their eyes. “It's hard to explain, but the argument between my father and I was not a simple tiff over taking out the car without permission or sneaking out or one of those other common teenage indiscretions. He felt as if I had broken one of his cardinal rules - the rules our family lived by - and, well, one of my brothers is still barely a step above estranged and he broke the 'rule' about twenty-five years ago. My father is not a man who forgives easily, Elizabeth.”
“But surely your siblings, especially the estranged one.” Peter sips his coffee. “If he knows what it's like...”
“Jay?” Neal barks out a laugh. “Oh no. Believe me, Peter, the last person you want me taking up with is Jason.” He pauses, tilts his head for a moment. “Though really, if we wanted a fast and rather messy solution to our problem, he would be a good person to go to. But getting involved with him - I didn't want to bring him down with me then and I still don't, and I doubt you would approve of his methods, so...” Neal pauses as the waitress brings drink refills and their food. “Look, my family is incredibly complicated; let's just leave it at that. But at this particular moment in time, with this particular foe after us, taking up with my family is pretty much the only option we have.”
“Unless your family is a bunch of superheroes or supervillains, how could they have any hope against the League of Assasins?” Mozzie leans forwards and whispers. “You said yourself that the League is out of our league, and the FBI won't touch them either.”
“Like I said, Moz, it's -”
“Complicated, we get it.” Peter cuts into his pancakes. “I think you need to make that call and contact whatever brother you need to contact to get things worked out, because who knows when the assassins are going to appear again.”
Neal forces a blasé smile. “Then I guess I will.” He brings a prepaid disposable phone from his jacket pocket and flips it open. The number he begins to dial is familiar to him and his fingers dial it instinctively despite the fact it has been so long. He hesitates before hitting the “send” button with his thumb, but Elizabeth reaches over and pats his hand and Peter puts his hand on his shoulder and even Mozzie toasts him with his salad, and Neal gathers the courage to begin the call. It rings once before the phone picks up - this is an emergency number with a special ring tone and message that his brother would know to pick up instantly, but it's still a shock to hear his brother's voice.
“Hello?” His brother asks, without a hint of sleep in his voice, and Neal figures he must have been out patrolling.
“Dick? I need your help.” He forces out the words in a nonchalant tone, even though his stomach is churning. He hates the physical reaction and wants to blame it on the food, but so far he's only had water, so he can't.
“Who - who is this?” It's not accusing, but more wistful, and something inside Neal breaks as he breathes into the phone.
“It's Damian.”