Chapter Text
Gotham City.
Easily the most crime-filled city on the planet.
Nobody knew what happened there. It was the Bermuda Triangle of surveillance.
Send an agent in, and they never came back.
The rumors were that the city had eaten them. Like some mythical beast luring prey in and devouring them once they were within range.
Occasionally an agent might make it out alive, but mentally traumatized. It was said that anyone who remained in the city over a day would come back to turn in their resignation and spend their retirement funds on therapy.
Legend had it that agents who remained inside for over three days disappeared. Some showed signs of going corrupt before all communication was dropped.
Gotham doesn't make exceptions. Either you're a criminal, or you're dead.
The FBI had long since stopped attempting to enter the city. It cost them too many good agents. Hughes had been a coffee runner when they'd sent the last group in. The look in his eyes whenever someone had guts enough to ask what happened that day...
You don't go to Gotham.
You don't go to Gotham. Ever.
Peter stared at the blue folder on his desk grimly.
There was a case.
It was child traffickers.
They'd been taking kids, stealing them right out from under their noses, and dragging them right into Gotham's darkened alleyways. New York was only a stone's throw from Gotham's forbidden outskirts.
And they knew the FBI couldn't do a single thing to stop them. Gotham was off limits. The moment they turned the corner into city streets, the FBI would pull back, not willing to break the long-standing tradition of saving agents from Gotham's vicious teeth, letting the GCPD "handle" the cases instead.
The file sat on his desk.
The case had been put on hold as soon as the trail led into Gotham.
He shouldn't even be considering it right now. It only tangentially tied into white collar crime thanks to money laundering. It wasn't even his division to investigate.
But...
They knew exactly who they were looking for. They had all the evidence. They even had a good idea of where the traffickers had set up in the city.
Peter tightened his jaw, looking over to the picture of Elizabeth... and their little Neal. Just a few months old.
If someone had stolen his son away from him, he would've driven straight into the heart of a city ten times worse than Gotham to strangle them with his bare hands.
This wasn't just any Gotham-related case.
Children's lives were at stake.
They couldn't leave this.
Not this easily.
They had to go to Gotham.
"No."
"Hughes-"
"I said no, Peter."
Peter stepped in front of him, blocking him from the door.
"Hughes."
The senior agent looked at him with tired eyes.
"Peter, I know-"
"Children, Hughes." His voice dropped lower. "They're killing them. Ruining their lives. You know they are. Selling them into labor or the sex trade. We can't turn a blind eye to this."
Hughes worked his jaw, looking out at the office. Peter pushed harder.
"You can't expect us to back off just because we've got a creepy city and some old traditions. We know where they are, what they're doing. We just go in, arrest them, and get out."
Hughes shook his head, "I'm not signing off on a death sentence for my agents just because they're working through Gotham. We've got a list of ways to catch them outside the city. Stick to that. We aren't going to pursue them inside. I'm sorry."
Peter met his gaze.
"Would you pursue them if they'd taken my son?"
...
"Would you?"
A sigh.
And then-
"I don't like it. I don't think it'll pass my superiors. But if you're sure-"
"I'm sure."
Hughes nodded, a mix of resignation and grimness on his face. "Then get a team together. You'll need an expert on Gotham if you want any chance at making it out of there alive."
He smiled. "I'll find someone. Thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me yet."
The kitchen light lit the fiftieth page of potential contacts with a warm glow. His eyes burned. At this point, all the names looked the same.
El's quiet footsteps were accompanied by the significantly less quiet cries of a six month old as she came down the stairs.
"Aw, you're still up?"
He looked up at the clock. 2:50 AM. "Hey, hon."
"Hey," she looked down at the pages, bouncing little Neal as she did. "Still trying to find a contact?"
"Yeah," he sighed. "There's not many. Most everyone who comes out of that city is either off their rocker or still working through the PTSD. And none of 'em want to take a trip back inside."
"Well. Have you asked Mozzie yet?"
"Mozzie?" He looked up at her in confusion. "Why would I ask Mozzie?" They'd rarely spoken since the funeral. Last Peter knew, he'd been half staying with June and half doing... whatever it was he did in his free time. Their paths didn't exactly cross much.
El shrugged. "I mean, clearly the guys you're chasing aren't afraid to go in and out of Gotham. Maybe Mozzie knows someone who's more comfortable with the city."
"Yeah... Maybe you're onto something there, El."
The park was mostly empty, only a few people milling around.
Peter sat down on the bench and opened a newspaper.
Four minutes later he heard someone sit down on the bench behind him. "I heard a mockingbird in the park."
"What color was the mockingbird?"
Mozzie sounded slightly bitter when he spoke. "You must be desperate to reach out to me, suit."
"I need a guide."
"The all-powerful FBI couldn't find you one? Forgive my shock."
"I'm going to Gotham."
Mozzie jumped to his feet, spinning around. "Are you insane?! Do you have a death wish??! You, the cover photo for an FBI agent, want to go into the Criminal City?? The one place the government expressly does not go? I should start booking the funeral services now."
"Mozzie-"
"No, I'm not letting you. As your very-well-informed contact and Neal's friend, I'm not letting you throw your life away to chase a case into Gotham City. Do you have any idea what they'll do to your body once you're dead? Acid, Suit. Acid." He waved his hands around for emphasis. "They'll feed you to the man-eating plants to satiate their photosynthetic empress. Or let the man-bats use you as target practice. Half the population is dead, diseased, or deformed. Even if you get past the death traps, you're going to be facing a constant full-blown gang war with a liberal sprinkling of murderous lunatics! Not to mention the Court of Owls! Who are everywhere. It's a death sentence. I won't allow it."
"We're going after child traffickers, Mozzie."
He stopped.
Peter continued. "They're kidnapping kids off the streets, from orphanages and foster homes. And they're taking them right into those gang wars and... carnivorous plants."
Mozzie still looked wary. "You know what happens when the feds enter Gotham. Certain. Death."
"We aren't planning on staying. We know where they are and what they're doing. We just need to get inside. Do you know anyone who'd be willing to get us in and out."
A calculating pause. Then a sigh.
"Fine. I may know someone."
Peter exhaled, some of the stress dissipating. "Thank you."
"I'll be in touch. Just keep my words in mind," Mozzie gave him a significant look. "Gotham doesn't play by the rules of the rational world. Anything is possible, regardless of how absurd it seems."
"Right."
With a half bow, the little man scurried away into a passing group of people and disappeared.
It couldn't be that bad, right?
Mozzie always exaggerated things like this.
So why did Peter feel like he was telling the truth?
The news they were going to Gotham spread like wildfire through the bureau. The excitement only skyrocketted when Mozzie's Gotham expert agreed to guide them through the city, but gave no personal details and insisted that he'd "come to them" the day before the mission began.
Peter, Jones, and Diana were reading up on everything the FBI had on Gotham. Mozzie had offered advice of his own, but it was so absurd only Jones was considering it as potentially legitimate information.
Of course, looking at everything the FBI had on Gotham meant the topic of a certain figure had come up again.
And with him, the conspiracy theories.
It had been almost two years since the warehouse.
Two and a half years since one of Peter's best friends died to save them.
Theories on the identity of Red Hood, particularly his relation to Caffrey, had dropped from the lunchroom topics over year and a half ago.
Peter couldn't say he'd missed it.
While he'd been invested in solving the mystery at first, the allure had faded into a weak cover for denial and grief over the weeks. Soon, it hurt too much to think about, and the evidence was inconclusive. He knew when it was time to stop chasing after threads that weren't there.
If Neal was out there, somehow, Peter just hoped he was able to enjoy life as a free man.
Neal wasn't- wouldn't have been obligated to tell Peter he was alive. It was okay.
But there hadn't been any famous works of art disappearing. No clever, practically flawless forgeries showing up. No clues, no birthday cards. Not even a tip off to Mozzie, to reassure them he was okay even if they'd never see him again.
Neal wouldn't have been able to resist it. Not if he'd truly been the clever, adorably sentimental, kindhearted man Peter had known. He loved his clues, the game of cat and mouse they played. He would have left something if he was alive, reached out somehow.
But there was nothing.
Which meant Neal was dead.
As if there was a way he'd survived a bullet through the lung to the spine. Peter knew the death report.
As much as it hurt at first, Peter had come to terms with the fact that even though Neal had always been a bit of a daredevil - playing with his life as if it wasn't more valuable than the artwork he stole - he wasn't magical. A cavalier attitude didn't make you immune to death.
Neal had given his life to save the rest of them.
Peter needed to respect that. And he did.
Trying to connect him to a known serial killer, mass murderer, and drug trafficker was an offense to his memory. The Neal Peter knew would never have killed people in the horrific ways Hood had. Hood delighted in it. Neal didn't even like holding a gun.
Sure, they had loose similarities, but was that so uncommon? Drug lords were allowed to be snarky the same way Neal was, and the FBI tracked down clever criminals constantly. Hood was just hitting a sore spot that hadn't quite healed.
Peter had been unsure for a while. Then he'd had the rare chance to talk to a native Gothamite, a kid who'd been witness to a crime and had come to the FBI instead of vanishing like most Gothamites. He and Jones had hit it off, and found out the kid knew a bit about Hood. Apparently, Hood had a reputation as a zombie, or a ghost of sorts. A twisted specter of those closest to you. According to the kid, Hood had posed as the Batman's dead son come to life in order to catch him and Robin off guard, almost killing them both.
Hood was also rumored to have done the same to Wayne, claiming to be famously-deceased Jason Todd, before making off with a huge portion of Wayne's fortune and emotionally scarring the billionaire.
Neal's death had made headlines.
Hood wouldn't have needed to do more than a single online search to know which of Peter's buttons to press.
He'd almost fallen for it.
He didn't want to know what would have happened if he'd actually pursued the obvious breadcrumbs Hood had left for them.
The largest of which they were about to undertake.
Entering Gotham City.
If luck was on their side, they'd be in and out before Hood would take notice of them. Gotham criminals were notorious for dramatics and fabricating a dramatic heroes vs. villains narrative between anyone remotely opposed to them.
Peter didn't want to play that game. Especially not on the turf of a guy who thought that beheading opponents and delivering their severed heads to their superiors was the best way to show power.
If the FBI received a duffel bag full of their heads...
He'd prefer not to think about the ripples that would cause.
It was the day before the mission.
Peter was trying to hide his nervous pacing by ascending and descending the little stairway between the offices and the bullpen, looking constantly between the glass doors and the array of windows.
Nobody knew how this mysterious Gotham contact would arrive.
Peter caught slips of conversation as he circled the small area again.
"...if you meet Hood again?"
Jones shrugged. "Ask him how he came up with the name."
Diana rolled her eyes. "Yeah, if you want to get shot in the head."
"He didn't shoot me the first time. I don't see why he'd do it now. I'm just asking a simple question."
Nobody was descending from the sky at the windows. Yet.
"You don't know that."
"I just wanna know why he's calling himself Red Hood when he's wearing a helmet."
A blond kid from the organized crime division piped in, "Maybe it's because Red Helmet doesn't sound as cool."
"Yeah, but it's not like Red Hood sounds incredibly awe-inspiring either," Jones retorted. "It's inaccurate and it's redundant."
Diana snorted. "Maybe he really is Caffrey."
Not this again.
He checked the doors again. Nobody.
The organized crime kid perked up. "Was that actually a theory? I heard rumors, but..."
Jones grinned. "You better believe it."
"It isn't true," Peter stated, pausing on the stairs.
Jones shrugged. "We've never seen him under the helmet. And maybe he's Caffrey's twin or something. An evil counterpart. He sure acted like Caffrey, under all the," he waved his hand loosely, "murder vibes."
Peter rolled his eyes. "Neal wasn't exactly known for his 'murder vibes.'" He turned to the new kid. "Don't listen to them. Anyone who met Neal could've told you there's no way he was Hood."
"The boss is right," Diana informed the kid, "Caffrey got squeamish just holding a gun. The way he'd excuse himself from the room if there was a cadaver was almost adorable with how awkward it was."
Organized crime kid looked slightly disappointed. Peter would bet he'd just gotten out of Quantico and volunteered to go on the Gotham mission. Probably learned all about the 'great Neal Caffrey' and jumped at the chance to work with the team.
"You sure he's actually dead?" The kid asked.
"Well if he isn't, he won't be coming to pay us a visit." Hughes cut in from behind Peter. The poor kid froze at the sight of the senior agent.
"However," Hughes gave them all a significant look, "We do have a Gotham informant we have no intel on who's due to show up. You can discuss your conspiracy theories off the clock. If Caffrey really is out there, he isn't gonna be the one walking through those doors. I need you alert."
Jones nodded. "Yes, sir."
Peter looked back at the doors to check for-
"Well," a voice remarked. "Nice to see I've been missed."
His heart stopped.
No.
It's not possible.
A smirking Neal Caffrey leaned casually against his old desk.
Diana gasped and Jones said something too quiet to hear.
Peter couldn't breathe.
Neal- Neal?!!- stood up, and walked over, that familiar little swagger in his step.
It was like watching a memory come to life.
Neal stopped in front of the new kid, and smiled. It was like getting hit with a train.
"I don't believe we've met."
The kid shook his head. He looked as stunned as Peter felt.
"Hi. I- I'm Chris."
Neal's eyes sparkled. "Nice to meet you, Chris. I'm Neal Caffrey," bright blue eyes darted up to meet Hughes', "the FBI's friendly neighborhood Gothamite."
There was a beat of silence.
Neal didn't seem to notice, slipping through the shell-shocked group gracefully.
Their eyes met. Neal grinned.
"Catch."
Peter reacted more on instinct than anything, catching the little silver object out of the air. Neal stepped past him, giving his shoulder a squeeze as he climbed the stairs.
Hughes got his wits about him first.
"Caffrey?!?"
"That's my name. Don't wear it out." He flashed a charming grin, adjusting his hat a bit. "Now, if you don't mind, I haven't slept in a week and a half so a nap sounds great right now."
What.
Neal didn't miss a beat.
"Peter, you don't mind if I borrow your office for a bit? Thanks."
Peter stared.
Not even Hughes was processing fast enough to stop him.
By the time their thoughts unfroze, Peter's office door was closed and Neal had made himself quite comfortable in Peter's chair - arms crossed, feet kicked up on the desk, and hat pulled down over his eyes.
You could have heard a pin drop.
Peter was fairly certain he'd fallen into another reality. Or maybe it was a stress-induced nightmare.
Of course Neal would show up in a nightmare about Gotham, just as casual and sassy as ever.
He'd had to deal with living-Neal enough as it was. He didn't need to try to wrangle dream-Neal into cooperation.
Maybe it was the rumored insanity of Gotham rubbing off on him.
"Burke."
He turned. Hughes was staring at him. As was the rest of the office.
"What did he give you?"
Oh.
So it wasn't a dream.
Or if it was, it was a very confusing one.
He looked down.
A silver flash drive sat in his hand. It was labeled "The Basics ;)"
He turned it over. There was an engraved Bat symbol on the other side.
Something clicked.
"...I think he's our informant."