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Uh-oh.
That wasn’t good.
Peter rushed forward to where Caffrey had been standing, moments before. A child stood in his place, now. “Neal!” Peter dropped to his knees next to the kid-shaped Neal. “Neal, are you hurt? Do you have any injuries?”
He was a child, sure, but whether or not the child version of Neal was injured was infinitely more important as a first matter to address.
Peter reached out and put a hand on either of the kid’s shoulders, looked him in the face, tried to find proof – one way or another – that Neal was fine. That the only change was his apparent age. Neal flinched back, though.
“Where’s Alfred?” the kid snapped. “Who are you? Where am I?”
Peter leaned back, confused. He wiped it away quickly, though. He looked past Neal, at the chaotic magician that had caused this. Witch, rather. The witch met Peter’s eye and winked, like Peter was in on the joke somehow. Peter most certainly wasn’t in on the joke, and this “Klarion” was fast approaching the top of Peter’s shit list.
Peter looked back at Neal. “What do you remember?” he asked.
The kid looked him over suspiciously. It was an expression of deep wariness and suspicion that Peter had never seen on Neal’s face, blatantly obvious or otherwise. “Who are you?” Neal repeated. He stepped back from Peter – oh, god. What if he tried to run?
“I’m Agent Peter Burke. I’m with the FBI.” Peter pulled out his badge and offered it to the boy.
Neal looked at him with no less suspicion, but stopped looking like he was going to make a break for it. “FBI?” he asked.
Peter nodded.
Neal looked around. His gaze lingered on the blue witch that had caused everything, then skimmed the buildings, skyline, and street. Then he looked himself over. He carefully rolled up the sleeves of Neal’s button-up, which remained adult-sized, and turned his eyes back to Peter. “What happened? Where am I?” he asked. “And where is Alfred? Am I in trouble?”
“Who is Alfred?” Peter asked.
Neal opened his mouth, then clicked it back shut. He narrowed his eyes at Peter.
“Neal, I can’t help you if you don’t let me in,” Peter soothed.
“Alfred’s my dad,” Neal said. He looked down at his feet. “Or he is... now.” He left his gaze on his feet and the patch of sidewalk between them for a long moment, then looked up again. “Why are you calling me Neal?”
“Isn’t that your name?” Peter asked. Not that he’d ever believed Neal was actually his name.
The kid shook his head shortly, but seemed rather short on opinions he was willing to vocalize, in regards to the name. He continued to look suspicious, though now with a measure of perturbation, too.
“Would you be willing to tell me your name?” Peter asked.
“You still haven’t told me where I am, what happened, or if I’m in trouble,” Neal said.
“A name would be really helpful,” Peter tried.
“I’m ten, not stupid,” Neal snapped.
Ten. This Neal was from twenty-odd years ago! He was so young and small. And sharp around the edges where Neal was purposely friendly and smooth. Darkness hid in his young eyes, too. Darkness and a deep, abiding sadness. A fresh emotional wound of some kind.
“You’re in Manhattan, right now. We were on a case,” Peter said.
“We?” the kid narrowed his gaze even more.
“Yes, we.”
“What year is it? What happened? I’ve heard about situations like this, but they always seemed rare and far-off. But... but they happen. So, I must assume something happened to either take my memories or make me younger, right? And you call me Neal.”
Peter sat back on his heels. “A bit of a leap, don’t you think?” Twenty years ago, situations like a chaotic blue witch making adults into children was a situation that would have sounded incredibly unlikely. Magic incidences seemed to be on the rise, even in the present, but god.
Twenty years ago? Magical mishaps didn’t have JL jurisdiction. Hell, the Justice League had barely begun its Thing, back then. It was brand new and a sign of hope... and a magnet for suspicion.
And that was “twenty years ago” assuming that Neal wasn’t lying about his age. Peter wouldn’t have put it past Neal to stretch the truth on his age, if he thought it might get him something. If Neal was even younger than mid-thirties, the League might have been less young, more established. If Neal was older (which seemed a bit unlikely, to Peter), the League wouldn’t have even been around, while Neal was ten.
“It’s 2020,” Peter said.
Neal scrunched up his nose. “That sounds incredibly fake.”
Peter laughed, “That was the general consensus at the end of 2019, yes. Can I ask you the last year you remember?”
Neal shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on or if I should trust you. You don’t even know my name,” he said.
And that was fair. Peter nodded.
Neal glanced away (again) and back (again). “Um.” He cleared his throat and stood up a little straighter, squaring his shoulders. “I would like to call my guardian.” He hesitated and deflated a little. “If... if he’s still around. It’s so... far in the future.”
“Of course, Neal. Would you like to make the call yourself?”
“Please,” Neal nodded.
“Well, let’s get out of here,” Peter motioned toward the last vestiges of Klarion’s assault (all of it relatively harmless, for once, if incredibly inconvenient). The Justice League had shown up while Peter was talking to this younger version of Neal, which meant that the FBI wouldn’t be needed. Not unless the Justice League decided to ask for their involvement. Magic and magic-users was a bit above the FBI’s sphere of authority.
“Where?” Neal demanded, eyes sharpening.
“The FBI offices. White Collar division. You can make your call from there,” Peter soothed.
Neal continued to look suspicious.
Neal and Peter, both, jumped when Superman landed next to them. “Do either of you require assistance?” he asked. He smiled in a friendly way, particularly at Neal. Then he frowned a little, looking over what Neal had been wearing (was still wearing) before Klarion’s spell.
Klarion’s spell seemed to be a random-effect type, today. Neal had been made into a child (remade, rather), but others had been turned into animals or toys, or else turned another colour or invisible or made to float. It was... mostly annoying. But, again, not overtly harmful. (And the toys seemed to be animate, rather than inanimate, which meant there were no deaths or presumed deaths, so far.)
“Did he get hit?” Superman asked Peter.
Neal was looking Superman over with incredulity and a curled lip, almost disgust. “You can fly?” he asked. “Why are you wearing that? It looks ridiculous.”
Superman startled, then laughed. “Yes, I can fly. And this is my uniform.” He crouched to be child-Neal's height. “Son, is there anything you need help with?”
“I just wanna call Alfred,” Neal wrinkled his nose.
“Neal was hit, yes,” Peter said. But he was ignored. He looked from Neal to Superman – Neal still looking suspicious, bordering on disgusted, and Superman looking surprised.
“Alfred,” Superman said. “Who is he?” He glanced at Peter with a closed-off expression, then turned back to Neal. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I already told Agent Burke—”
“Burke,” Superman echoed. He looked like he was putting a puzzle together.
“Yes. Agent Burke. I told him, Alfred is my dad.”
“Oh, well,” Superman pulled out a communicator. Peter had never seen a JL communicator from so close-up. It was, by necessity, small and easy to store. Even so, Peter wasn’t entirely sure where Superman had managed to summon it from. “I can help with that, then.”
“What?” Peter and child-Neal both asked.
Superman smiled fondly, then reached over and ruffled Neal’s hair. Neal batted him away, looking absolutely perturbed. Peter felt his hackles raise a bit, too, but then Superman said: “I had no idea just how much Damian looked like you, B.”
“Damian?” Neal asked.
“B?” Peter asked.
“Here,” Superman pressed a few buttons on his communicator. “Superman to Watchtower, I need a line to Agent A.”
“Of course, Superman,” a monotone voice replied.
Neal watched Superman, torn between suspicion and hope. “He’s okay?” he breathed.
“A few decades aren’t enough to knock Al off his feet, B,” Superman smiled in a way that made it look like his eyes were practically sparkling. “Of course he is.”
The communicator buzzed a bit. “Hey, this is N. Agent A’s in the kitchen right now. Anything I can help with?” it asked.
“I’m not sure this one’s something you can help with, no,” Superman responded. He turned to Neal. “That is, unless you wouldn’t mind speaking to a different family member.”
“I only have one,” Neal insisted. “Unless you mean Kate or,” he wrinkled his nose, “one of my aunts and uncles. Don’t make me talk to Uncle Philip, please.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Superman laughed. “N, B’s been compromised—”
“What? Is he hurt?”
“No, he—”
“What happened?”
Superman huffed out an amused laugh. “He’s been hit with a spell. He didn’t activate a beacon or anything. I just ran across him while we were dealing with Klarion throwing his fit after his boyfriend started giving him the silent treatment.”
“Oh my god, that’s the third time this month alone. Someone get them couple’s counselling or something. Wait—I'm so off-track. He was hit? What happened? You said he’s okay?”
“Yes, he’s fine. He’s just...” Superman glanced at Peter, then back down at Neal. “How old are you, son?”
“I’m not your son.”
“Sorry. How old are you, B?” Superman rolled his eyes fondly.
“Ten and a half,” Neal mumbled.
Superman’s smile fell. “Oh. I’m so sorry, B.”
Neal looked at him sharply. ”You know,” he accused. “But it’s 2020. Agent Burke said so. How do you know? I didn’t tell you what year it was, did I? I mean, what year I was in. I guess.”
“No, we’re friends, B,” Superman said gently.
“Oh my god, wait,” Superman’s communicator broke in. “Is that... is B de-aged? Did Klarion hit him with an age spell? Oh my god. I’m coming. Like, now.”
“I don’t know if that’s the best idea,” Superman said quickly.
“I’m coming and I’m bringing everyone. Oh. Oh! That’s why you wanted A! No worries, I’ll bring him too.”
Superman chuckled, but nodded. “Alright. I will arrange a place to meet and send you the coordinates. Superman out.”
“Who was that?” Neal asked.
“A friend,” Superman said. He turned to Peter. “The easiest space would probably be a room at your offices. I can give you clearance. B’s already put in your file that, out of the team you have, you would be a good candidate for clearance. That’s basically him sanctioning it.”
“B. You mean. Neal?” Peter raised his eyebrows.
Superman nodded and stood, straightening. “Alternately, we could do this on the Watchtower, and you wouldn’t need to be involved at all. Up to you, Agent Burke.”
“Office,” Peter said, without hesitation.
--
The office was all wide eyes and awed expressions when Peter arrived. He had Neal in tow, still dressed in clothing much too big for him. Except the shoes and socks, which he discarded after the third time tripping over the shoes.
“Uh, I’m looking for—” Peter cut himself off when literally everyone either looked at or pointed at a conference room. “Superman. Right.” He glanced down. “Come on, Neal. Or B. Whatever.”
Neal glared up at him, still suspicious. Suspicious but content to follow.
In the conference room there had to be... well. More League members and superheroes than Peter had thought he’d meet in his entire life, including established heroes like Nightwing and Red Robin (and what looked suspiciously like a mass-murdering crime-lord from a few years before). Superman was there, just inside the foor, and offered Neal a stack of folded clothing, first thing. “These are Damian’s, from two years ago,” he said. “They should fit well enough. If not, we brought a duffel of other things we thought might be the right size.”
“Who's Damian?” Neal muttered.
“Young sir,” an elderly man put a hand on Neal’s shoulder and steered him back out the door. “There will be time for questions after you have availed yourself of more fitting attire.”
“Alfred,” Neal breathed. His shoulders drooped in relief, then seized back up and tightened. “You look so old,” he whispered, almost afraid.
Alfred raised an eyebrow. “I do believe you were raised with more propriety than that, sir,” he said.
Neal looked contrite, muttered an apology, and allowed himself to be guided out of the room by Alfred’s firm hand. Peter watched the exchange with confusion. Twenty years ago, this Alfred probably still could have passed as Neal’s grandfather...
“By my calculation,” one of the people at the table raised a finger. “He’s been thrown, like, thirty-two years back. Biologically.”
“Thirty?!” Peter’s eyes snapped to the young man. Red Robin. He knew of Red Robin from more recent exploits, but he’d come out of nowhere – practically – before being shot to the forefront of superhero activity. “Did you say thirty years?”
“Uh. Yeah. The Caffrey identity is about ten years younger than B,” Red Robin shrugged. “We have more than one operative that uses the identity and that age was the most convenient, across the board.”
“More than—what do you mean? Neal Caffrey is just... what?”
“Fake,” Red Robin said, very slowly.
“You’re not doing this debrief thing very well,” Nightwing sighed.
“Well, where am I supposed to start? Your stint in the prison system as Neal? RH’s capture as Neal? That time I pretended to be Neal, sick and in bed, because there was an emergency and B was needed?” Red Robin gave Nightwing an irritated look, then sipped from his can of Rockstar aggressively.
Nightwing rubbed his hands over his face.
“Baby needs a nap,” the one in the helmet said. You know, the one that Peter was purposely very carefully pretending wasn’t the Red Hood. For his own sanity.
“Watch it, Red,” Red Robin snapped.
“You watch it, Red,” Definitely-Not-Red-Hood jeered back.
“He is not Neal Caffrey,” one of the other two said (Robin, right?). “He is the Batman, on assignment to deal with your FBI’s petty issues.” He sneered at Peter.
Everyone stiffened and glared over at Robin.
Superman slowly put a hand on his face. “Robin,” he pleaded.
“This is ridiculous. He is weak. Helpless. We should have brought Zatara or Constantine and done away with the circumstance with more haste,” Robin scoffed.
The last of the room’s occupants looked like a young woman. Maybe. She wore a full-face mask and sat in one of the chairs, a set of headphones on over her mask. She pulled the headphones off and turned her head to Robin. “Little Brother,” she said, sounding disappointed. Her hands danced in front of her.
Belatedly, Peter realized that it was probably ASL.
Robin pouted and looked chastised, scooting lower in his seat.
“It’s fine,” Superman said. “Agent Burke is cleared for this.” He stepped over to the table, picked up a file, then turned and handed it to Peter. “This is the information cleared for release to you. It’s not everything, but it should give a few answers.”
“Oh,” Peter accepted the file. “Thank you. Um.” He looked around the room, at the five people who were there, besides Superman. “Why are you all here?”
Nightwing laughed. “Oh, this isn’t everyone. I wanted to bring everyone, but Superman and Agent A told me that I probably shouldn’t. You know. Better to leave some of us in reserve if there’s an emergency.”
Alfred walked back into the room, “B” in tow. He looked a lot more comfortable in the new clothes, but also incredibly frustrated. “I still don’t know who Damian is or why I’m wearing his clothes. Does someone live with us, now?” He looked up at Alfred in askance.
Alfred raised an eyebrow.
Nightwing laughed, though. “Oh, B,” he shook his head.
“Damian is your son, sir,” Alfred said.
“I have a son?” B’s expression contorted into something utterly disbelieving.
“A son,” Nightwing started laughing harder.
B looked over at him, thoroughly perturbed.
“Damian is one of your youngest children,” Alfred offered.
B whipped around to look up at him, instead. “Youngest children? How many children do I have?” he asked. “After... after what happened. I don’t know—why would I ever want to have a family, Alfred? I mean... besides you?” he glanced over at Nightwing warily, as if expecting Nightwing to laugh at him again, then back at Alfred.
“Your two eldest are a well-raised, successful young men,” Alfred said. (That, though Peter didn’t know, was Dick and Jason.) “One of them brought a grandchild into your life, recently. Adopted, of course. Our family is primarily of the adoptive persuasion.” (Jason – and Lian.) “One of your daughters—”
“Daughter,” B murmured. He raised his eyebrows.
Peter’s eyebrows were crawling up his forehead, too.
“Yes. One of your daughters is in school. Dance. You are very proud of her.” (Cass, who smiled under her full-face mask as she recalled how Bruce had encouraged her to try the dance lessons, much before Cass thought anything could possibly come of them.) “The other is also in school, though her focus is on electronic engineering, I believe. You are very proud of her, as well.” (That was Harper.)
Peter couldn’t place why Alfred was looking around, slowly, but he seemed to linger on each of the superheroes as he spoke.
(Alfred looked at each child he mentioned, though.)
“Your next youngest is a businessman in his own right, though I do believe you helped him get where he is. He could stand to sleep and eat more, but no one is perfect, I would say. He graduated quite early, too.” (Tim, who chugged more of his energy drink, knowing it was going to get him a disappointed talking-to, later.) “Your other sons are in school, as well they should be, excluding your youngest, who is an infant.” (Cullen, Duke, and Damian. And baby Terry.)
“How many kids do I have?” B wrinkled his nose. “That sounded like a lot.”
“Yes, well, I might have once been exasperated at your habit of collecting strays, but as the Manor fills, I can see nothing but positives associated with the size of our family. You have nine children, officially. However, your home is open to others who you consider family, as well.”
“Nine?” B asked.
“Nine?” Peter echoed.
“Indeed, sir,” Alfred said. He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve long thought that, perhaps, your collection of wards was due, in some part, to your childhood as an only child.” His tone was wry, but amused.
“Nine kids,” Peter breathed. “But... Neal. He doesn’t have any kids. Or spouse.”
“B doesn’t have a spouse, either,” Nightwing piped up. “Single father vibes, man.”
“Vibes?” Red Hood – no, Definitely-Not-Red-Hood – scoffed. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“Besides you’re colony of children,” Alfred went on, “You, sir, have several very good friends. One of which is here, right now.” He motioned to Superman. “I do believe you find it hard to express how grateful you are for that friendship, but your friend has, as they say, ‘a heart of gold.’ And, besides, he never holds your personality against you. A good thing, too. You never were very good at making friends.”
“What about Tommy?” Bruce frowned.
Everyone at the table winced. (Hush.)
B whipped around to look at them. “What happened to Tommy?” he asked.
“It is of no matter,” Alfred said.
Peter – rather belatedly – realized that the life-summary was done, there, at least partially to benefit him, to tell him things about Neal that probably weren’t included in the folder that Superman had handed to him. Nine kids. Nine of them. Peter could hardly imagine having one or two kids. Let alone nine of them.
The superheroes around the table began shifting and getting up. “Speaking of family and friends,” Nightwing said. “It’s about time to head back, yeah? Zatanna will be available for spell-reversal in a few hours, and we wanted to make sure everyone got to meet baby B, while they could.” He grinned.
"Home?” B lit up.
“Yeah, back home,” Nightwing said.
B hesitated, then steeled himself. “Are you... one of my sons?” he asked. “Alfred looked right at you when he started talking.”
“You’re pretty smart, for a ten-year-old,” Nightwing grinned. “That’s right. I was about as old as you are, now, when you took me in. Wasn’t expecting all the siblings, honestly, but I can’t complain. And now I get to see how cute you were! I mean, obviously I was the cutest ten-year-old, but you come pretty close.”
“Narcissist,” Definitely-Not-Red-Hood muttered.
“I was an adorable kid, okay?” Nightwing flashed a grin over his shoulder, then returned his smile to B. “The kids are out of school, already, and everything. I mean, obviously,” he motioned to Robin, “so everyone’s waiting, back at the Manor.”
B glanced at Peter, then back at Nightwing. “Okay. Let’s go.” He reached out, hesitantly, and took Nightwing’s hand.
“He’ll be back at work tomorrow, I’m sure,” Superman said, as the other heroes (and Alfred and B) all filed out of the room. “B’s like that. Workaholic and all. You have clearance for those documents, as does your wife, but we’d prefer it go no further than that. Please consider destroying them after you finish going through them.”
“Consider? What else would I do with them?”
Superman shrugged. “Probably lock them away, then find that they’d disappeared a few weeks, months, maybe even years later? B doesn’t leave loose threads if he can manage it. Not of the inanimate kind, anyway.”
“Right,” Peter said distantly. “Sure. Thanks.”
Superman saluted him, then followed the others out.