Chapter Text
“You know, I would love to know who you actually are, Neal,” Peter mused one evening. They had been looking over the details of a case, sharing takeout curry at Neal's kitchen table, and Neal had offered an observation about vintage motorcycles that seemed to surprise Peter. Okay, it had surprised Neal, too; he hadn't known he knew that.
That sort of thing happened more than he'd like to admit, although he'd always managed to cover it up.
You and me both, partner, he thought.
What he said aloud was, “I'm Neal Caffrey, Peter. You know this. Is this case getting to your head? Should I warn Elizabeth to be worried?”
Peter gave him that look—the one that said he saw right through him, even if he didn't know Neal's birth name or anything about him before he turned eighteen.
That made two of them. Neal remembered waking up on the ground just outside Gotham with no memory of who he was or how he'd gotten there. He knew enough to remember that Gotham was bad news, though, and he'd hoofed it in the opposite direction.
One thing led to another, and—well, the truth was that he had a specific set of skills. It only made sense to make use of them, at least if he wanted to survive. He'd forged a new identity for himself out of nothing—several identities, actually—and he'd lived the high life for a while until Peter had tracked him down and arrested him. Twice.
The man was damn persistent.
“You know I'm going to figure you out eventually,” Peter said lazily as though to prove Neal's point.
Neal hummed and turned back to the case before them, hoping to distract his partner, at least temporarily. Thankfully, Peter allowed himself to be distracted. Neal knew it was only a temporary reprieve.
***
What the actual fuck?! Neal thought as he held a copy of Fortune magazine in trembling hands. The smiling face of billionaire CEO Bruce Wayne stared back at him, but Neal wasn't seeing the magazine cover, not anymore.
A flood of memories rushed through his mind. He couldn't breathe. His heart was racing. He was vaguely aware of Peter coming over and asking if he was all right, but he couldn't respond.
He was Jason Todd. He'd had a whole life—a mad, dangerous one that explained so much. He'd had a family. He had—fuck, he had died. Batman hadn't come for him, and he'd died.
“Neal?”
Neal—no, Jason—shoved past Peter and rushed to the bathroom to throw up violently. When he was finished, he sank to the floor of the stall with his back against the door, still trembling.
Get it together, man.
He heard the main door to the men's room open and footsteps approach, stopping outside his stall.
“Neal? You okay in there?”
Jason took a shuddering breath and scrubbed his hand over his face. Time to run damage control. There was no way he was telling his partner this, not until he had time to process it, anyhow.
“Yeah, think I've caught some sort of stomach bug. I should probably head home,” he said, not even having to fake the tremor in his voice.
“You need a ride?” Peter asked, even though Jason knew he couldn't afford the time to drive him home. They were at a tight spot in their case, and just being without Jason would put Peter in a pinch. Diana and Jones would cover for him, though; he was sure of that. He just—he couldn't be here anymore. He needed to think.
“I'll find something. You go back to the case. I—I'm sorry, Peter.”
“Don't worry about it,” Peter answered, sounding worried himself. “Just get some rest. I'll check in on you this evening if I can get away from the case for a few minutes.”
“Thanks,” Jason said to his partner as Peter turned to leave, surprised to realize that he actually meant it. Now that he had a basis for comparison . . . well, it was astonishing just how much he'd come to see Peter as a father figure over the past couple of years.
A couple of years. He quickly ran the math in his head. Damn, he was only, like, twenty-four. The feds all thought he was in his thirties. Hell, he'd thought he must be at least in his upper twenties.
I wonder what happened to everyone? Bruce, Dick, Alfred, the team? B's obviously doing well for himself if he's cheesing for magazine covers, right?
His mind fluttered in a million different directions, trying to meld the influx of new information with the memories he'd made as Neal Caffrey—with the person he was as Neal Caffrey. It was . . . a lot.
Eventually, the nausea passed, and his breathing settled to something like normal levels. Jason dragged himself to his feet, brushed himself off, and exited the stall. He rinsed his mouth off at the sink, doing his best to get rid of the lingering taste of vomit. Gross.
He needed to go—home? Yeah, okay, June's still felt like home. Yup, he was going home to brush his teeth and take the longest, hottest shower he could manage. And then sleep for maybe a week. Hopefully, by that point, his brain would have rebooted, and he would have some idea of what to do with this new knowledge.