Chapter Text
Neal shed his suit jacket with great relief once he finally stepped into his apartment. Summer was in full swing, and the heat outside was practically sweltering.
His top-floor apartment without air conditioning was little better, even though he had aired it out extensively that morning when it was still relatively cool. With a sigh, he pulled his tie loose and popped a few buttons.
He'd been looking forward to continuing his project, waiting patiently in the adjoining room, the entire day. Though he'd stick his head under cold water first.
Those plans were violently derailed when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Only because he was still mildly on edge (from his two weeks waiting for someone to jump out and shank him) was he fast enough in dropping to the floor to avoid the projectile. A throwing knife embedded itself in the wall above his head.
Heart racing, he tried to spot his attacker. A moving shadow flitted behind the wall that led to his bedroom. Oh God. He was going to die.
He pulled the knife out of the wall and dove for the measly cover his dining table provided. "Who are you?" he called to the intruder while he cursed himself for leaving his jacket by the door, and more importantly with his phone in it.
The knife was a real throwing knife, scalpel-sharp and perfectly weighted. If worst came to worst, he could try to damage the anklet with it. That would be certain to get someone here. Just in time to find his cooling corpse.
He strained to hear any sound out of place over the rushing of his blood and the hammering of his heart. "I'm sure we can talk about this," he attempted in a forcibly light tone.
Neal wasn't entirely sure, but he thought he heard a quick "tsk" from the direction of the bedroom. As quietly as he could manage, he rounded the table, inching further towards his phone and the door. Maybe if he was fast enough he could make it out.
Or not.
Another knife sliced through the space between him and the door with a zing and a thunk. While he was distracted, a shadow rushed into the corner of his eye. Just in time, he pulled a chair between himself and another projectile before a knife embedded itself in the backrest.
"Please stop putting holes in the wall. This is a rental." Well, not that he was paying rent, but this was just disrespectful to June. The attacker didn't answer, only jumped over the table in a seriously impressive leap.
Neal was so startled that he was too slow to defend himself from the jump attack. Thin-fingered hands wrapped around his neck, and the velocity of the landing knocked Neal on his ass.
The same surprisingly strong fingers dug into his wrists, making him drop the knife with a yelp of pain. Before he could tell up from down, there was the feeling of cold steel on his throat. The only thing he managed to think was that just killing him with a gun would have been a whole lot easier.
After multiple seconds of nothing more happening, Neal realized that his throat was still unslit. He sucked in a breath, mostly dumbfounded that he still had an intact windpipe to do it with. From behind him, another derisive "tsk" sounded.
"Pathetic. If I were an attacker, you would be dead."
Neal was still preoccupied with his brush with death. And now he was being criticized by what sounded suspiciously like a snooty teenager.
Swallowing once, he found his voice. "First of all, what could I have possibly done to offend you into attempted murder?" Because really. Another scoff sounded from behind him.
"If I intended to kill you, you would be dead." Neal swallowed, all too aware of the blade still pressed to his throat.
"Fair enough, though I've got to say I'm getting some mixed messages here."
Neal's heart skipped a beat as the pressure increased for a moment, as if in warning, before the blade thankfully disappeared.
Neal massaged the phantom feeling on his throat away, air suddenly feeling tight. Leaning forward to breathe, he pulled his tie the rest of the way off before rolling back to his feet on slightly gelatinous-feeling knees to take a look at his attacker.
It was a kid. A young teen no older than fourteen. He was wearing a nondescript dark cap and a medical mask over his mouth and nose. Otherwise, he was dressed normally. No, not normally—nondescript. Deliberately, calculatedly normal. Black hair peeked out from under his cap, and his skin was a few shades darker than Neal's. His hard eyes were very green.
Neal had never seen this boy in his life.
"What are you doing in my house?" Neal had had enough of being frightened for his life after the weeks he had spent jumping at every shadow. Now that the shoe had finally dropped, he felt weirdly better.
He'd come to terms with the fact he might die. Now he was just exasperated.
"I wanted to see if you were worthy," the boy pronounced, crossing his arms imperiously as he leaned against the wall beside Neal's door, nearly blocking his exit.
"Worthy of what?" Neal inquired as he moved to the counter in the vague intention of putting more distance between them.
The boy passed another hard, judging look over Neal.
"Of sharing my brother's face."
Neal felt a weird swooping feeling in his stomach, then strangely faint, then very, very unhinged.
"Oh. My God." Neal dug his fingers into his face, then indulged in digging them into his hair, messing up the style. He just resisted pulling it, much. There was a scream somewhere trapped in his throat. He felt like a pressure cooker about ready to burst. It was not one emotion, but a lot of them, and that just made him feel vaguely insane.
"Oh. My God," he repeated and finally just decided to turn his back on the crazy teenager. He was angry—he was so fucking angry—and he was relieved and coming off an adrenaline high, and there was another crazy person in his apartment because of that goddamn, motherfucking, asshat. If Neal ever met his doppelganger, he might actually wring his neck.
Not looking at the little murder kid helped his nerves loads, so he decided to ignore him a little longer. Deep breaths. He poured himself some water from the sink, and that helped too. Maybe if he ignored the kid long enough, he'd just go away.
"My profile didn't mention you were mentally unstable."
Profile? What? What the hell. Oh my God, Neal thought.
"You people are insane." Neal felt the horror distantly. "Completely insane."
"Do not be dramatic," the boy scoffed.
"I'm dramatic? Excuse me, who was the one throwing around knives just a minute ago?" Neal asked in disbelief. Because yes, he could be dramatic, but this was on another level.
"Calm down, you are unhurt." Never, in the history of calming down, had anyone calmed down when told to calm down. He was all geared up to be anything but calm when he realized that he had zero interest in arguing with an unhinged teenager with knives.
Instead, he rubbed his face. "What do you want?" He infused his voice with levity he did not feel.
"I just told you."
"So what? Want to see my high school diploma?"
"You are pathetically weak." Gee, thanks.
"Ever considered that you're just freakishly strong?"
A scoff.
"I am at the pinnacle of human performance. You are average." The word "average" could have been replaced with "pathetic" or "a worm" by the tone in which it was spoken.
"I am astonished at how long you have survived," the boy continued. "It is remarkable for how unimposing you are." Careful there—that almost sounded like a compliment.
"It is either blind luck, or you are more capable than you look." Neal would say so of himself. He wasn't a fighter, but he prided himself on being a slippery guy.
"Neal Caffrey, age 32, prior conviction on bond forgery, served a few years in a high-security prison before breaking out with relative ease. Now on a work-release contract with the FBI, NY. No children, unmarried. Bisexual with a preference for women, expensive taste despite a middle-class upbringing. Staunchly nonviolent, morally averse to killing. No family. Stable mental disposition. Adrenaline junkie, thrill seeker. No health conditions. Multilingual. English, Italian, French, Portuguese, Japanese, Swahili. Reportedly intelligent."
Neal didn't gape but pressed his lips into a line. "Congrats, kid, you did your homework. Sounds like you got into the FBI files." Not that it was that hard.
"A prodigy in the fine arts. Specializing in reproductions. Sculpting, painting, goldsmithing. You can do it. You learn fast."
"You're going to make me blush," Neal replied flatly, though his brows had begun a steady climb up his forehead.
"Does this have a point?" He finally turned around to see the kid, honest to God, cleaning his nails with one of his knives. Crazy people.
"It would be a waste if you died to one of my brother's numerous enemies because you were too weak to save yourself," the boy remarked, and it almost seemed like he was being at least partially honest.
"So?" Neal prompted when the kid didn't immediately continue his monologue.
"Two proposals." The boy elegantly made the knife disappear as he held up two fingers. "First, I arrange an excellent surgeon and you get a new face and my aid in constructing a new identity." Yeah, no.
"Second." The boy folded in one finger. "An equal exchange. I get you the best instructors in self-defense and means to contact help, and you instruct me in the trade of creating perfect forgeries."
At that, Neal did gape.
"I will give you two days to come to a decision." With that, the boy slipped out of the door.
—
Mozzie arrived an hour later to find Neal still in his work clothes, sipping wine on the balcony while spinning the throwing knife the boy had left behind in his hand.
"Want some?" Neal held the bottle out to him.
"You know I'll never say no to that."
Neal was already slightly buzzed, but he realized that there was no second glass for his friend. "Get yourself a glass then."
Mozzie returned with a glass in hand but a furrow in his brow. "Why is there a hole in your wall?"
Chuckling, he took another sip, already nearing the bottom of his glass. He refilled his own and poured Mozzie a decent amount. In retrospect, it was all pretty funny. But Mozzie would probably lose his head.
Delicately, he placed the small, plain knife onto the table and slid it over for Mozzie's inspection. The entire thing was dark steel, slim, culminating in a ring. Good for stabbing, slashing, cutting, and throwing. Simple but versatile. The only embellishment was a simple design on the hilt, there more for grip than aesthetics. Probably mass-produced from the same cast-iron mold.
Neal watched Mozzie's expression closely. Watched as the color slowly drained from his face. "Where did you find this?" Mozzie asked tensely. Neal pointed to where he had pulled it out of the wall.
"A kid threw it at my head." He took another deep sip.
"Called me weak and pathetic. And I think he was trying to blackmail me into teaching him how to—" he waved his hand inelegantly, "—do what I do."
Mozzie stared at him like he was insane. Neal snorted.
"Tell me exactly what happened," Mozzie insisted with a very serious expression.
.
.
"I'm not leaving," Neal insisted, his mood soured by Mozzie's seriousness.
"It's the chance of a lifetime," Mozzie insisted. Neal placed his glass down a bit too forcefully.
"No." He shook his head, partly to clear it. He had had a bit too much. "No, we've been over this. All right? I thought we were over this?" He gestured forcefully. They had had their chance, and it had failed, and Neal had decided he would be staying then, and he was determined to see it through.
"This," he gestured around himself, "'s my life, and you know what? I like it. You've made your opinion clear. But all this— Peter, working cases, June, New York, you. I like it. 'Cus what if I leave? New face, all the money, sure, great. 'S not what I wanna do." He was getting emotional. He didn't care. "Sure. In a few years I'll probably be bored and change my mind. But—"
But I don't want to be alone again.
"And I won't give up what I want b'cus' some twit with my face. He can get himself a new face. How 'bout that? This is his fault. Why should I have to compi'rise —compri—compromise?" he concluded with an admittedly childish scowl.
Mozzie had his arms crossed, visibly deep in thought. "I'm just saying that I think this thing is really bad news." He scowled at the knife. "I need to do some research. Can I take this?"
Neal waved him off and didn't watch him as he hurried off with the thing.
————
[You]
Hey, weird question, but do you know a kid around 13 to 14, black hair, green eyes, about 5'4", weirdly formal speech, likes throwing pointy things?
[Kori]
What did he do?
[You]
I'll take this as a yes? He broke into my apartment, threw knives at me, and I think he's trying to blackmail me into teaching him to forge.
[Kori]
I'm so sorry. I definitely know who that is.
[You]
He also offered me facial reconstruction surgery?
[You]
That or teaching him how to do forgeries in exchange for teaching me how to fight. What am I supposed to do here?
[Kori]
I think he's actually trying to look out for you in his way. I'll talk to his dad. Again, I am so sorry. He can be very rude.
[You]
Thanks a lot.
[Kori]
So I had a talk with his dad. Would you be up to teaching him a thing or two? I promise he will not actually try to kill you, and he has a point. If you're staying in New York, then you should maybe learn how to fight.
[Kori]
No offense.
[You]
So you're saying I should just accept?
[Kori]
I know he can come off as standoffish. He's come a long way, though, even if he's had a difficult childhood. All that to say: yes. It's ultimately your decision. But I think it could be beneficial for you.
[You]
I'll think about it.
————
"So show me where you're starting."
The kid was wearing a similar getup to the last time he had visited. Neal's suspicion that the kid's main objective had been to get art lessons seemed pretty solid. He wondered what would have happened if he had decided on the other option. Somehow, he didn't doubt that the kid could actually arrange a black-market face surgeon. Hyper-competent that he was.
He led the boy to the easel he had set up. A sheet of paper was already waiting. "I want to see how good your technical skills are. See what we're working with. I'd like to start with pencil. I have a few different references here. You get ten minutes for each, and I'd like you to try being as accurate to the reference as possible. Okay?" The boy only nodded silently; from where he stood, his expression was hidden under the rim of his cap.
Neal stepped aside and watched the boy pick up the graphite pencil with nimble, sure fingers. "And time." He started the timer and took a few steps away; beginner artists didn't usually do well with people standing at their backs. Hell, Neal was a pretty damn confident artist, and he didn't appreciate people breathing down his neck.
He made himself comfortable on the couch with the glass of red wine he had used to calm himself down while waiting. He drained the last sip and took up a book he could pretend to read.
Though he spent most of the time watching the boy. He was a very, very quiet kid when he wasn't monologuing like a B-list Bond villain. The only noise he made was the sound of pencil on paper. All in all, his strokes looked confident. Occasionally, he would slow, pause, and proceed more hesitantly.
The pencil left the page the second the timer beeped, and Neal leaned over to inspect the result.
It was good. More than good, considering the boy's age. The first picture had been a landscape with a few houses. "This is better than I expected." He was impressed, and it was audible. "How about you do the portrait next?" He clipped another reference and took the completed sketch and reference away.
The boy was very skilled at shading and practiced at perspective. "Take a small break and rest your eyes," Neal suggested.
The boy tsked. "I do not need frequent breaks. I am not a child." Neal managed not to lift his brows at that bold statement.
"Frequent breaks to readjust your eyes always help you. It helps keep the whole picture in mind and not get lost in details." The boy huffed but took a minute to look at the sunset outside for a moment.
"I am ready." Neal started the timer and took the first sketch with him.
It wasn't perfect. He had almost—almost—captured the position of the house correctly. A few angles were not completely right, but all in all, this was something you could pass off in second year of art school. It was remarkable. Neal hadn't been this good at that age.
As it turned out, his portraits were even better than his landscapes. The sketch was extremely close to the reference. Especially the facial features. It was the clothing details that were a bit off.
"You already have pretty much all the technical skill we need to start." That was a relief, because it meant he would be seeing a lot less of the kid than he had feared.
"Do you think you have enough time to make one trial with paint?"
.
.
.
It was almost dark by the time they finished up.
"Wait, does anyone even know you're here?" Neal squinted suspiciously at the boy.
"None of your concern." Aaaaaaand he was gone. Neal let out an exasperated sigh, but he was in a weirdly good mood.
He had prepared himself for a tense evening, but the boy wasn't that unpleasant. Closed-off, secretive, and a bit arrogant, yes, but he could back it up. And not a single new knife thrown.
———
[You]
It went surprisingly well.
[You]
[Photo] He's very skilled already.
[Kori]
That's great! But I'm interested to see how you'll feel about it once you start your lessons.
———
The next day he received a letter with a gym membership card and a time and date and a room number. What the hell had he gotten into?
The date was on Saturday. Neal still hadn't heard back from Mozzie.
.
.
.
The gym was a bit of an upscale establishment that also hosted clubs. The room number directed Neal to one such room. It had a mirrored wall so it could also double as a dance studio. The note had told him to warm up beforehand, so he assumed the boy—or whoever he had sent—would be there already.
When he first entered, he spotted no one, just some equipment. When he looked again, the boy was standing right behind him.
Neal jumped. "Jesus."
The boy tsked. He was wearing the same cap-mask combo as the previous two times they'd met, but this time paired with long-sleeved athletic clothes.
"No," the boy deadpanned, "that description is more fitting of my brother."
What was that even supposed to mean?
"Right." Neal rolled back and forth on the balls of his feet. With another tsk, the boy rolled his head to indicate Neal should follow him to the judo mats in the center of the room.
"No shoes on the mats," he was rebuked. Bossy as hell. As he bent down to untie his shoes, he wondered, again, what the hell he had gotten into. And why exactly it was that he was being bossed around by a teenager.
The kid was waiting for him in a stance befitting a drill sergeant.
"Do you know how to fall?"
For the next forty-five minutes, Neal was forced to practice breaking a fall without hurting himself from any imaginable direction and getting back to his feet as fast as possible. The kid was absolutely relentless. Drill sergeant didn't even begin to cover it. Neal was pretty sure he'd seen a gleam of unholy, devilish glee twinkling in the boy's eye. Even if he didn't show it in his voice.
After a short break that mostly consisted of Neal lying on the mats, staring at the ceiling and considering his life choices, they continued. This time Neal was dodging the kid as he swung a foam-covered bat at him. Viciously. It was an experience...
Ouch.
Once his reaction time had improved, the swings just came faster. This kid. Absolutely bonkers. It was kind of fun, except for the part where he was getting his ass handed to him by a literal child.
A steady rush of adrenaline. Neal felt so goddamn alive, and— the foam bat bounced off his head.
"You are dead once again." The boy announced. Neal huffed; this was about the 100th time he had "died" from "blunt force trauma."
The foam bat was retired in favor of a rubber knife, and Neal "died" a few more times from "fatal stab wounds."
Three hours later, the boy declared the training was over and told him to work on his agility and speed in the meantime. Then he was just gone. Poof. Neal had looked away for approximately half a second.
With a groan, he let his head hit the mat. He felt like one giant bruise.
—
On Sunday he could hardly move. Just everything hurt. About half his body was bruised and just. Ouch.
And there was still not a peep from Mozzie. That happened sometimes when Mozzie went into hiding for one reason or another. Neal vaguely recalled how pale Mozzie had gotten once he got a look at the knife. Maybe he should look into that too, if it was the reason Mozzie had gone silent.
—
The updated cumulative things Neal knows about his double are as follows:
1. He knew Deathstroke the Terminator on a pretty close basis.
2. His name was unknown, but the list of known aliases was: Robin (Rob), (Robert?), Richie (Richard?), Grayson, Dick (which may also just be an insulting nickname), N? (abbreviation).
3. He's probably American and almost certainly from New Jersey, possibly from Gotham. (San Francisco appeared to be an outlier.)
4. He can fight and was apparently also some sort of contortionist.
5. He knows a lot of people; a lot of well-connected people know him.
6. He knows French.
7. He uses a lot of aliases. (See point 3.)
8. The alias Richie was friends with kidnappers. Specifically with his kidnappers.
9. His father had a company; he had a friend?/relative? who had died?
10. Possibly an ex-girlfriend named Babara.
11. He was (probably) a few years younger than Neal.
12. He had a super hot, super nice supermodel girlfriend named Kori who lived in Jump City and was friends with super hot, super nice, and talented photographer Donna who lived in Manhattan.
13. He had no sense of fashion, and his girlfriend bought clothes for him.
14. He worked a lot and often had to work weekends.
15. He couldn't cook.
16. He had a young brother who ran around with throwing knives and made a habit of threatening people. The before-mentioned brother wanted to learn how to forge, and everyone was ok with that?? The kid was also some kind of ninja, disturbingly competent for his age and not originally from the US, judging by the slightest hint of an accent and one or two interesting phrasings.