Chapter Text
After solving a string of mortgage fraud cases that had plagued the bureau for weeks and bored all of them to tears, the team decided they deserved to spend the evening celebrating their success together in a bar. Not a seedy hole-in-the-wall, but a rather classy one, the kind where drinks were slightly overpriced, but it was compensated by the cozy atmosphere, the absence of sticky stains on the tables and chairs and the fact that the entire White Collar team could fit inside the main room.
Clinton ordered a beer and turned to watch the upcoming baseball match on TV – Metropolis Meteors against the Boston Red Sox. Not a meeting he was very invested in, considering he supported neither team, but watching the game helped him relax. Peter seemed to have the same idea, as he asked the bartender to turn the volume up. Considering the majority of his customers looked interested, the man obligingly set the sound higher. A group of supporters in Boston’s colors walked in and settled in front of the TV, ready to cheer for their team.
Diana shook her head with a tired smile, but made no comment. They were all too weary from the days of checking rows upon rows of numbers for an inconsistency to argue; even Neal, usually so unflappable and ready to criticize the merits of watching sports, kept his mouth shut. That is, until he took a glance at the screen.
The conman did a double take, before he straightened in his seat, more alert than a second ago. The motion caught his neighbors’ attention – nothing that had Neal react so readily had been good for them so far.
Yet Clinton couldn’t find anything amiss and neither could Diana or Peter, the other two who had noticed Neal perking up. The meeting on TV started like it was supposed to, the Boston fans looked a bit too excited, but not in any worrying way, and the rest of the bar watched the screen with a lazy sort of interest, except for a man in a far corner, whose eyes were set on the TV. Probably another supporter, although he wore no colors to show his allegiance. In any case, Neal’s eyes were firmly glued to the screen.
“Something caught your eye?” Asked Peter warily, even as he scanned the room a second time.
Neal looked at him in surprise for a second, like he’d forgotten they were there, before a smile broke on his lips. The specific, too symmetric smile that usually meant he was scheming something. “Huh? Oh, no. I just didn’t know the Meteors were playing tonight.”
The answer took the wind from their sails. “I didn’t know you were a fan of baseball.” Said Diana, already relaxing and taking a sip of her fancy cocktail.
“I’m not really; it’s just the Meteors I’m interested in. I barely know the names of the other teams to be honest.”
Peter still looked a little suspicious, but with nothing to base his doubts on, he turned to watch the meeting begin, like the rest of the agents that hadn’t noticed Neal almost vibrating through his seat with excitement.
The game started, and all was normal for a while. Then one of the Metropolitan players appeared on screen and Neal…
… booed?
He wasn’t the only one; the man in the corner had the exact same reaction and Clinton watched as Neal and him locked eyes in surprise, before devious grins broke on both their faces.
“Come here, sir. A man of good taste is always welcome at my table!” Called the conman before anyone could question his attitude. The unknown man wasted no time squeezing on the bench between Neal and Diana with a muttered apology for the woman. Both him and Neal looked way too excited. “I’m Neal, you?”
“Duncan.” Replied the man. He stared at Neal with a perplexed frown before shrugging. Clinton noted that neither this ‘Duncan’ nor Neal had offered a last name, but both seemed satisfied with their rushed introductions; the stranger and Neal turned back towards the TV in almost frenzied anticipation.
“Wait a minute, what the hell was that?” Demanded Peter, who looked more worried by the second. “I thought you supported the Meteors! And who are you?”
The man – Duncan – didn’t bother replying, but Neal was a bit more agreeable, even if he never tore his gaze from the screen. “He just told you, Peter, his name is Duncan. And before you ask, I’ve never met him before; I can only appreciate his tastefulness: anyone who agrees on how terrible the Meteors are is someone worth sharing a drink with.”
“Metropolis sucks.” Stated Duncan without glancing their way. The Meteors scored another point on screen. “Boooo! That was terrible! How are you even on the field when you hit like such a wimp?!”
“It’s a disgrace to baseball everywhere!” Added Neal in the same tone. “My grandma could do a better job than you, and she’s on the wrong side of the grass!”
“What the fuck…” Muttered Clinton as he watched the two madmen send increasingly strange jeers at the Metropolis Meteors every time they appeared on the TV. The rest of the room, agents and Boston supporters included, looked at Neal and Duncan incredulously, although neither seemed to mind, too absorbed in their methodical – if nonsensical – ridicule of the Metropolitan uniforms.
“Who even choses blue and red, really? They look like Woody Woodpecker with their caps on. Are they trying to copy Superman? Because if that’s so, they need to get their heads checked – Superman has absolutely no sense of style, just look at the way he wears his boxers over his tights.” Stated Neal with a decisive nod and all the solemnity in the world.
“Yeah, the man looks like a flying map of the country’s political alignment. What, is he a Democrat, a Republican? Can he even vote – the guy’s an alien from outer space who can’t decide on a party! Who would want to emulate that? Only colorblind morons, that’s who.” Announced Duncan, just as serious.
Peter valiantly tried to cut in several times, only to be interrupted by the two men’s unstoppable, bizarre commentary. In the end, the rest of them resigned themselves to waiting for the end of the game; a few people even settled down and enjoyed the show, watching Neal and Duncan rather than the TV.
Clinton had to admit, if he hadn’t felt so disturbed by the situation, he would have found it pretty amusing himself. As it was, he worried about Neal’s uncharacteristic behavior and wondered where this hatred of the Meteors – and all things from Metropolis apparently, from Superman’s underwear to Lex Luthor’s baldness, including their mail delivery system and the way the Sun reflected on their buildings – came from and why they both shared it.
One lunatic hating on Metropolis was one thing, but two? Not to mention the too easy way they united to deride the poor team; there had to be a semi-reasonable explanation.
The game ended with a clear victory for Boston, which obviously pleased Duncan and Neal. “It was a nice meeting you.” Said Neal, offering to shake the other man’s hand.
“Pleasure was all mine, Neal.” Answered Duncan, taking the proffered hand. Clinton didn’t like the way he stressed Neal’s name, like he knew something the FBI didn’t, despite having clearly met the conman for the first time this evening. “It’s always nice not to be alone when Metropolis plays.”
“Don’t I know it.” Neal laughed. “I always feel strange yelling at them alone in my flat, but tradition is tradition.”
Duncan nodded like that sentence made any sense and left the bar after paying for his drinks. He didn’t share any personal information, he just… left. The gathered FBI agents looked at him strangely as he vanished behind a corner, but what could they do? Duncan had done nothing wrong or illegal and clearly had no ties with Neal before today; they couldn’t question him more than they'd already tried.
That being said, they could interrogate their CI all they wanted. “What was that?” Demanded Peter now that he could place a word in edgewise without being interrupted by criticism about the Metropolitans’ stances and haircuts. The vein on his forehead pulsed with confused wrath. “And what do you have against Metropolis?”
“Nothing.” Shrugged Neal, who had apparently chosen to pretend this evening didn’t blow their minds and revealed a heretofore unknown aspect of his personality. “It just sucks.”
Poor Peter pinched the bridge of his nose; once more, Clinton was glad that Neal Caffrey was not his responsibility. The CI was all in all a good guy despite his poor choice of occupation, but by God was he a pain to deal with sometimes.
“What do you have against Superman, then?” Asked Diana, clearly opting for a different angle. “You and your friend had a lot to say about him.”
“I don’t have anything against Superman either, I just think that Big Blue is overrated and that he chose a pretty lame city to protect. Because Metropolis-”
“Metropolis sucks, we got that.” Growled Peter. He looked ready for the day to be over yesterday. Behind him, a few probies muttered ‘Big Blue’ with perplexed glances Neal’s way, but the people more familiar with the CI’s eccentricities knew to choose their battles. “And you’ve really never met this Duncan before?”
“Nope. Never met before and probably never will again.” Swore Neal. To Clinton, he looked sincere, but then again, Neal always did. Peter could read him better, though, and seemed to accept his words at face value.
“How come you both ended up in the same bar and decided to berate the Metropolis Meteors out loud, then?” Clinton couldn’t help but ask. He should probably let it go, but today had been so surreal that he had to poke a little more.
“Well, the bar had been a coincidence – I mean, even I had no idea I’d be here until tonight, and I hadn’t known there would be a game with the Meteors on TV either. As for the berating, it should be obvious.” He faced Clinton, a shit-eating grin on his face that proved he knew exactly what he was doing. “Anyone with a lick of sense should know that Metropolis sucks.”
And like the chaos gremlin he not so secretly was, Neal glided out of the bar with a laugh to wait for them by the cars. He didn’t even pay for his own drinks.
Peter settled his tab and Neal’s with a grumble, swearing to make him repay him later (Clinton wasn’t so sure, and judging from her knowing smile, neither was Diana. The agent regularly allowed Neal a bit more than he should, and paying for his drinks was not the worst thing the conman had gotten out of him). “What do you think this was about?” He asked his two closest colleagues before they met with Neal in the parking lot.
Diana shrugged. “I doubt it was a con or anything prepared in advance, but beyond that? No idea. Maybe he’s more of a baseball fan than he said and the Meteors defeated his team?” Even she didn’t look convinced by her theory.
Neal was notorious for not liking to watch sports (Clinton wasn’t sure the man so much as owned a TV) and had more than once shown that he knew almost nothing about baseball. Peter, who religiously followed the Major League results, had rambled about it on several occasions and never had his CI responded with more than polite non-answers and confused blinking. If he had been faking for so long, it had been masterfully done and Clinton couldn’t see the endgame.
“Maybe it’s something personal?” He suggested. “Like one of the players ruined a con of his or something like that; baseball players earn enough money to make them interesting targets for a crook like Neal.”
Neither of his companions had better ideas, although they all knew that Clinton’s theory had holes; like the fact that Duncan had reacted the exact same way as Neal whenever the Meteors appeared on screen. With nothing more to add and the resigned certitude that their CI would never reveal the truth, they unanimously decided to set this riddle aside for now.
One day, they would understand what had happened tonight, but mulling over it with so little to base an idea on was futile. Maybe the next time Metropolis played they could get answers.
Metropolis and Gotham had always been rivals of sorts for reasons nobody remembered, but in recent years, with Batman and Superman working so tightly together in the Justice League, the two cities had tentatively started to bury the hatchet.
Until the Knights vs Meteors incident, that is.
The Metropolis Meteors had come to face off the Gotham Knights on their own turf for some kind of big tournament, something pretty important apparently. Dick didn’t know the details – he hadn’t lied when he’d said he knew very little about baseball, but every Gothamite knew about that day.
In the middle of the game, Kite-Man had attacked the stadium. Kite-Man. A D-rank villain if there ever was one. The guy had threatened everyone in the audience with some stupid scheme – again, Dick had no details, but he knew enough about Kite-Man to seriously doubt the gravity of the situation.
Anyway, the Meteors and the supporters from Metropolis had fled at the first opportunity – when Red Robin had appeared to take care of the ‘threat’ – while the Knights valiantly stayed on the field. Say what you want about Gothamites and their baseball team, but the guys were devoted, and a lame villain like Kite-Man wasn’t enough to make them run for the hills. If people fled any time a minor supercriminal showed his face, nothing would ever get done.
Monsters like the Joker or Poison Ivy were one thing, losers like Kite-Man or the Condiment King were another, and Gothamites were a tough crowd.
So the Knights had staunchly continued the game despite the desertion of their opponent, and had naturally amassed a lot of points. The local referee had dutifully counted everything, and if the Metropolitans were not there to play, they should have lost by default anyway. That was the rule.
Yet hours later, when the Meteors finally crawled back and the game was long over, they objected to the results. They argued that the Knights had cheated, that they shouldn’t have kept playing, that the points rightfully earned in their absence shouldn’t count.
Of course, the Knights wouldn’t take that lying down. They retorted that they had won fairly, and that the Metropolitan shouldn’t have fled at first sight of a lame flying man with lousy explosive kites (or something equally underwhelming, Dick was sure). That if they were not dedicated enough, they should not play to begin with. All valid points in Dick’s and Gotham’s opinion, but when the bigwigs of the baseball league were called, they sided with the Meteors and banned the Knights from their games for the next ten years. One thing led to another, and all teams from Gotham found themselves fired from the national leagues, no matter the discipline, because all of them had rallied in support of the Knights. Apparently, their tenacious resolve didn’t agree with the other cities’ weak, losing mindset.
No Gothamite, fan of baseball or otherwise, would take that slight without retaliation, so from now on, every time the Meteors or other Metropolis teams played, the people of Gotham would boo and ridicule them. In the stadium, in bars, at home in front of their TV, there would always be a Gothamite to remind the cheaters of what they had done to the Knights.
At least, the vengeance was a nonviolent one; God knew Gothamites usually leaned towards more brutal resolutions.
Even Dick and his family followed the tradition, despite the fact that few of them knew the first thing about baseball, and often gathered to watch the games on TV and jeer at the Metropolitans. By scorning their team, Metropolis had insulted all of Gotham, and her people were vindictive and spiteful, with long memories and dramatic tendencies.
Thus the dying feud between the two cities was rekindled and even exiled Gothamites would unite, just the time to exact verbal retribution. ‘Metropolis sucks’ was their rallying call, a universal truth that they attempted to share with the world.
It was laughably easy to spot fellow Gothamites on days Metropolis played; you just had to look for the other lunatics hurling abuse at half the players and not cheering for any team. Even supervillains had been seen barking insults at their TVs.
It turned out that sport really brought people together after all.
So Dick and Duncan had recognized each other as Gotham expats immediately, despite having never met before (although from his confused staring, Duncan had soon recognized ‘Neal’ as Bruce Wayne’s oldest son, but Gothamites knew when to keep their mouths shut and when to keep secrets from Outsiders, so Dick had not been worried), and the two of them had banded together the time of a baseball game.
Then they had parted, because Gothamites also knew to mind their own business, and Dick relished the look of suspicious confusion on his friends’ faces.
Explaining would be useless because Outsiders rarely understood Gotham logic and Dick was in no hurry to share his origins, so he left them with a laugh and one last piece of wisdom, a kernel of truth to be passed for generations to come, an absolute, undeniable constant in an ever-shifting world.
Metropolis sucks.