Warning: As stated this story contains spanking of a minor - if that bothers you, we trust that you will be adult enough to move on to less risqué pastures. But if you are childish enough to stick around simply long enough to sling an insult, before running off to hide, then be warned, when Peter finds you, you will be paddled all the way home :)

A/N We have started a new account to post some of the stories we have written together, so we hope you like this joint effort...Dippy and CK

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The young boy brushed a clump of dark errant hair away from his eyes and gazed longingly out the window at the kids down below, kids who were playing happily in their driveways, along the pavements and when the traffic permitted, in the middle of the street. It was Saturday morning and he should have been down there too, riding his scooter, bouncing his basketball and of course, trading his little stash of treasures for the neighbour's weekly pocket money. But thanks to some overzealous, try-hard mall cop, he wasn't down on the street with all the other kids, instead, he was stuck in his room, supposedly catching up on assignment work that was long overdue, and severing out, yet another grounding.

The youngster groaned while thinking how horribly unfair and unjust it was to be confined to the house for a whole weekend, and for such a minor misdemeanour. Skipping the last hour on a Friday afternoon, which just so happened to be gym class, to hang out with a buddy at the mall, was hardly the crime of the century! Plus, as if the grounding wasn't bad enough, it had been in addition to the…the other consequences that had already been doled out.

The boy lightly thumped his forehead against the windowpane while he considered how damn unlucky he'd been to get caught out, even though he knew it was his own stupid fault for being so short. At barely four feet, the boy was teetering on the undersized marker of the scale for his eleven years of age. Having said that, he'd been told by those in the know, that he was bound to have a growth spurt any day soon. The boy hoped, out of all the stories he'd been spun to make him feel a little better about the way things were, this one might hold an element of truth.

He forced his face off the window and made a stellar effort to look a little less bothered…least someone believed the grounding to be an effective punishment… as he registered approaching footsteps heading in his direction.

"Air-wick," a little whipper-snapper came bounding into the room and up onto the bed.

"What?"

"Dadda wants to see oo ownd stairs."

"What for?"

"He niden't say."

"Tell him I'm busy."

"Use not busy."

"Yes I am, squirt. Not that you would know, but I have to work on my history assignment that I have to hand in on Monday."

"I cans helb use if oo want."

"No, you can't. You can't even write your name. How the hell are you supposed to help me with my assignment?"

"Dunno," the little guy shrugged as he clambered off the bed and made a beeline for the small study desk. "I can maybes dwaw a pit-ure?"

"Don't even think about touching my stuff, squirt…" then again, Eric smiled as a brilliant plan began to formulate… "Or you know, if you think you can help…I guess I don't mind." The older boy leaned back against the window and watched on with immense satisfaction as the little guy hitched himself up onto the chair and selected a bright red marker from the tub of pens and pencils. But unfortunately, his marvellous plot to get out of what could only be describe as an excruciating exercise in futility, was foiled by a counter force, bellowing up the stairs and into their room …

"Eric! Scott-Allen!"

"Uhs ohs," the little one flung down the pen and scurried off his chair before trotting off to the door. "Dadda ounds cwanky."

"What else is new," Eric grumbled as he trailed the younger boy down the stairs and into the living room. "What did I do now?" he asked as he flopped down onto the sofa and put his feet up on the coffee table, eliciting a glare from the two adults who had been in the process of collecting keys, wallets, handbags and jackets.

The man placed his hands on his hips and pursed his lips before ordering, "Feet off the table."

Eric, as though it were a slow motion scene from an olden day movie, slid his feet off, one muscle at a time. Then he looked up with his very best, insolent expression, "Happy?"

No, he wasn't, but it wasn't worth pursuing either. Instead, he turned and addressed the younger boy who had knelt onto the carpet and was busy giving their yellow Labrador a tummy rub. "Scott-Allen, get your jacket on. Mommy is ready to leave."

"As soon as I find where I put my phone. Have you seen it anywhere, hon?"

"I nose wewr it is, Momma," the little boy jumped to his feet, pushed a tv guide off the coffee table and revealed the phone. "Herw is it."

"Thank you, Scottie," the lady crouched down and gave her little boy a loving kiss. "Now go get your jacket and shoe poddies on."

"Okays, Momma."

"Eri, are you ready? Peter's car is parked in front of mine so you two need to leave, ASAP."

Eric cringed and bit his lip to refrain from making some statement about how they didn't have the right to call him that. But if they ever used the other nickname his mom called him, then he'd have something to say. "I'm grounded, remember. I can't go."

"Yes, you can," Peter tossed a brown leather-like jacket over to the boy, "and you are."

"I'm not supposed to leave the house. You said so yourself."

"Cut the nonsense, Eric. Elizabeth needs to get going. Put your shoes on and let's go."

Eric glanced over at the little guy who was unsuccessfully trying to tie his shoelaces. "How come Scottie gets to go with Elizabeth? Why doesn't he have to come too?"

Peter paused with his automated response, wavering on the tip of his tongue. It was a loaded question, the kind the boy always fired when he knew he faired a good chance of getting the response he needed. Peter kicked himself for not having an answer at the ready and the longer he took to reply, the greater the smug satisfaction on the youngster's face became. "Uh…he…"

"He has to come with me," Elizabeth stepped in to save the day. "After we drop the albums off with the client, I have to get Scottie a new pair of kindy shoes. He's scuffed a hole right through the old ones."

"I need new shoes too," Eric declared, even though everyone present knew it not to be true.

"Well, Elizabeth or I can take you out next weekend to get whatever you need, right now, we need to get going."

"I don't want to," the boy grumbled, crossing his arms and making a stand, seeing as how nothing else had worked.

"I don't care," Peter stepped over and took a hold of the youngster's upper arm before pulling him off the couch. "We're going."

"I don't see why I have to and the little squirt doesn't, and particularly this weekend because I'm supposed to be grounded."

"If you're worried, we can add the time spent away from home, onto next weekend," Peter stated, unperturbed as he ushered the boy over to the shoe pile.

Eric grunted some inaudible response as he slipped his feet into his shoes under protest.

"No?" Peter winked sideways at Elizabeth before checking his watch. "Then cut out the shenanigans and let's go. Your dad will be thinking we're not coming."

"If I had my way, Peter, we wouldn't be." Eric slung his jacket over his shoulder and stepped out the door, but not before calling back, "What do I care what Neal thinks?"

Elizabeth turned dishearten eyes towards her husband's matching expression. It was true. If nothing else, in a rare moment, the boy was being honest - he really didn't care if he ever saw his father again.