A/N: Sorry, you guys. It's a little longer, but could be fluffier, I guess. Depends on your definition of fluff. But, hey, I updated fast. Haha. Thank you for all your reviews! You guys are excellent.
The coffee is fresh and hot and black. Peter sips it from his morning mug as he regards Neal over the brim. The kid is in his pajamas, sniffling miserably over a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of fruit juice, a box of tissues cast off to the other side of the table. Whatever illuminating realizations he came to last night – and Peter certainly hopes that there was at least one, given the heart attack he about had when he realized the kid had disappeared without his coat – didn't save him from worsening his sickness. Neal came down with a stuffy nose and a sore throat and a heightened fever, despite the extra measures they took to warm him up before putting him back to bed. Neal hadn't protested the warm bath or the extra blankets, had simply gotten into the tub and under the covers. He, in fact, seemed to relish in Peter's insistence on sitting on the closed toilet lid to make sure he didn't slip out in the nude, and El's hands sternly tucking him into bed, her grumbling about restraints and how they were needed and did Peter have any on him, by chance?
Peter did, but he didn't tell his wife that in case she was serious.
Neal coughs into his hand. It comes out of the fray dripping with mucus and the kid quickly goes for a tissue to wipe himself clean. "Sorry," he rasps. "M'sorry."
Elizabeth is at the pantry and pulling out a liquid decongestant by the second apology, is getting a spoon from the drawer, and heading over to Neal.
"Open," she says, unscrewing the lid. Neal opens his mouth and screws up his pretty face at the taste of the medicine she spoon-feeds him. "Drink some juice, baby," she says, and passes the glass of juice quickly into his hands. He takes sips, eager and quick, though pain flashes across his features as he swallows.
Peter quirks an eyebrow to himself at his wife's chosen pet name, but doesn't comment on it. He doesn't feel awkward or uncomfortable at the notion, just a twinge in his chest that is neither pleasant, nor unpleasant. It just is. It's that same thing that's been driving him since the plane exploded in flames and noise and ash, since he wrenched that boy away from death and pulled him into his arms. Since he dressed the kid with his own hands and brought him to his own house and vowed to take care of him while this illness coursed its way through him. Since he realized that it wasn't just the flu, but something worse, something in that brilliant head sickening Neal, bringing about those shakes and those tears that couldn't be controlled. That twinge in his chest that destroyed that awkwardness, that resistance, and left him with hands ruffling his CI's hair, rubbing Neal's back, and kneading his knees.
Satchmo sticks a wet nose against Peter's knee, whines for a pat on the head, which Peter gladly gives him.
"Hey, Satch," he croons, running his hand down the dog's neck. "What did Mommy do to you?"
El looks up, her own hand on Neal's head, and smiles at the game. "Mommy did nothing to him. Satch, what did Daddy do to you?"
"Daddy gave him a pat on the head," Peter replies, cooing at the dog. "Yes, he did. Mommy, on the other hand, was neglectful. She did nothing to you, did she, Satchmo?"
"You guys," Neal interjects, twirling his spoon in his oatmeal, "are some odd birds."
Peter cracks a grin at his wife, who smirks back. It's true, in a lot of ways. They are odd birds. Not everyone goes around questioning dogs about the heinous acts of their spouse, nor do they go around adopting ailing conmen as their surrogate children. Because that's what's happened, Peter realizes, feeling a lump in his throat along with that twinge in his chest as he looks at El's hand on Neal's shoulder, as Neal obediently takes a spoonful of oatmeal and blows on it, as El leans down next to Neal's ear and stage whispers, "At least we're not grounded odd birds."
Neal glumly lets his spoon fall back into his bowl. "You two were serious about that, huh?"
Annoyance flashes through El's eyes at the same time that Peter feels it hit him like a bullet; of course they were serious about that.
"You promised me," Peter says, his voice strong and firm, his stern eyes boring into startled blue ones. "It's one thing when you're sneaking around and I haven't caught you, yet, Neal. It's another when I know and then give you my trust that you won't do it again. You threw it back in my face last night."
Peter watches the conman shift in his chair, uncomfortable. It takes about two seconds for Neal to become self-aware, for him to straighten and smoothly grab a tissue from the box, delicately dab at his running nose, and try to defend himself with: "I didn't say those words. I didn't say 'I promise.' Besides, you made me say it."
"It doesn't matter how it came about. You say it, you do it. You make it, you keep it. Otherwise your word is nothing. I know you, kid. I know despite everything, you still want to be more than that. You want your word to mean something."
That twinge in his chest has swelled into something heavy and stagnant in the span of time it takes for him to say this, and Neal is looking at him with steady eyes. El has a different expression aimed at Peter, a delicate mixture of surprise and pride as she stands behind Neal, stroking his hair back. It's not often that Peter is so emotionally open or intuitive, and it's caught her off guard.
"I'm sorry," Neal says sincerely. "I really am. I shouldn't have done that to you, or to Elizabeth. I shouldn't have walked out in the middle of the night-"
"Without your coat," Elizabeth interjects indignantly.
"-without my coat," Neal agrees.
"Or at all," Peter says, because the wording makes it sound like it would have been okay had he had his coat. And it wouldn't have been. Not at all.
Neal says, "Or at all." And chews on his lower lip momentarily before continuing. "I'm sorry, but I think I'm a little old to be grounded, don't you?"
"No." The word comes out of two mouths in perfect unison and Neal winces at the sound.
"But-"
"No." Together, again, he and Elizabeth. Always. And they smile at each other over the top of Neal's head.
"You said something about consequences yesterday," Peter says, turning his eyes back to the conman. "And I realized I've never given you any. And you don't learn anything. You just keep repeating your actions over and over again thinking that just because the result is right, so is the process. It's not, Neal. Hiding things from me, sneaking around, bypassing the law…none of its right. I know you look at me and see the law, but I am not the enemy-"
"I know that," Neal cuts in hastily, and coughs again, hard, into his hand. El reaches over and pulls a wad of tissues from the box, hands them down to the kid. "I know that, Peter," Neal repeats, his voice thick and gritty with mucus.
"Then why won't you come to me when you're in trouble, or when you have a problem, or when you have an idea?" Peter asks. "You can say it all you want, you can even think it, Neal. You can tell yourself that you believe it, but your actions are screaming the opposite and I never know what to do with you other than lecture you. And what does that do? Nothing. Words go in one ear and out the other. Every single time." Peter takes a sip of coffee, watches as Neal cleans up his hands, as El takes the polluted tissues away despite Neal's look of utter horror and throws them in the trash. "I've threatened you with house arrest before. This is just the same, except you'll be here instead of at June's."
"You've never gone through with it before," Neal grumbles.
"Well, I should have, then. I should have gone through with it, so you could learn. I'm doing you a disservice when I don't follow through so I'm following through. Maybe you're a little big to be grounded, but this way it's off your record. We keep it in the family." The heavy, stagnant thing in his chest feels huge. Peter looks steadily at Neal, says softly, "We keep you here. With us."
Where you belong, he doesn't say, but it doesn't need to be said. It hangs in the air, and Neal looks away, looks at his hands, his lips turned slightly upward and Peter knows that's exactly it. He just found the key.
And he knows what it is now, what grew from that twinge. It's heavy and it hurts and it's neither pleasant, nor unpleasant. It's just nestled in there, that love. Love for Neal. His CI, his friend, his boy.