'Come feed the little birds, show them you care,
And you'll be glad if you do—
Their young ones are hungry,
Their nests are so bare.'
"Feed the Birds" ~ Mary Poppins
Even with the growing dark of Manhattan's skyline, it feels just as bright as daytime, thanks to Christmas trees and lights flashing in every floor and even a little electric menorah in the window of the building across from Peter's office. Festive might not be strong enough a word for the spirit of the city, especially with the first snowfall of the season finally starting right now. Just in the nick of time.
A hesitant knock taps on Peter's office door, tearing him from his thoughts.
He swivels in his chair and smiles. "Jones! We're officially off shift. What are you still doing here?"
"All due respect, Peter—I was about to ask you the same thing."
Peter shrugs, waving a hand at the window. "Just…enjoying the view."
"Is this the new Burke hobby?" Jones casts him a knowing look, stepping inside. A red scarf is draped around his neck. "We need fodder for the coffee pot gossip since you gave up bird watching."
"Me getting shot three times while on vacation wasn't enough for you all?"
"That was eight months ago. Keep up, Peter."
With an amiable chuckle, Peter shakes his head. "It's snowing at last. I guess I wanted to watch the show for a while."
It's a non answer, not really the truth, but Clinton doesn't call him out on it. Instead, hands in his pocket, he rocks on his heels.
His eyes, like Peter's, stray to an empty picture frame on the man's desk. Peter has lots of photos up around his office now, ones of Elle being the oldest. But now there are new ones—Junior in his little hat, the boy's paint stained fingers, both of them asleep on the couch, a family portrait from last Halloween where they all dressed up as the Addam's Family.
However, there is a small one, simple and bordered only by a silver frame, that sits closest to Peter's computer monitor.
There's nothing in it.
People have asked, of course, and it's a topic of great debate in the office over why Peter guards it so carefully if it's empty. There's even a betting pool going on what he'll eventually put inside it. Not an expensive frame, the plain holder is propped up by one of those cardboard arms.
"Ah. A step of faith," Elle had called the frame when she first noticed it. She'd understood at once and Peter loved her a little more for it.
For Peter, the empty frame feels like looking at an ultrasound photo, the promise of something to come that hasn't happened yet. A picture that he hopes to take tomorrow.
"Clinton," Peter says suddenly, "you come from good people."
Jones' eyes soften at once, crackling with warmth. "You bet. My folks and I didn't always see things the same way growing up, but they are the best parents a guy could ask for."
Peter tries to keep his tone light, but it comes out with a serious edge. "How do you know they love you?"
Clinton looks lost for a beat. His eyes cloud over with thought and memories relived.
"They love you, right?" Peter opens his hands. "How do they show you, feed you, that kind of affection?"
Jones' face clears in understanding. "I suppose it depends on a person's love language. Some people like gifts or hugs. Take Caffrey for instance—"
Peter's heart skitters into his throat but Clinton's smile is nostalgic, and he doesn't seem to be talking present tense.
"—That dude liked gifts, sure. But he showed up on my doorstep one night, all those years ago, just to talk."
Peter feels like he's taken a baseball bat to the face. His stomach, like it's wont to do sometimes now, throbs with a dull ache. "He did? Neal?"
"Yeah! He was the best listener I've ever met, Peter. He wanted to hear all about my life and my family and it hit me that what Neal always longed for but never got was just…quality time. That's it. Gifts were like…a plea, I guess? Asking for something he never received. Trying to buy the kind of love he was too vulnerable to seek after."
Sitting back, Peter runs an unsteady hand down his mouth.
Jones shakes himself back to the office and present day. His eyes, sad for a moment with the mention of Neal, brighten. "So, to answer your question—the best expression of love you can possibly give someone is knowing that person well enough to speak their language. I hope that makes sense."
"Don't worry, Clinton." Peter nods at him. "You've been more than helpful."
More than you'll ever know.
For a beat, they just watch spongy flakes descend upon the city. It mutes the honking of taxi cars and tire screeches far below.
"You're a great father, Peter." There's a knowing catch to Jones' upturned lips. It contrasts starkly against his weighted gaze. "So long as you're determined in your heart to keep loving your son, to make that conscious choice every day, he'll know you do."
Peter's voice comes out a breath. "I hope so. I've made too many mistakes over the years, so many…"
Jones' eyes soften again, this time in sympathy and fondness. "I'm no parent, not yet anyway, but it's scary. To love someone that much—it's what my dad always said, that to let someone into your heart is the hardest, most rewarding thing a person can do."
"Even when that person doesn't want it?" Peter's voice is small, desperate.
Jones is nodding before Peter even finishes. He gestures with an adamant hand. "Who wouldn't want your love, Peter? People throw up their guard, sure, but they'll come back when they need you. Love is like a stain, a paint, you can never fully get rid of—he'll remember it."
A sudden burn fights along the back of Peter's eyes. There's been no word, no more gifts, no homing pigeons even, since that day in DC. He's even pried Mozzie for details and come up empty.
But no matter what happens, Peter knows he will love that boy until his dying breath.
Jones' eyes narrow in playful humour. "You ever gonna tell us what the infamous picture frame is for?"
"Nope. Happy Kwanzaa, Clinton."
Jones laughs, waving while heading out. "Merry Christmas, Peter."
"Ah! Ah!" With a mad dash, Peter gets to Junior in time to pull his hands away from a china ornament on the tree. Neal blinks at him in surprise. "That one is Grammy's, remember?"
Junior thinks about this. "No touch?"
"That's right, buddy. No touch. You can play with this one, though—it's just a stuffed snowman."
Neal brightens, taking to this idea like a house on fire. Peter sags at yet another crisis averted. Elle hasn't even noticed the near-catastrophe, hands wringing.
"Do you think he'll come?" she asks Peter, for the umpteenth time. "We used that stupid homing pigeon and everything to send the invite."
Peter doesn't feel so fretting anymore, at ease and content with whatever happens tonight. "We told him we'll wait to open presents until he arrives, if he arrives. He knows the drill."
"I want him to understand that he's family." Elle isn't on the verge of tears anymore, like she'd been all summer with the confirmation of the fact Neal isn't dead. Instead, she has that battle face, determined and fired up. "That we miss him. That I'd give him a job in a heartbeat if he asked for it."
Peter tucks her under his arm. "I think he does, honey. He said to give him time and I'll honour that. If we don't get to see him again for another ten years, I'm patient enough to wait."
"That you are, Agent Burke." Elle tugs his sleeve. "Even in that super ugly Christmas sweater."
Peter rolls his eyes. "Okay. Here we go."
"It's a thrift find, Peter! Nobody deliberately goes out to find an ugly sweater!"
"Well, I did." Peter holds out his arms. "I think the snowflakes on it are neat."
Elle tries to look stern, then gives up. She snickers. "Someone threw it away, Peter. I don't know how to break it to you, but you might as well have said you dumpster dived for it."
"One man's trash…"
"You're hopeless." Elle flaps her hand, still giggling.
"Oh yeah?" Peter wiggles his brows. "Think you can teach an old dog some new tricks?"
This sets Elle off even more. "Not in that sweater, I can't."
They're still in stitches while eating supper, saying nothing more of the extra plate they've set out that remains untouched. Or how the clock ticks past eight and into Junior's bed time. They let him open one gift—a fireman dress up kit—and then promise he can do the rest tomorrow morning.
Or how the snow has started outside and they can hear a crow cawing.
Elle downs a glass of wine rapid fire, her palms sweaty, while the couple sits on the couch, hushed. As if they're just children waiting for reindeer hooves or carolers or some other sound that is not their disappointed expectations.
Peter looks out the kitchen window, to the suet-wreath he hung on it. A bright red cardinal comes and visits the offering, pecking at dark seeds, its red chest matching the ribbon tied around the wreath.
Even it has a home, and Peter can only hope that's true of everyone this cold night. He hesitates, then glances at the little pile of presents under the tree that they'd made or bought. Peter thinks about how many years it will take until their owner can open and enjoy them.
The truth sags around them…
He's not coming.
Around midnight, they call it quits. Sighing, they clean up without a word and get ready for bed. Peter's foot has just hit the bottom step—
When there's a knock on the door.
Elle rushes past him to fling it open, gasping and flushed.
And there is Neal, juggling boxes of gifts for all of them, tie coming undone, snow settling in his hair and melting just slow enough that streetlights amplify the halo in diplopic flashes.
He stands there with a brilliant smile, teeth and all, a fleshed out frame, and a future full of possibilities.
"Sorry I'm late." He laughs, the sound of shackles coming off. "Flying coach on Christmas Eve sucks."
Written for Christmas 2019.
