November
Peter stood by the coffee station, waiting for a fresh pot to finish brewing. Jones came up, holding two empty mugs and something wrapped in a towel.
"Hey," said Jones.
"Hey," said Peter.
Jones unwrapped a hot water bottle, and put it in the microwave. Peter put cream in his mug, and then coffee as it finished dripping, then handed the pot to Jones.
"Oh," said Peter, remembering a task he had been appointed, "Elizabeth would like to invite you to Thanksgiving. I'm making pot roast and she and Neal are cooking the rest. Hughes and his wife, and June are also coming. Diana and Christie are also invited, I haven't asked Diana yet."
"Nice," said Jones, putting cream and sugar in his coffee, cream in Diana's mug, "sure, sounds good."
He took the hot water bottle out of the microwave, and wrapped it back in the towel.
"Diana is in her office if you want to ask her," said Jones, working to juggle the mugs and towel parcel.
"Great," said Peter, "want a hand carrying that?"
"Thanks" said Jones, and Peter picked up Diana's mug. He followed Jones to Diana's office, formerly Peter's. She was standing over her desk, leaning down with one hand on the blotter. Her chair was pulled out of the way to make room for the wheelchair, and Neal was working on something, intently.
Jones came in, set his coffee on the desk, set the towel and water bottle by Neal. Peter handed Diana her coffee.
"Thanks guys," she said.
Jones nodded, "yeah."
"Of course," said Peter, "I also came to invite you to Thanksgiving."
Diana smiled, "aw, thanks Peter. Of course I'll come."
"Great," said Peter.
Neal grinned up at them all, "should be fun."
He set aside what he was working on, to slip his right hand into the towels around the hot water bottle. Diana picked up the paper Neal had been laboring over. It was a letter, written in someone else's handwriting.
"This looks perfect, thank you, Neal." Said Diana.
Neal grinned. He pulled the hot water bottle bundle into his lap and moved away from the desk. Diana put her chair back, "time to go."
That evening, Peter waited for Neal to be ready to leave. Eventually he appeared, pushed by Jones. Peter guessed pushing himself was hurting his hands, because he didn't seem that tired.
"Thanks," said Neal.
"No problem. Have a good night," said Jones.
Neal had his hands in his lap, the left one holding the right.
"Sore?" Asked Peter casually.
"Just after working on that letter."
Peter nodded. He stepped behind the chair, and leaned down, hugging Neal. Neal sighed gratefully, and turned his head to kiss Peter's cheek.
Thanksgiving rolled around, Peter woke up early to take a big hunk of beef out of the fridge. A lovely prime chuck roast from the fancy Jewish butchers near Neal's apartment. Neal had picked it up for him on his way back from inviting June earlier that week.
Peter had had it sitting with salt and some spices sprinkled over it since then. Now he walked down the steps, having crashed early in preparation while Neal and Elizabeth had still been having fun on the downstairs bed.
Neal and El were in the kitchen, Neal was pulling a pan down to check the eggs that were sizzling in it. He turned when he heard Peter come down, and his face lit up, "Peter."
Elizabeth came over and gave Peter a soft kiss on the lips, "good morning, sweetie."
"Good morning," said Peter.
Peter walked over to Neal, put his hand on his neck, and bent down to kiss him in the chair. Neal's hand gripped the hair on the back of Peter's head, briefly holding him in place, and then broke apart to check the eggs again.
Peter kissed the top of Neal's head, "good morning."
Neal grinned at him, "good morning."
Peter pulled the roast out of the fridge and put it on its plate on the counter. He pulled out a big cast iron dutch oven, and put it on the biggest stove burner, the front right, next to Neal's pan on the front left. He turned it on high, put a few glugs of olive oil in the bottom of the pan. He then got a couple heads of garlic, two handfuls of shallots, and two yellow onions out of the pantry. He started breaking the heads of garlic apart, slightly crushing each clove and then pulling the skins off. When the dutch oven was hot he put the meat in, turning it occasionally as he worked on cutting up the onions, browning it on all sides.
Neal finished cooking the two eggs in the pan, and reached into the oven, which was on warm, to pull out a few slices of bacon and two pancakes. He put a generous pat of butter on the pancakes and then drizzled a high end light golden maple syrup that may or may not have been imported legally from Canada, Neal hadn't given him a straight answer.
He handed the plate to Elizabeth, and looked at Peter, "your order?"
Peter laughed, "over easy, thanks."
Neal grinned and cracked four eggs into a bowl, perfectly of course. Two he let cook, and two he scrambled up a little with some grated cheese and thinly sliced chives.
Peter chopped the garlic up to a fine mince, repeated the process with the shallots, which he only sliced. He pulled the meat out and put it back on its plate, then turned the burner on low and started adding everything he had cut up, onions first.
Elizabeth stole a corner of Peter's cutting board to cut a few oranges in half and then squeezed them into a measuring cup. She poured a few ounces into three champagne flutes and then pulled a bottle out of the fridge, which had also appeared with Neal after his visit to June's. She poured some into each glass and took them to the table.
Neal finished cooking the eggs about the same time Peter got all his ingredients in the pot. Peter added them about two cups of vegetable stock and turned the stove on medium low. He sat down at the table and Neal put a plate in front of him, then put his own plate in place.
Elizabeth picked up her flute, "to love. To family. To delicious food."
Neal and Peter raised their glasses and toasted hers.
After breakfast Peter took the remaining couple slices of bacon and one uneaten pancake out of the oven, and snacked on the bacon as he turned the oven up to 275.
Most of the stock had evaporated in the Dutch oven, leaving caramelized alliums and a thick, saucy brown reduction. Peter put the roast back in.
Neal cleaned up his egg pan, and Elizabeth cleared the table. El patted Neal's thighs questioningly, and Neal nodded, she sat in his lap. He put his arms around her and she kissed him, and sighed happily. Peter added a cup of apple cider vinegar, some molasse, corned beef seasoning, potatoes, carrots, and parsnips. He added enough vegetable stock to cover the roast, turned to face the other two.
El was snuggled into Neal's arms, and they were both watching him. El's expression was relaxed and happy. Neal's… was something else. Almost shock. Dissociation.
"Neal, are you okay?" he asked.
Elizabeth looked at Neal, "honey?"
Neal blinked at her, and looked up at Peter, "sorry, I…"
Neal took one arm off El to rub his face, and his expression finally broke into something else, almost grief, "I just haven't lived a life where I thought I'd ever have this. It's still taking some getting used to. It's taking time to trust it."
Peter came over, and gently ruffled Neal's hair, then cupped his cheek, "you've deserved love this whole time, Neal. It may not have always come to you, but you've always deserved it."
"Do you trust me?" asked Elizabeth.
"Yeah," said Neal, smiling at her.
"Do you trust Peter?"
Neal looked at Peter, and was silent for a moment. Then he answered, "more than anyone I've ever known."
"Then trust that we love you. Trust that Peter, and I, and all your friends, really love you, and want the best for you."
Neal hesitated, but finally nodded, as he looked between Peter and Elizabeth.
The doorbell rang, Neal went to get it while El cooked and Peter set up the TV for football. It was Jones, with a pack of craft beer. He joined Peter with the finagling of the TV settings.
Neal went back to help Elizabeth, and to check on the pie he had in the oven. The bell rang again maybe fifteen minutes later, and Neal went to answer it again, while Elizabeth supervised whipping cream in the mixer.
This time it was Hughes and his wife, with a bottle of wine. Neal grinned at them, accepted the wine. They went with him into the kitchen, Rebecca went to talk to El.
Neal checked his pie again, and determined it to be done. He cleared a place on the counter and put a trivet down, got out a pair of hot pads. He opened the oven door, then paused. The pie had been easy to bring over in his lap when he put it in, but he hadn't planned the part where it was hot and heavy. He needed two hands to hold it, and two hands to move from there back to the counter.
"Can I help?" asked Hughes.
Neal looked up at him, then shrugged and handed him the hot pads. Hughes moved it from the oven to the trivet, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath of the steam coming out, as Neal shut the oven.
"Damn, Caffrey, this smells amazing."
Neal grinned, "it's blackberry currant."
Diana and Christie came next, and then June. Elizabeth, Christie, June, Hughes, and his wife sat in the living room. Diana and Jones hung out in the kitchen with Neal. Neal opened a bottle of Oregon Pinot Noir for himself and Diana, Jones got a beer. Diana clinked glasses with Neal after he poured for both of them.
Neal put a cutting board on a stainless steel table, at a better height than the main counter, and started trimming artichokes.
"Anything we can do?" asked Diana.
"Sure," said Neal, "let's see…put together the appetizer skewers, peel garlic, or zest lemons?"
"I'll do the lemons," said Diana, "I love the smell."
Neal got her a microplane and a bowl, and then the bowl of lemons, still wet from being washed.
"What are the skewers?" Asked Jones.
"It's a cherry tomato, basil leaf, and ball of mozzarella."
"I think I can handle that," laughed Jones.
Neal got him the supplies. Jones and Diana stood at the counter, Neal kept trimming the artichokes, and then started cutting each of them in half. He, Jones, and Diana focused on the food together, occasionally sipping a drink or cracking a joke.
Someone else came into the kitchen, Neal looked. It was Hughes, holding a glass of whiskey, heading for the fridge. He gestured to the appliance, to "Peter said there was ice?"
Neal nodded, opening the lower drawer, "there's the regular trays, or I think I put a big one in here."
Neal lifted the stack of trays, and extracted the mold, a pair of spheres each about the size of his palm.
"Nice," said Hughes. Neal handed him the mold and put the cube trays back, while Hughes opened one of the spheres and put it in his drink. Neal took the mold back, filled the empty side with water, and put it away in the freezer.
Hughes leaned against the dishwasher, taking a sip of his drink and giving a grateful, relaxed sigh, "want any extra help?"
Neal blinked at him, "um, the garlic needs to be peeled?"
Hughes nodded and set down his glass. He took the paper bag of garlic from Neal, and two bowls.
He pulled a chair out of the dining room and used the other half of Neal's table to set up a little station, got his drink, and sat down.
Neal moved on from the artichokes to trimming green beans. Jones, Hughes, and Diana made predictions about football. Laughter erupted from the living room. Hughes peeled garlic next to him, meticulous.
Neal looked around as subtly as he could, taking it in. A big smile creeped onto his face no matter what he did to try and restrain it.
