WC Fic: Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone
Title: Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Neal/Peter/Elizabeth
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: Fluff; h/c; babies; AU
Word Count: 5,000
Summary: Five times Peter and Neal had to deal without Elizabeth.
A/N: This is set in my “Five Times” ‘verse, which I haven’t written for in, like, FOREVER. No need to have read it or anything; here is background so you don’t have to: stories span their entire lives, and the OT3 are eventually in a committed relationship and have a child together. It’s a total AU after about mid-season 2, so no Nazis or treasure or Cape Verde or fucking trust issues - GOD!
The title, of course, is from Bill Withers’ most excellent song, “Ain’t No Sunshine,” some lyrics of which are also put to good use
For Day 8 of the Twelve Days of Ficmas Challenge.
----
It's Not Warm When She's Away
Peter sat slouched on his couch, the hand that held the TV remote resting on his belly as he listlessly changed the channels. How was it that he had something like 387 channels, and yet nothing was on? He was contemplating improving his Spanish by watching a telenovela on Telemundo - it was that or work more on the files he’d brought home on the Neal Caffrey case, which he’d made no discernible progress on in weeks - when the doorbell rang.
BING-BONG
He muted the TV and got up, muttering to himself about who it could be - he wasn’t expecting anyone, and he hadn’t ordered anything. He opened the inner door to the vestibule, and peered through the frosted pattern on the front door to see a man standing there holding a heated pouch like pizza shops used.
“I didn’t order anything,” Peter told him when he’d opened the door.
The man checked the slip taped to the side of the pouch. “4232 DeKalb?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“You ordered it.”
“But I didn’t.”
The man shrugged handed the bag to him. “It’s paid-for, you might as well take it.”
Peter was so confused he accepted the food, but not so much that he didn’t think to tip the guy.
He closed the door and carried the food to the kitchen; inside the bag was an aluminum carry-out container and two smaller, plastic ones. One of these contained a salad, the other what looked like a creamy dessert. Peter lifted the lid on the large container and a very pleasant aroma wafted up to his nostrils; inside was veal scaloppini in some sort of tomatoey sauce, accompanied by a side of pasta and broccoli rabe. His stomach growled.
Fetching a plate and a bowl from the cabinet - El would yell at him if he ate out of the takeout containers - he served himself the delicious meal. The salad was passable but he ate it - even if his wife was off traveling for business, he still heard her gentle yet firm voice in his head encouraging him to eat his veggies. The entrée was perfect - tender veal in a flavorful sauce, the greens a perfect, slightly bitter complement. He briefly wondered if she was responsible for sending this feast when his cell phone buzzed in his pocket and he took it out, a large grin on his face.
But when he looked at the readout, the number was listed as “Unknown,” not his wife’s. Curious, he answered, “Peter Burke.”
“How’d you like the tiramisu? I was going to opt for sending the profiteroles, but I know how much you like coffee, so I figured what the hell.”
“Caffrey!” Peter exclaimed, getting to his feet. “You sent this?”
“Well, since your lovely wife wasn’t around to feed you, I thought I’d take care of it.”
“I don’t believe you!”
“I mean, a steady diet of E-Z Cheez and Doritos is going to kill you, Peter. Or at least do damage to your heart you can’t afford. Not at your age.”
“That’s not all I’m eating, and - hey, how do you even know that?”
“You should put locks on your trash bins, honestly. If I were an identity thief, I’d be having a field day.”
Peter was unconcerned - he shredded everything of importance. “Duly noted. So does that mean you’re in New York?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny -“
“You know, Neal -“
BING-BONG
The front doorbell interrupted him. “Hang on.” He rested the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he answered the door. And yet again, a delivery person waited patiently on the doorstep. “Can I help you?”
“Grocery delivery,” the young woman answered.
“Groceries? I didn’t order any groceries.”
She showed Peter her delivery slip and, sure enough, there was his address, as well as a stamp that said, “PAID.”
“Neal, did you send me groceries?” Peter barked down the phone, even as he stepped aside to allow the young woman to enter his house. He put the phone on speaker and set it down, then fumbled for his wallet again, slipping the delivery person ten bucks before she left. He began rooting through the bags she’d dropped off on the counter, finding fruits and veggies, a very nice-looking ribeye steak, and a bag filled with croissants. And how did Neal know they needed toilet paper?
“Someone has to take care of you in your wife’s absence, and it’s clearly not going to be you.”
Peter lifted a bottle of lube out of the bag as Neal said this and his face darkened. “You are so going to prison when I’m done with you.”
”Don’t give me that. What crime have I committed?”
“You mean besides the bond forgeries, art thefts, and currency counterfeiting? Give me a minute and I’ll think of something.”
”Technicalities, all,” Neal said breezily and Peter scowled at his phone.
BING-BONG
“What now, Neal?” Peter asked as the doorbell sounded for a third time. The conman was ominously silent as Peter picked up the phone and trudged through the house to answer the door. He didn’t know what he expected; he supposed he ought to have grabbed his off-duty weapon in case Caffrey was dumb enough to show his face now. The delivery person was short and bald, with a pair of thick spectacles covering his shifty eyes.
“Mr. Suit?” he asked.
“What?” Peter said testily.
“Er, Burke?” The man held out a clipboard and Peter signed for whatever it was - it was about two feet by three, wrapped in paper and flat; Peter thought it felt like some sort of framed picture.
He carried it through to the kitchen and began to peel back the brown paper. The edge of a gilded frame peeked out and his heart began to race. “This had better not be anything stolen.”
“Not anything I stole,” Neal assured him.
Peter sighed, but then it turned into a gasp as he pulled the final bit of paper away from what turned out to be an oil painting. “This is not the Rembrandt landscape from the Montreal heist thirty years ago,” Peter stated, though of course he knew it was. “Caffrey, what the hell have you done?”
“I’ve returned a priceless piece of art to the authorities,” he answered, and Peter thought he sounded a bit testy about it.
“You sound like it kills you to do it.”
“It would have killed me to have left it where it was. Anyway, now you can take the credit for getting it back. Now you owe me.”
“I owe you a cell downtown,” Peter said to him, not really meaning it. The painting he held was easily worth over $2 million, and was a recovery of a significant piece. “You’re not going to be in trouble over this, are you? Where’d you get it?”
“I can take care of myself, don’t worry.”
Peter did worry, though. No matter that the kid was a criminal who Peter was determined to send to prison, Neal often took too many risks that Peter worried would get him killed someday. “Just mind you do, all right?”
“Aww, Agent Burke, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you cared. Now finish putting those groceries away - don’t want that ice cream to melt.”
Ice cream? Peter looked inside the last remaining bag to see a quart of Chubby Hubby at the bottom. Was that a joke? but then he realized something.
“Hey, how do you know I haven’t put the ice cream away?”
“Goodbye, Agent Burke,” Neal said in a playful tone, ending the call. Peter went to the front room and drew the curtains before settling back on the couch, staring at the Rembrandt he’d propped up on the chair in front of him, and enjoying his tiramisu.
This House Just Ain’t No Home
They didn’t say a single word on the entire ride down here, and Peter hated every minute of it. Where usually he and Neal talked and bantered effortlessly, tonight they couldn’t think of a single thing to say aside from banalities about weather, traffic and local politics.
It was their first date, Peter was already having a terrible time, and he blamed his wife.
She’d insisted, hadn’t she? They had to see if he and Neal could function in a romantic way, she’d said. Wanted to be sure the chemistry was still there, she’d pointed out. He failed to see why that didn’t include her too - she just made everything better. But she insisted.
They arrived at the restaurant and pulled up to the valet. Peter gestured for Neal to precede him into the restaurant. Out of habit, he rested his hand at the small of Neal’s back, then pulled it away abruptly, his face coloring. He would have usually done that with El - kind of guide her through the place, protectively. She always said she liked that, it showed people that they belonged together, but Peter didn’t know if that’s how Neal would feel, and furthermore, he didn’t know if that’s what men in relationships did with each other. Dammit, it was too confusing.
Neal looked up at him, a question in his blue eyes - or was that confusion? Peter just looked ahead and kept walking.
When they got to their table, Peter once again messed up -nearly pulling the chair out for Neal. What the bloody hell? Peter had been bad enough at dating women, he didn’t need this too.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“Scotch - neat!” Peter answered the maître d’ too quickly and felt himself blush again.
“Grey Goose, rocks, with a twist?” Neal said, and smiled twinklingly at the man until he left. The twinkle left his face as soon as they were alone, Peter noticed, to be replaced by self-consciousness. Peter opened his menu so that he’d have something to do with his hands. It was in French.
“Crap.”
“Hmm?”
“The menu’s in French.”
Neal smiled, opening his up and perusing it. “Looks really good.”
“I can only understand every third word,” Peter said forlornly.
Neal smiled, a genuine, full-on Neal Caffrey Special, filled with such affection and promise Peter forgot to breathe for a second. “I’ll order for you if you like.”
“Yeah, OK,” Peter replied, and then their drinks came. Neal ordered for them both in fluent French, flashing small smiles as he watched Peter watch him, and then the server brought them an amuse bouche. “What is it?” Peter asked suspiciously, eyeing the dollop of yellow goop inside what looked like a ceramic shot glass.
Neal smelled it, tasted tentatively, then smiled. “Cold corn soup - you’ll love it.” He attacked the tiny portion with gusto.
Peter had to admit it was delicious.
A minute later, a bottle of red arrived and Neal dealt with the sommelier, tasting it approvingly. Peter watched Neal carefully. “You really know what you’re doing,” he said when the sommelier had gone away.
Neal colored and smiled. “I just know how to fake it with confidence.”
Peter hated when Neal underplayed his skills, but he let it lie, and then their starters arrived.
“You see that memo from Young today?” Neal asked, starting in on his salad.
“Yeah - that new policy on cell phone use is not making him any friends,” Peter replied. God, WHAT was this conversation? He picked up his glass and drained it.
“You’re on ‘E’,” Neal observed, and they both reached for the wine bottle at the same time. Their fingers brushed and Peter pulled his hand back as if burned.
Their entrees arrived after several more minutes of silence, and Peter stared at his plate. “Did you know that white asparagus is white because they cover it when it grows? It prevents the, uh, chlorophyll from, uh,” he paused, his face coloring. Was he talking asparagus?!
“That’s really interesting,” Neal replied, staring out over the restaurant. “Because... of the chlorophyll…” He sipped his wine as his voice trailed off.
Peter drained his glass again.
Things didn’t get much better through dinner, except that they ordered a second bottle of wine and shared an order of profiteroles.
The cab ride back to Neal's wasn’t much better (except that Peter felt compelled to point out Lincoln Center when they passed it: “Oh look, Lincoln Center.” “Yeah?” GOD!).
Neal touched his hand as he was waiting for his receipt from the driver, and Peter’s entire arm lit up. “Want to come in?”
He didn’t, actually, because all he wanted to do was hide his head under a pillow, but he also didn’t like the message refusing would send. It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested (his feelings for Neal were unchanged), it’s that this date had gone so awkwardly. He needed Elizabeth here, his own personal social lubricant.
Peter got out of the cab, his head reeling - how much had he drunk? - and followed Neal to the front door and up the stairs to his apartment.
“Want a nightcap?”
“Probably water is a better idea.”
Neal smiled. “Have a seat.”
Peter sat on the couch as Neal grabbed him a glass of water. When he handed it to him, Peter’s hand covered Neal's for a long moment. Their eyes met, and Peter rubbed the pad of his thumb over the back of Neal's hand. Neal's other hand came up to caress the side of Peter’s face, and he bent over, those fingers gently tilting Peter’s face back, and he kissed him.
His lips were soft, and dry, and when he opened them to take in Peter’s lower lip, they tasted of chocolate. Peter lowered the water glass to rest on his thigh and Neal's other hand came up to cradle the back of his neck. Neal's knee rested on the couch between Peter’s legs and he leaned forward, making Peter feel like he was completely enveloped by him. Peter leaned back against the couch and Neal lowered himself to sit beside him, half in Peter’s lap and half out, the position awkward but still as hot as hell.
Peter may have whimpered.
Neal smiled, but Peter pulled away.
“Something wrong?”
“No, I -“ Peter looked away. “I’ve never kissed another man,” he finally admitted.
“It’s just like kissing anyone,” Neal pointed out.
“But am I any good at it?”
Still smiling, Neal took Peter’s free hand and guided it to his own crotch; Peter could feel the hardness there.
“What do you think?” Neal asked.
Peter swallowed. He thought this night couldn’t get any better.
Only darkness every day
CLIK-CLAK-CLIK
“Mmmf - Neal? What are you doing?”
“Nothing, go to sleep.”
Peter squinted up at him from his pillow, the light from the laptop cutting through the darkness of their bedroom. “Why are you on the laptop?”
“Nothing, it’s nothing.”
Peter sighed and sat up. He leaned over to look at what website Neal had up in his browser. “I thought El banned you from looking at pregnancy complication websites?”
Neal scoffed. “Did she think it was funny to put a parental control on here?”
“You got Mozzie to hack it, didn’t you?”
“She put Barney’s on the blacklist!”
“Chorioamnionitis,” Peter read slowly. “What’s that?”
“Infection of the amniotic fluid - says it can happen as a result of a rupture in the membrane, and it’s really serious, Peter.”
Peter looked up at Neal, and could see where this was going - he had that half-crazed look in his eyes. He pushed himself up to a sitting position and sighed. “It’s not gonna happen to El.”
“But it could - if there’s an injury to the uterus.”
“There was no injury to the uterus. El was in the backseat when the cab was hit, and she had her seatbelt on. The doctor said everything looked fine.”
“Then why did they have to keep her in the hospital?”
“For observation.”
“Observation of what, though? It’s because they think they missed something and they don’t want to be sued or whatever.”
Peter needed to cut this rant short. “Stop it, Neal, you always get this way.”
“I do not always get this way,” Neal snapped. “What way?”
“Whenever you feel like things are out of your control, you work yourself up a head of steam and then you do rash and stupid things.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, like swinging through windows and brandishing guns at OPR agents, or stealing music boxes from consulates, or hacking the A&E website.”
“You have no proof of that last one!” Neal defended. “Anyway, those Duck Dynasty guys are homophobic assholes.”
“So naturally rerouting all their traffic to the Human Rights Campaign website was a fitting retaliation?”
“Yes?”
“OK, I can’t fault you for that one. But still, you can’t get yourself all worked up with worry, El wouldn’t like that.”
“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt me.”
Peter slid his arm around Neal's shoulders. “But don’t you think she’s already worrying about all of this too?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, she’s got to be thinking about all of this too, all that can possibly go wrong, and she’s the one with the baby on board, you know? The stress can’t be good for either of them.”
“I suppose not…”
“And if you keep obsessing, and she picks up on it, it’ll just compound the problem, don’t you see?”
“What am I supposed to do?”
Peter tugged him closer, until he got the hint and lay his head on Peter’s shoulder. “You pull the biggest con of your life and you convince her you think everything will be all right. Our confidence will help with hers. Think you can do that?”
Neal was thoughtful for several moments, then he closed the laptop and let it slide to the bed between them. He turned his head so that his face was pressed against Peter’s neck and pressed a light kiss there. “If I have to.”
“We both do,” Peter replied, bringing his other arm around and holding Neal close.
“I still miss her when she’s away,” Neal said in a small voice.
“I do too, but we’ll be able to pick her up in the morning. Come on now, get some sleep.”
Peter held Neal close until his breathing evened out and he was asleep in his arms, staring at the laptop and willing himself to keep his own hands off it.
Wonder if she's gone to stay
“You wanna change the poopy diaper or get him dressed for bed?” Neal asked.
“Bed!” Peter said before Neal could rescind the choice, but he caught the smirk on Neal’s face as he turned around.
Peter took a last pull at his beer bottle as he watched Neal sink to the floor with their 14-month old, a fresh diaper, and the rest of the supplies he’d need. Neal made quick work of removing PJ’s tiny cargo pants, tossing them into the laundry basket without looking, then unsnapped his onesie and pushed it up his little torso. He undid the tape closures of the diaper and pulled it down briefly to survey the damage.
“Whoa,” he said, pulling back and covering the boy back up with the diaper. “Code brown.” He opened up the clean diaper and set it beside them on the floor, next he grabbed Mr. Elephant, PJ’s favorite stuffed monkey, and waved it before him.
“Da-da-da! Da-da-da!” PJ gurgled, holding pudgy arms out for it, and Neal handed it over; it naturally wound up in his mouth.
Neal wiped whatever mess he could away with the soiled diaper while grabbing both PJ’s feet with his other hand, set the diaper aside and grabbed a wet wipe from the dispenser. He proceeded to wipe away whatever else remained on the baby’s bottom, setting the soiled wipes atop the used diaper. When PJ began to protest, Neal got his attention again.
“Hey, Peej, hey!” Once their son’s blue eyes were on his, Neal began to sing,
“Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
It's not warm when she's away
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
And she's always gone too long
Anytime she goes away.”
Peter grinned to hear Neal's sweet baritone- he sang a lot more than he used to now that PJ was a bit older. He watched him continue changing the baby, his movements sure and smooth, his voice calming the child’s fidgeting.
“Wonder this time where she's gone
Wonder if she's gone to stay
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
And this house just ain't no home
Anytime she goes away.”
Having fastened the diaper and snapped the onesie back into place, Neal picked PJ up and kissed him, then held him at arm’s length. “You miss Mommy as much as me?” he asked.
“Da, DA!” PJ said emphatically, and both men laughed.
Neal got up and handed him to Peter. “Did El say how long she thought she’d be in Arizona when she called?”
Peter’s smile faded. “El’s mom is barely coping, and her dad’s going to need extensive therapy.” Her father had suffered a massive stroke and she had taken the next flight out there three days earlier.
Neal winced. “That’s too bad. I’ll call her later.”
“She’d like that.” He looked down at PJ, who regarded him with large blue eyes and a huge, drooly grin. “Who wants to get their jams on?”
“Dada.”
“No, not Daddy. PJ.” It amazed Peter that they could completely communicate with their son - he basically had one word - “Da-da” - but tone, inflection and context combined to produce a much larger vocabulary for all of them. He’d always marveled when other people seemed to have their own languages with their toddlers, and he now knew how easily it worked.
“Da. Da. Da. Da.” PJ struggled in his arms, wanting to be put down.
“OK.” Peter bent over and put him on the floor. “I’ve got to go get his pajamas anyway. Where?”
“Top drawer,” Neal pointed to the baby dresser.
“Right.” Peter grabbed the first one he saw - something white with cartoon dinosaurs on it which, on closer inspection, were all playing musical instruments (was that a piccolo?). When he turned, PJ had nearly made his way to the doorway of his bedroom. “Making a break for it, eh?” Peter accused, and went to pick him up. Neal, he noticed, had taken a seat in the rocker and was watching him with open amusement. “What?”
“Nothing - this ought to be fun.”
“I can dress my own son,” Peter pointed out.
“You haven’t done it in weeks. I’m telling you it’s different now that he’s mobile.”
Peter shook his head and got to his knees. He set PJ down on the carpet and took up the pajamas to unzip them. PJ turned and crawled away. Dropping the pajamas, he leaned forward to snatch the child up and set him down on his back this time, then went to unzip the pajamas again. PJ twisted around effortlessly and crawled away. Sighing, Peter picked him up and held him against his body with his upper arms and chin while using his hands to unzip the pajamas. He was successful, but PJ was squirming so badly he thought he’d drop him, so he leaned forward and set him down again, with one hand on his shoulder. The baby easily squirmed away, though Peter was able to catch him with one hand around his chest.
PJ cried out angrily, extending a hand in Neal's direction, who sat back and crossed his legs, a huge smile on his face. “Nope, sorry little one - daddy volunteered for this one.”
Peter gave him a venomous look and sat the baby down on the floor firmly, then went to ease the foot of the pajamas over his right leg. With his hands off of the child, PJ easily escaped. Peter sighed.
“He’s still got his sweater on you know,” Neal pointed out helpfully.
“I know!” Peter said, though in truth he hadn’t noticed, so focused was he on controlling the situation. He sat PJ down and lifted the sweater up from the bottom, PJ pausing in his struggles when he saw that he was going to have some clothing taken off and lifting his pudgy little arms to accommodate. Peter tugged at the sweater but it wouldn’t come off. He tugged again, and so did PJ, freeing one little arm. But unfortunately, his little chin just wouldn’t or couldn’t get through the sweater. Peter tugged harder and PJ whimpered, alarmed at being confined.
Peter peered down inside the garment. “Sorry, Peej, I think I might have to cut it off.”
“Dada,” PJ whined.
“When did his head get so big?”
Neal was laughing outright now. “There are snaps at the neck you know.”
“What?”
“Dada.”
“Jeez Louise, these baby clothes don’t make sense.”
“They’re designed to be easy to put on and take off.”
“Do I look like I’m having an easy time of it?” Peter thundered, and PJ whimpered again. “I’m sorry, baby,” he cooed to the child apologetically, then looked up at Neal. “If I give up, will you ever let me live this down?”
Neal gave it some thought. “Maybe. By the time he’s in high school, sure.”
“Please help,” Peter begged.
Neal slid out of the chair to his knees and crawled over. The first thing he did was set the pajamas down and open on the floor. The next thing he did was to reach inside PJ’s sweater - still being held suspended above him by Peter - and flicked the snaps open one-handed. Peter was able now to pull the thing over the poor kid’s head and they both breathed a sigh of relief, even as PJ tumbled onto his side.
Taking the baby in his arms, Neal sat in a loosely cross-legged manner on the floor, easing the baby’s feet into the space between his legs and seating him on his feet. He picked up the pajamas and slid one arm over PJ’s right. When the baby squirmed and tried to twist away, Neal raised his knees and opened his legs a bit more, effectively trapping the baby within the circle of his legs. While he was distracted, Neal slid the other arm of the pajamas on, then eased PJ onto his back and quickly slid each of the legs over his chubby feet. A second later, he’d had the whole thing zipped up and he’d returned Mr. Elephant to PJ’s happily waiting arms.
The entire operation took less than a minute.
“No fair,” Peter pronounced. “You cheated.”
“Don’t hate the playa, Peter, hate the game.”
“The game is rigged.”
“All’s fair in love and child rearing. Or something.”
“Whatever gets them to bed, eh?”
“You know it. Now - you want to tuck him in or shall I?” PJ was calmly sucking on Mr. Elephant’s face.
Peter leaned forward to kiss Neal. “Let’s both do it.”
“Dadadadada.”
“Uh-uh, no arguing,” Peter told PJ, “It’s bed for you.” He looked at Neal through his eyelashes. “And maybe for your daddies if we play our cards right.”
Neal smiled. “Da-DA,” he replied.
Anytime she goes away
“OK, I left five days’ worth of dinners in the fridge so you’d have some variety, and don’t forget PJ’s Gymboree class on Saturday morning at 11:15 sharp. Really, I can’t stress the importance of arriving on time, or else Miss Stacy gets all up in arms and all the other moms will judge you, and if they’re judging you, they’re judging me, and just be on time, Peter, all right?”
“Uh-huh.”
Elizabeth had an out-of town industry conference in Boston, the first one she’d been able to attend in nearly five years, and was just about to leave for her train.
“Did you get those little bagels for PJ’s lunch box at daycare?” Neal asked.
“They’re in the freezer - just thaw and put in the cream cheese.”
“Do we have cream cheese?”
“I don’t know? Probably?”
“Peter, do we have cream cheese?”
“What? Cream cheese?”
“You guys, stop acting so clueless, I’m going to be gone for five days. Now, when I get back am I going to find you all have died of starvation or can I trust the gourmet cook and the Assistant Director at the FBI to be able to feed a dog, a three year old, and themselves?”
“Is Magda coming Monday?” Peter asked.
She sighed. “Yes, I’ve told you she’s coming, so be sure to pick up around here so she doesn’t have to clean around our clutter.”
“Did you call the vet for Satch?” Neal asked.
“You know I did - I left the date and time of his appointment up on the chalkboard over there.” She pointed, but neither of her husbands looked. “You guys, am I going to regret leaving?”
“Probably,” Peter answered.
“Come on, you do this every time I leave lately - don’t you want to have a few days without me nagging you all the time?”
“No,” they both said.
She smiled. “That’s sweet.” She picked PJ up off the floor in the living room where he was coloring and kissed him, then kissed Neal and finally Peter, handing their son to him before heading for the door with a pat to Satchmo’s head as she picked up her luggage and headed out.
“Goodbye, I love you all.”
Her only answer was a grumble from nearly everyone involved.
Peter, Neal, and PJ looked at each other in silence for a long moment.
“You know, if we pack now, we can be in the car on the way to Boston in time for PJ’s nap, and surprise her at dinner tonight,” Neal pointed out.
Peter looked at him, a smile dawning on his face. “That’s a great idea. Just think of the look on her face when she sees us!”
----
Thank you for your time.
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Neal/Peter/Elizabeth
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: Fluff; h/c; babies; AU
Word Count: 5,000
Summary: Five times Peter and Neal had to deal without Elizabeth.
A/N: This is set in my “Five Times” ‘verse, which I haven’t written for in, like, FOREVER. No need to have read it or anything; here is background so you don’t have to: stories span their entire lives, and the OT3 are eventually in a committed relationship and have a child together. It’s a total AU after about mid-season 2, so no Nazis or treasure or Cape Verde or fucking trust issues - GOD!
The title, of course, is from Bill Withers’ most excellent song, “Ain’t No Sunshine,” some lyrics of which are also put to good use
For Day 8 of the Twelve Days of Ficmas Challenge.
----
It's Not Warm When She's Away
Peter sat slouched on his couch, the hand that held the TV remote resting on his belly as he listlessly changed the channels. How was it that he had something like 387 channels, and yet nothing was on? He was contemplating improving his Spanish by watching a telenovela on Telemundo - it was that or work more on the files he’d brought home on the Neal Caffrey case, which he’d made no discernible progress on in weeks - when the doorbell rang.
BING-BONG
He muted the TV and got up, muttering to himself about who it could be - he wasn’t expecting anyone, and he hadn’t ordered anything. He opened the inner door to the vestibule, and peered through the frosted pattern on the front door to see a man standing there holding a heated pouch like pizza shops used.
“I didn’t order anything,” Peter told him when he’d opened the door.
The man checked the slip taped to the side of the pouch. “4232 DeKalb?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“You ordered it.”
“But I didn’t.”
The man shrugged handed the bag to him. “It’s paid-for, you might as well take it.”
Peter was so confused he accepted the food, but not so much that he didn’t think to tip the guy.
He closed the door and carried the food to the kitchen; inside the bag was an aluminum carry-out container and two smaller, plastic ones. One of these contained a salad, the other what looked like a creamy dessert. Peter lifted the lid on the large container and a very pleasant aroma wafted up to his nostrils; inside was veal scaloppini in some sort of tomatoey sauce, accompanied by a side of pasta and broccoli rabe. His stomach growled.
Fetching a plate and a bowl from the cabinet - El would yell at him if he ate out of the takeout containers - he served himself the delicious meal. The salad was passable but he ate it - even if his wife was off traveling for business, he still heard her gentle yet firm voice in his head encouraging him to eat his veggies. The entrée was perfect - tender veal in a flavorful sauce, the greens a perfect, slightly bitter complement. He briefly wondered if she was responsible for sending this feast when his cell phone buzzed in his pocket and he took it out, a large grin on his face.
But when he looked at the readout, the number was listed as “Unknown,” not his wife’s. Curious, he answered, “Peter Burke.”
“How’d you like the tiramisu? I was going to opt for sending the profiteroles, but I know how much you like coffee, so I figured what the hell.”
“Caffrey!” Peter exclaimed, getting to his feet. “You sent this?”
“Well, since your lovely wife wasn’t around to feed you, I thought I’d take care of it.”
“I don’t believe you!”
“I mean, a steady diet of E-Z Cheez and Doritos is going to kill you, Peter. Or at least do damage to your heart you can’t afford. Not at your age.”
“That’s not all I’m eating, and - hey, how do you even know that?”
“You should put locks on your trash bins, honestly. If I were an identity thief, I’d be having a field day.”
Peter was unconcerned - he shredded everything of importance. “Duly noted. So does that mean you’re in New York?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny -“
“You know, Neal -“
BING-BONG
The front doorbell interrupted him. “Hang on.” He rested the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he answered the door. And yet again, a delivery person waited patiently on the doorstep. “Can I help you?”
“Grocery delivery,” the young woman answered.
“Groceries? I didn’t order any groceries.”
She showed Peter her delivery slip and, sure enough, there was his address, as well as a stamp that said, “PAID.”
“Neal, did you send me groceries?” Peter barked down the phone, even as he stepped aside to allow the young woman to enter his house. He put the phone on speaker and set it down, then fumbled for his wallet again, slipping the delivery person ten bucks before she left. He began rooting through the bags she’d dropped off on the counter, finding fruits and veggies, a very nice-looking ribeye steak, and a bag filled with croissants. And how did Neal know they needed toilet paper?
“Someone has to take care of you in your wife’s absence, and it’s clearly not going to be you.”
Peter lifted a bottle of lube out of the bag as Neal said this and his face darkened. “You are so going to prison when I’m done with you.”
”Don’t give me that. What crime have I committed?”
“You mean besides the bond forgeries, art thefts, and currency counterfeiting? Give me a minute and I’ll think of something.”
”Technicalities, all,” Neal said breezily and Peter scowled at his phone.
BING-BONG
“What now, Neal?” Peter asked as the doorbell sounded for a third time. The conman was ominously silent as Peter picked up the phone and trudged through the house to answer the door. He didn’t know what he expected; he supposed he ought to have grabbed his off-duty weapon in case Caffrey was dumb enough to show his face now. The delivery person was short and bald, with a pair of thick spectacles covering his shifty eyes.
“Mr. Suit?” he asked.
“What?” Peter said testily.
“Er, Burke?” The man held out a clipboard and Peter signed for whatever it was - it was about two feet by three, wrapped in paper and flat; Peter thought it felt like some sort of framed picture.
He carried it through to the kitchen and began to peel back the brown paper. The edge of a gilded frame peeked out and his heart began to race. “This had better not be anything stolen.”
“Not anything I stole,” Neal assured him.
Peter sighed, but then it turned into a gasp as he pulled the final bit of paper away from what turned out to be an oil painting. “This is not the Rembrandt landscape from the Montreal heist thirty years ago,” Peter stated, though of course he knew it was. “Caffrey, what the hell have you done?”
“I’ve returned a priceless piece of art to the authorities,” he answered, and Peter thought he sounded a bit testy about it.
“You sound like it kills you to do it.”
“It would have killed me to have left it where it was. Anyway, now you can take the credit for getting it back. Now you owe me.”
“I owe you a cell downtown,” Peter said to him, not really meaning it. The painting he held was easily worth over $2 million, and was a recovery of a significant piece. “You’re not going to be in trouble over this, are you? Where’d you get it?”
“I can take care of myself, don’t worry.”
Peter did worry, though. No matter that the kid was a criminal who Peter was determined to send to prison, Neal often took too many risks that Peter worried would get him killed someday. “Just mind you do, all right?”
“Aww, Agent Burke, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you cared. Now finish putting those groceries away - don’t want that ice cream to melt.”
Ice cream? Peter looked inside the last remaining bag to see a quart of Chubby Hubby at the bottom. Was that a joke? but then he realized something.
“Hey, how do you know I haven’t put the ice cream away?”
“Goodbye, Agent Burke,” Neal said in a playful tone, ending the call. Peter went to the front room and drew the curtains before settling back on the couch, staring at the Rembrandt he’d propped up on the chair in front of him, and enjoying his tiramisu.
This House Just Ain’t No Home
They didn’t say a single word on the entire ride down here, and Peter hated every minute of it. Where usually he and Neal talked and bantered effortlessly, tonight they couldn’t think of a single thing to say aside from banalities about weather, traffic and local politics.
It was their first date, Peter was already having a terrible time, and he blamed his wife.
She’d insisted, hadn’t she? They had to see if he and Neal could function in a romantic way, she’d said. Wanted to be sure the chemistry was still there, she’d pointed out. He failed to see why that didn’t include her too - she just made everything better. But she insisted.
They arrived at the restaurant and pulled up to the valet. Peter gestured for Neal to precede him into the restaurant. Out of habit, he rested his hand at the small of Neal’s back, then pulled it away abruptly, his face coloring. He would have usually done that with El - kind of guide her through the place, protectively. She always said she liked that, it showed people that they belonged together, but Peter didn’t know if that’s how Neal would feel, and furthermore, he didn’t know if that’s what men in relationships did with each other. Dammit, it was too confusing.
Neal looked up at him, a question in his blue eyes - or was that confusion? Peter just looked ahead and kept walking.
When they got to their table, Peter once again messed up -nearly pulling the chair out for Neal. What the bloody hell? Peter had been bad enough at dating women, he didn’t need this too.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“Scotch - neat!” Peter answered the maître d’ too quickly and felt himself blush again.
“Grey Goose, rocks, with a twist?” Neal said, and smiled twinklingly at the man until he left. The twinkle left his face as soon as they were alone, Peter noticed, to be replaced by self-consciousness. Peter opened his menu so that he’d have something to do with his hands. It was in French.
“Crap.”
“Hmm?”
“The menu’s in French.”
Neal smiled, opening his up and perusing it. “Looks really good.”
“I can only understand every third word,” Peter said forlornly.
Neal smiled, a genuine, full-on Neal Caffrey Special, filled with such affection and promise Peter forgot to breathe for a second. “I’ll order for you if you like.”
“Yeah, OK,” Peter replied, and then their drinks came. Neal ordered for them both in fluent French, flashing small smiles as he watched Peter watch him, and then the server brought them an amuse bouche. “What is it?” Peter asked suspiciously, eyeing the dollop of yellow goop inside what looked like a ceramic shot glass.
Neal smelled it, tasted tentatively, then smiled. “Cold corn soup - you’ll love it.” He attacked the tiny portion with gusto.
Peter had to admit it was delicious.
A minute later, a bottle of red arrived and Neal dealt with the sommelier, tasting it approvingly. Peter watched Neal carefully. “You really know what you’re doing,” he said when the sommelier had gone away.
Neal colored and smiled. “I just know how to fake it with confidence.”
Peter hated when Neal underplayed his skills, but he let it lie, and then their starters arrived.
“You see that memo from Young today?” Neal asked, starting in on his salad.
“Yeah - that new policy on cell phone use is not making him any friends,” Peter replied. God, WHAT was this conversation? He picked up his glass and drained it.
“You’re on ‘E’,” Neal observed, and they both reached for the wine bottle at the same time. Their fingers brushed and Peter pulled his hand back as if burned.
Their entrees arrived after several more minutes of silence, and Peter stared at his plate. “Did you know that white asparagus is white because they cover it when it grows? It prevents the, uh, chlorophyll from, uh,” he paused, his face coloring. Was he talking asparagus?!
“That’s really interesting,” Neal replied, staring out over the restaurant. “Because... of the chlorophyll…” He sipped his wine as his voice trailed off.
Peter drained his glass again.
Things didn’t get much better through dinner, except that they ordered a second bottle of wine and shared an order of profiteroles.
The cab ride back to Neal's wasn’t much better (except that Peter felt compelled to point out Lincoln Center when they passed it: “Oh look, Lincoln Center.” “Yeah?” GOD!).
Neal touched his hand as he was waiting for his receipt from the driver, and Peter’s entire arm lit up. “Want to come in?”
He didn’t, actually, because all he wanted to do was hide his head under a pillow, but he also didn’t like the message refusing would send. It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested (his feelings for Neal were unchanged), it’s that this date had gone so awkwardly. He needed Elizabeth here, his own personal social lubricant.
Peter got out of the cab, his head reeling - how much had he drunk? - and followed Neal to the front door and up the stairs to his apartment.
“Want a nightcap?”
“Probably water is a better idea.”
Neal smiled. “Have a seat.”
Peter sat on the couch as Neal grabbed him a glass of water. When he handed it to him, Peter’s hand covered Neal's for a long moment. Their eyes met, and Peter rubbed the pad of his thumb over the back of Neal's hand. Neal's other hand came up to caress the side of Peter’s face, and he bent over, those fingers gently tilting Peter’s face back, and he kissed him.
His lips were soft, and dry, and when he opened them to take in Peter’s lower lip, they tasted of chocolate. Peter lowered the water glass to rest on his thigh and Neal's other hand came up to cradle the back of his neck. Neal's knee rested on the couch between Peter’s legs and he leaned forward, making Peter feel like he was completely enveloped by him. Peter leaned back against the couch and Neal lowered himself to sit beside him, half in Peter’s lap and half out, the position awkward but still as hot as hell.
Peter may have whimpered.
Neal smiled, but Peter pulled away.
“Something wrong?”
“No, I -“ Peter looked away. “I’ve never kissed another man,” he finally admitted.
“It’s just like kissing anyone,” Neal pointed out.
“But am I any good at it?”
Still smiling, Neal took Peter’s free hand and guided it to his own crotch; Peter could feel the hardness there.
“What do you think?” Neal asked.
Peter swallowed. He thought this night couldn’t get any better.
Only darkness every day
CLIK-CLAK-CLIK
“Mmmf - Neal? What are you doing?”
“Nothing, go to sleep.”
Peter squinted up at him from his pillow, the light from the laptop cutting through the darkness of their bedroom. “Why are you on the laptop?”
“Nothing, it’s nothing.”
Peter sighed and sat up. He leaned over to look at what website Neal had up in his browser. “I thought El banned you from looking at pregnancy complication websites?”
Neal scoffed. “Did she think it was funny to put a parental control on here?”
“You got Mozzie to hack it, didn’t you?”
“She put Barney’s on the blacklist!”
“Chorioamnionitis,” Peter read slowly. “What’s that?”
“Infection of the amniotic fluid - says it can happen as a result of a rupture in the membrane, and it’s really serious, Peter.”
Peter looked up at Neal, and could see where this was going - he had that half-crazed look in his eyes. He pushed himself up to a sitting position and sighed. “It’s not gonna happen to El.”
“But it could - if there’s an injury to the uterus.”
“There was no injury to the uterus. El was in the backseat when the cab was hit, and she had her seatbelt on. The doctor said everything looked fine.”
“Then why did they have to keep her in the hospital?”
“For observation.”
“Observation of what, though? It’s because they think they missed something and they don’t want to be sued or whatever.”
Peter needed to cut this rant short. “Stop it, Neal, you always get this way.”
“I do not always get this way,” Neal snapped. “What way?”
“Whenever you feel like things are out of your control, you work yourself up a head of steam and then you do rash and stupid things.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, like swinging through windows and brandishing guns at OPR agents, or stealing music boxes from consulates, or hacking the A&E website.”
“You have no proof of that last one!” Neal defended. “Anyway, those Duck Dynasty guys are homophobic assholes.”
“So naturally rerouting all their traffic to the Human Rights Campaign website was a fitting retaliation?”
“Yes?”
“OK, I can’t fault you for that one. But still, you can’t get yourself all worked up with worry, El wouldn’t like that.”
“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt me.”
Peter slid his arm around Neal's shoulders. “But don’t you think she’s already worrying about all of this too?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, she’s got to be thinking about all of this too, all that can possibly go wrong, and she’s the one with the baby on board, you know? The stress can’t be good for either of them.”
“I suppose not…”
“And if you keep obsessing, and she picks up on it, it’ll just compound the problem, don’t you see?”
“What am I supposed to do?”
Peter tugged him closer, until he got the hint and lay his head on Peter’s shoulder. “You pull the biggest con of your life and you convince her you think everything will be all right. Our confidence will help with hers. Think you can do that?”
Neal was thoughtful for several moments, then he closed the laptop and let it slide to the bed between them. He turned his head so that his face was pressed against Peter’s neck and pressed a light kiss there. “If I have to.”
“We both do,” Peter replied, bringing his other arm around and holding Neal close.
“I still miss her when she’s away,” Neal said in a small voice.
“I do too, but we’ll be able to pick her up in the morning. Come on now, get some sleep.”
Peter held Neal close until his breathing evened out and he was asleep in his arms, staring at the laptop and willing himself to keep his own hands off it.
Wonder if she's gone to stay
“You wanna change the poopy diaper or get him dressed for bed?” Neal asked.
“Bed!” Peter said before Neal could rescind the choice, but he caught the smirk on Neal’s face as he turned around.
Peter took a last pull at his beer bottle as he watched Neal sink to the floor with their 14-month old, a fresh diaper, and the rest of the supplies he’d need. Neal made quick work of removing PJ’s tiny cargo pants, tossing them into the laundry basket without looking, then unsnapped his onesie and pushed it up his little torso. He undid the tape closures of the diaper and pulled it down briefly to survey the damage.
“Whoa,” he said, pulling back and covering the boy back up with the diaper. “Code brown.” He opened up the clean diaper and set it beside them on the floor, next he grabbed Mr. Elephant, PJ’s favorite stuffed monkey, and waved it before him.
“Da-da-da! Da-da-da!” PJ gurgled, holding pudgy arms out for it, and Neal handed it over; it naturally wound up in his mouth.
Neal wiped whatever mess he could away with the soiled diaper while grabbing both PJ’s feet with his other hand, set the diaper aside and grabbed a wet wipe from the dispenser. He proceeded to wipe away whatever else remained on the baby’s bottom, setting the soiled wipes atop the used diaper. When PJ began to protest, Neal got his attention again.
“Hey, Peej, hey!” Once their son’s blue eyes were on his, Neal began to sing,
“Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
It's not warm when she's away
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
And she's always gone too long
Anytime she goes away.”
Peter grinned to hear Neal's sweet baritone- he sang a lot more than he used to now that PJ was a bit older. He watched him continue changing the baby, his movements sure and smooth, his voice calming the child’s fidgeting.
“Wonder this time where she's gone
Wonder if she's gone to stay
Ain't no sunshine when she's gone
And this house just ain't no home
Anytime she goes away.”
Having fastened the diaper and snapped the onesie back into place, Neal picked PJ up and kissed him, then held him at arm’s length. “You miss Mommy as much as me?” he asked.
“Da, DA!” PJ said emphatically, and both men laughed.
Neal got up and handed him to Peter. “Did El say how long she thought she’d be in Arizona when she called?”
Peter’s smile faded. “El’s mom is barely coping, and her dad’s going to need extensive therapy.” Her father had suffered a massive stroke and she had taken the next flight out there three days earlier.
Neal winced. “That’s too bad. I’ll call her later.”
“She’d like that.” He looked down at PJ, who regarded him with large blue eyes and a huge, drooly grin. “Who wants to get their jams on?”
“Dada.”
“No, not Daddy. PJ.” It amazed Peter that they could completely communicate with their son - he basically had one word - “Da-da” - but tone, inflection and context combined to produce a much larger vocabulary for all of them. He’d always marveled when other people seemed to have their own languages with their toddlers, and he now knew how easily it worked.
“Da. Da. Da. Da.” PJ struggled in his arms, wanting to be put down.
“OK.” Peter bent over and put him on the floor. “I’ve got to go get his pajamas anyway. Where?”
“Top drawer,” Neal pointed to the baby dresser.
“Right.” Peter grabbed the first one he saw - something white with cartoon dinosaurs on it which, on closer inspection, were all playing musical instruments (was that a piccolo?). When he turned, PJ had nearly made his way to the doorway of his bedroom. “Making a break for it, eh?” Peter accused, and went to pick him up. Neal, he noticed, had taken a seat in the rocker and was watching him with open amusement. “What?”
“Nothing - this ought to be fun.”
“I can dress my own son,” Peter pointed out.
“You haven’t done it in weeks. I’m telling you it’s different now that he’s mobile.”
Peter shook his head and got to his knees. He set PJ down on the carpet and took up the pajamas to unzip them. PJ turned and crawled away. Dropping the pajamas, he leaned forward to snatch the child up and set him down on his back this time, then went to unzip the pajamas again. PJ twisted around effortlessly and crawled away. Sighing, Peter picked him up and held him against his body with his upper arms and chin while using his hands to unzip the pajamas. He was successful, but PJ was squirming so badly he thought he’d drop him, so he leaned forward and set him down again, with one hand on his shoulder. The baby easily squirmed away, though Peter was able to catch him with one hand around his chest.
PJ cried out angrily, extending a hand in Neal's direction, who sat back and crossed his legs, a huge smile on his face. “Nope, sorry little one - daddy volunteered for this one.”
Peter gave him a venomous look and sat the baby down on the floor firmly, then went to ease the foot of the pajamas over his right leg. With his hands off of the child, PJ easily escaped. Peter sighed.
“He’s still got his sweater on you know,” Neal pointed out helpfully.
“I know!” Peter said, though in truth he hadn’t noticed, so focused was he on controlling the situation. He sat PJ down and lifted the sweater up from the bottom, PJ pausing in his struggles when he saw that he was going to have some clothing taken off and lifting his pudgy little arms to accommodate. Peter tugged at the sweater but it wouldn’t come off. He tugged again, and so did PJ, freeing one little arm. But unfortunately, his little chin just wouldn’t or couldn’t get through the sweater. Peter tugged harder and PJ whimpered, alarmed at being confined.
Peter peered down inside the garment. “Sorry, Peej, I think I might have to cut it off.”
“Dada,” PJ whined.
“When did his head get so big?”
Neal was laughing outright now. “There are snaps at the neck you know.”
“What?”
“Dada.”
“Jeez Louise, these baby clothes don’t make sense.”
“They’re designed to be easy to put on and take off.”
“Do I look like I’m having an easy time of it?” Peter thundered, and PJ whimpered again. “I’m sorry, baby,” he cooed to the child apologetically, then looked up at Neal. “If I give up, will you ever let me live this down?”
Neal gave it some thought. “Maybe. By the time he’s in high school, sure.”
“Please help,” Peter begged.
Neal slid out of the chair to his knees and crawled over. The first thing he did was set the pajamas down and open on the floor. The next thing he did was to reach inside PJ’s sweater - still being held suspended above him by Peter - and flicked the snaps open one-handed. Peter was able now to pull the thing over the poor kid’s head and they both breathed a sigh of relief, even as PJ tumbled onto his side.
Taking the baby in his arms, Neal sat in a loosely cross-legged manner on the floor, easing the baby’s feet into the space between his legs and seating him on his feet. He picked up the pajamas and slid one arm over PJ’s right. When the baby squirmed and tried to twist away, Neal raised his knees and opened his legs a bit more, effectively trapping the baby within the circle of his legs. While he was distracted, Neal slid the other arm of the pajamas on, then eased PJ onto his back and quickly slid each of the legs over his chubby feet. A second later, he’d had the whole thing zipped up and he’d returned Mr. Elephant to PJ’s happily waiting arms.
The entire operation took less than a minute.
“No fair,” Peter pronounced. “You cheated.”
“Don’t hate the playa, Peter, hate the game.”
“The game is rigged.”
“All’s fair in love and child rearing. Or something.”
“Whatever gets them to bed, eh?”
“You know it. Now - you want to tuck him in or shall I?” PJ was calmly sucking on Mr. Elephant’s face.
Peter leaned forward to kiss Neal. “Let’s both do it.”
“Dadadadada.”
“Uh-uh, no arguing,” Peter told PJ, “It’s bed for you.” He looked at Neal through his eyelashes. “And maybe for your daddies if we play our cards right.”
Neal smiled. “Da-DA,” he replied.
Anytime she goes away
“OK, I left five days’ worth of dinners in the fridge so you’d have some variety, and don’t forget PJ’s Gymboree class on Saturday morning at 11:15 sharp. Really, I can’t stress the importance of arriving on time, or else Miss Stacy gets all up in arms and all the other moms will judge you, and if they’re judging you, they’re judging me, and just be on time, Peter, all right?”
“Uh-huh.”
Elizabeth had an out-of town industry conference in Boston, the first one she’d been able to attend in nearly five years, and was just about to leave for her train.
“Did you get those little bagels for PJ’s lunch box at daycare?” Neal asked.
“They’re in the freezer - just thaw and put in the cream cheese.”
“Do we have cream cheese?”
“I don’t know? Probably?”
“Peter, do we have cream cheese?”
“What? Cream cheese?”
“You guys, stop acting so clueless, I’m going to be gone for five days. Now, when I get back am I going to find you all have died of starvation or can I trust the gourmet cook and the Assistant Director at the FBI to be able to feed a dog, a three year old, and themselves?”
“Is Magda coming Monday?” Peter asked.
She sighed. “Yes, I’ve told you she’s coming, so be sure to pick up around here so she doesn’t have to clean around our clutter.”
“Did you call the vet for Satch?” Neal asked.
“You know I did - I left the date and time of his appointment up on the chalkboard over there.” She pointed, but neither of her husbands looked. “You guys, am I going to regret leaving?”
“Probably,” Peter answered.
“Come on, you do this every time I leave lately - don’t you want to have a few days without me nagging you all the time?”
“No,” they both said.
She smiled. “That’s sweet.” She picked PJ up off the floor in the living room where he was coloring and kissed him, then kissed Neal and finally Peter, handing their son to him before heading for the door with a pat to Satchmo’s head as she picked up her luggage and headed out.
“Goodbye, I love you all.”
Her only answer was a grumble from nearly everyone involved.
Peter, Neal, and PJ looked at each other in silence for a long moment.
“You know, if we pack now, we can be in the car on the way to Boston in time for PJ’s nap, and surprise her at dinner tonight,” Neal pointed out.
Peter looked at him, a smile dawning on his face. “That’s a great idea. Just think of the look on her face when she sees us!”
----
Thank you for your time.