Chapter Text
It begins with startled blue eyes, a panicked mass of confusion, and the love of a good friend.
She can't even say it took two seconds to make a decision because there was no decision. He needs them, so here they are and she finally, at thirty eight years, understands that saying: "it is what it is."
* * * * *
"Tator tots?"
He looks at both of them warily before nodding politely. "Yes please."
Spooning them onto his plate, she catches sight of the barely touched macaroni and cheese. She'd sent Peter to Shoprite to grab something, anything, last minute and this is the only thing he claimed he'd found for their first night. She suspects it's an excuse for him to get something fat and greasy for a change. She'll have to make a run to Fairway tomorrow and stock up, 'cause it looks like the tator tots aren't a hit.
"Neal? Sweetie, you don't have to eat that if you don't like it."
"El, you shouldn't start coddling-" She interrupts Peter with a glare.
"I like it, Liz'beth." That lie. Accompanied by the thousand watt smile they love so well. And so it begins. Elizabeth Burke is always down for a challenge.
When she gets up before her boys the next morning to make breakfast, she notices a quarter of the paté from this weekend's wedding missing from the fridge. No crumbs or any other evidence, though the cracker box is less full.
So the grocery list will become more creative now. She can work with that.
* * * * *
"Anything yet?"
"Still working on it, Suit. I had to deal with your people first. I can get to what's important now."
"I don't like the way we're doing this."
"Your precious government hands have been spotless so far, haven't they?"
"It's just wrong."
"And the alternative?"
Peter sighs and rubs a palm down his face, "I know."
"Trust me, if there's a way to fix this, I'll find it. I can still take him to Europe if you can't handle it. They'd never find us."
"Absolutely not. We'll figure it-"
"Petr!"
And there it is, what he'd hoped he wouldn't hear, right behind him. Then a surprised little intake of breath, right before another "Petr! I drew that one!"
A Monet. Christ, they've been here all of twenty minutes. He'd always suspected there were forgeries of Neal's all over the country, the world, that hadn't been discovered yet.
"What?! What did he say? Did you take him to a museum!?"
He hangs up on Mozzie and runs after Neal, who's practically bouncing beneath a line of paintings. "Neal. Sssshhh."
"Why?"
"We're supposed to be quiet in museums. Remember? Like the library?"
"Right. Sorry."
"It's okay, Buddy."
This little field trip was a mistake. It's not the noise level. Nobody here cares that a four year old is a little loud, because truthfully, he wasn't that bad. It's the freaking conflict of interest. Peter doesn't want Neal telling him everything he forged or stole or broke into. It's not like he'll be able to forget it when Neal changes back. Mozzie will never believe he brought Neal to the MoMA on merely El's suggestion of getting out of the house. He should have stuck with his batting cage idea.
If the excited confession just now and the beginnings of a van Gogh on Peter's laundry room wall are any indication, Neal has forgotten that forging is a no-no. The kid had just shrugged last night when Peter had asked what he was doing, brush loaded with some type of blue. "Paintin'," he'd said, as though defacing laundry rooms was as everyday as eating cereal or brushing your teeth. And now he's confessing to federal crimes.
"Hey Neal, let's check out the gift shop."
He's never seen that kind of sneer on the face of a child before. "The gift shop? Isn't that for... " A wrinkle pops up between Neal's brows while he tries to find the snobbish words that used to spill off his tongue like silver. No reason to help him with that...
"For artists? Yes, they love gift shops and all the generic plastic stuff in them. Let's go."
For all the distaste of mass retail and the unrefined that Neal tries to remember, his four-year-old mind falls in love with every shiny thing in that place; paper, glass, tin... and yes, plastic. Doesn't matter, his eyes light up at all of it and Peter is determined to keep an eye on those slippery hands.
As they walk to the car with two plastic bags of cheap souvenirs, Peter tries to remember how silly his friends with spoiled kids always seemed in the past. But he's gotten off easy today. If he'd been trying to placate the six-foot Caffrey of two weeks ago, he'd have had to spend a hell of a lot more than $63.50.
* * * * *
The immediate aftermath had gone like this:
The day after it happens, ShrinkGate Plus One as Moz designates it, Peter claims Neal is sick. Neal had earned a couple of sick days after all his hard work over the months, the years, and "he looks miserable, and by the way, contagious" (for good measure), when Peter "checks on him" on the way in to the office.
No one questions him. A couple of people remark that they don't remember Neal ever taking time off so he must be feeling pretty badly. Sharon in Legal offers to take him chicken soup but Peter promises to keep Neal nourished himself, not wanting anyone else to be exposed to any "germs".
Reese doesn't complain either. Neal has been undercover for weeks in Chinatown on the smuggling case, culminating in several arrests at the Shanghai Cafe and the recovery of numerous Buddhist artifacts, all but one currently in the FBI's evidence warehouse marked for return to Tibet. This is a high profile win and their senior ASAC doesn't begrudge Neal a couple of days off. Peter's banking on Mozzie's research of that one "missing" artifact to result in the solution to their current problem. More importantly, he's grateful ShrinkGate occurred when Peter and Neal were alone in the warehouse.
When they realize the dilemma will take longer to solve than a couple of days, the quest for a cure/fix/full body transplant is set aside for the more urgent need of cover. So, in the wee hours of a Tuesday morning, a diminutive but very effective bespectacled man makes a visit to the decadent over-mortgaged home of the third-most corrupt official within the top rung of OPR. Nothing convinces a man to cooperate as quickly as the threat of his own secrets being exposed.
Within four hours, the chain trickles down to Kyle Bancroft, who pulls his subordinate upstairs to share the new and surprising orders. Reese is incensed, and more than a little confused. He returns to the 21st floor to order Peter into his office, delicately explaining that OPR has pulled rank and taken temporary possession of Peter's CI for a classified undercover assignment in a joint operation with Interpol. Doesn't matter that the guy apparently has the flu. World security trumps health every time.
Predictably, Agent Burke bristles up and down in the presence of his boss, quite convincingly, his voice carrying throughout the bullpen, insisting that OPR has no legal right to take his CI. He rages on long enough that Hughes passes on Bancroft's warning: If Peter interferes he'll be putting his own career, and Neal's safety, in jeopardy. Therefore Reese forbids him to do so. Exactly what Peter was hoping to hear.
Reese informs him that Neal will be picked up by OPR within the hour and Peter is free to go, alone, to say goodbye. Peter storms out of the office as irately as El had advised, and does not return until the next morning. For days he keeps the storm brewing in his face. For weeks he makes sure to scowl any time the topic of his CI is brought up. Everyone on the 21st floor exudes sympathy for him, and they all know not to bring up the topic of one Neal Caffrey in front of their boss.
The fact that Peter and Elizabeth are suddenly caring for her ill cousin's small son thankfully keeps Peter busy and distracted from the absence of his partner, a blessing in disguise as far as Diana and Clinton are concerned. No one in the office thinks it odd that Peter no longer stays late and often works some mornings at home. Such is the sacrifice families often make.
* * * * *
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Burke, this is Cecily Hahn from the Academy. I'm sorry to bother you during the work day."
Wow. That sudden skip in Elizabeth's heart is new. She asks Yvonne to take over sorting linen samples and shuts the door to her office.
"It's not a problem. Is Neal okay?" Worry for Neal wars with concern of keeping this principal happy. June had called in a hefty favor to get Neal into this school for gifted children.
"Oh yes, he's fine. What a delightfully precocious child he is." El can hear an air of exasperation hidden within those words.
"Yes, we find him to be quite a rewarding challenge. Is there something wrong?"
"Not a problem per se but... could you perhaps clarify Neal's native language?"
"Excuse me?"
"I must apologize for assuming it was English when you enrolled him. We at the Academy strive to be inclusive and accepting to all cultures and ways of life. I assure you I meant no offense."
"I assure you that none was taken."
"Wonderful. So getting back to the issue at hand... Neal seems to revert to languages other than English when he's stressed."
"Does he? Which languages might those be?"
"Some of our instructors know multiple languages and from what we can tell, it seems to be mostly French or Italian, though one instructor thought she heard some Dutch as well."
"I see."
"With a modified Montessori approach here at the Academy, it's important to us to accommodate Neal in whatever way he needs to express himself. We do have a translator on call, but if we need to hire one full time for Neal, we'll need to know with which language he's most comfortable.".
"Mrs. Hahn, can you clarify in what situations Neal is reverting to his... native language?"
"Certainly. For example, yesterday, when asked if he'd like to read, he chose a book from the shelf and curled up on one of the bean bags. Yet when the instructor spoke to another child then turned back around, Neal was gone. She found him later in an art supply closet, holding the little crafting rhinestones up to a magnifying glass. When asked why he wasn't reading, he began protesting in French about our gems being fakes."
"Interesting."
"Utterly. We certainly encourage the children to go about their day as freely as possible, but he does seem to wander."
"He tends to get into his own little world."
"Another example would be this morning. Neal was surrounded by several girls in the class, speaking to them in what our instructor thought to be Italian. The girls seemed to be hanging on every word, though none of them were aware of exactly what he said."
"I can see where that might be a problem."
"Yes, all the girls think he's quite charming. We want Neal to enjoy himself here, so if you could confirm which language Neal's most comfortable with... "
"We would prefer Neal to stick to English at school. It sounds as if he needs a refresher. No translator is necessary."
"You're sure?"
"Absolutely. Thank you so much, Mrs. Hahn."
"Have a nice day, Mrs. Burke."
Elizabeth sits in her office for another ten minutes going over the conversation in her head. Okay. So Peter warned this wouldn't be easy. Neal One, Elizabeth One. Elizabeth suspects this may be just the beginning.
* * * * *
"Typical Caffrey. Dive in first - "
"Literally!"
" - and don't think about the consequences."
"Neal procreating is scary. The kid is Alex's, isn't he, Boss?"
"Diana, of course not. He's Kate's. She had the same coloring as Caffrey... which is why the kid looks exactly like him... "
Peter's subordinates bicker on the back patio chairs while Peter keeps an eye on Neal through the window. He hadn't had to say anything, they'd both just jumped to conclusions the second they saw Neal, which is better than Peter having to tell the truth.
"Jones, Neal hadn't seen Kate since before prison. The kid would have to be older than this."
"Who's to say Neal and Kate didn't hook up after prison without us knowing? Besides, Alex wouldn't name him after Neal."
"True, but it'd be just like Alex to dump Neal, Jr. here off like this the very day OPR takes Neal away."
"Clinton! Diana!" They jump, both simpering into contrition. He sighs. "I can't tell you. And Neal didn't know about... him."
That's as close to the truth as Peter can get. Without seeing it happen, ShrinkGate is impossible to believe. Unless you happen to be Mozzie, who believed Peter immediately for once. "I knew it! I always told him to be careful which artifacts he touched but of course he doesn't believe in curses." Or El, who only had to look at MiniNeal once to know he was just... Neal, only younger.
He can't chance Neal going into Child Protective Services, or some experimental medical facility, so Clinton and Diana think they're getting "the truth."
"Peter, OPR might let Neal out of the Interpol assignment if they know he has a kid."
"They won't, Jones. And I'd like to keep this quiet at the bureau for now."
"Which is why you're claiming he's the son of El's sick cousin."
"Exactly." It sickens him how easy it's become to keep these lies straight.
"So this cousin... "
"There is no cousin, Diana. Jennifer Mitchell is a work of fiction, as is the power of attorney she signed over to Elizabeth and me."
Jones and Diana look at each other warily.
"I know, I know. I'm skirting some fine lines here. What do you think would happen to him otherwise, with no blood relative to claim him?"
Clinton sighs. "CPS."
Peter had tried to keep them from coming over as long as he could, to keep from having to tell this second lie. But they'd dropped some files off unexpectedly and there was Neal, right in the living room with a set of blocks shaped into the Eiffel Tower. Luckily Peter had recently reminded him that he was to pretend not to know Diana and Clinton if he ever saw them before becoming a big boy again. Neal had replied that he'd had lots of practice at Pretend.
"How long are you going to keep him, Peter?"
"As long as it takes."
* * * * *
A strangled cry has Peter on his feet and stumbling toward Neal's room in eight seconds, not even sure if he's awake when he trips over Satchmo in the hall. Satch was pawing at Neal's door; Peter will have to sand it again. Neal tosses in his bed, tangled in the sheets, a death grip on Johannes the zebra.
"Daddy, no!"
"Neal."
"Don't leave me here!"
Damn it. James was a fucking bastard. Still is, as far as Peter knows.
"Neal." He rubs Neal's arm and Neal jerks, eyes still closed, then quiets in his sleep. Peter watches for a while, his flush little cheeks evening out now that he's resting calmly. He seems fine. But Peter knows how nightmares work. They come right back.
He pats the bed to invite Satchmo up and lets him lie next to Neal.
"Come on, Buddy. Wake up for me."
Neal's lids flutter. He scrubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. "Petr?" He seems to sense the dog, rests his head on Satchmo's back without taking his eyes off of Peter.
"Yep."
"You came."
"Of course."
"Why are you here?"
"I live here, Buddy."
Neal looks around his room. "Oh."
"You had a bad dream. Do you want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Okay. You need a drink before going back to sleep?"
"Pineapple juice?"
"Water."
There's that put upon look. Such a martyr. "Fine."
Neal throws off the covers, toppling them onto the dog, and Peter catches sight of his legs.
"Neal, why are you wearing jeans in bed?"
Neal sees them too. "Not allowed to?"
"Sure but it just doesn't seem comfortable."
"Couldn't find my bat pants."
"Didn't you wear them to bed?"
Neal knits his brow, tilts his head, and shrugs. Peter remembers that shrug and all the meaning behind it. But Neal is four now and Peter is too tired to unearth potential secrets.
He opens the drawer to Neal's nightstand, a pile of pencils rolling to the front, the lead pulled out of all of them. That's... not troubling enough to worry about either, once he finally finds the flashlight and shuts the drawer. He flips it on, sweeping it about the room.
Okay, so that didn't take long. Right there on the floor at the foot of the bed. Batman pants. Not brightly colored fleece pants covered in yellow ovals with bats in the center. No, "that's for babies."
These are snug plain dark blue sweats, almost black. Because the real Batman wouldn't actually wear the bat symbol on his clothes like a cartoon. He'd blend in just like any superhero / con artist. El had made Neal a matching homemade cape since none could be found without the same offending graphic, as long as he promised to drop the con artist part of the description, out loud.
"They're right here, Buddy. How about you get those jeans off and put these on?"
Neal's fingers haven't remembered yet how to maneuver the snap so Peter moves this along with a flick of his thumb, dumps the jeans on the floor while Neal pulls on the sweats. He carries Neal into the bathroom, tries not to think how normal this feels. Neal settles atop the toilet lid, Johannes at his feet, while Peter fills a Dinosaur Dixie cup and hands it off. Neal takes a tiny sip.
"How come you and Liz'beth don't have kids?"
Peter leans his back against the edge of the sink and crosses his arms. He wasn't planning on having a heavy deliberation at two in the morning but apparently Neal's wide awake now. Instead of an awkward infertility explanation, he shrugs and says, "Just never had time. We're busy people; we like our jobs. You know."
Neal stares at him a moment, then nods, less chipper than he'd been. "I get it." He takes a quick sip and hands the cup back to Peter. "I'm ready for bed now."
Usually Neal tries every trick in the book to stay up once he's up. Peter can't help but think he's just put his foot in his mouth again as Neal rolls over to face the wall while he's tucking him back in.
* * * * *
"Gooyer, please."
"Pardon?"
The killer smile falters a bit. He knows he's not pronouncing it correctly, but he doesn't seem to get what's wrong. Moz cuts in...
"Uh, he'd like the Chicken Gruyere with Sautéed Mushrooms. I'd like the Salmon and Swiss. Dairy free, of course."
"Can we have cheese sticks?"
"Excuse me?" Since when would Neal eat fried grease?
"They're good, Moz."
The waitress turns to Mozzie, "I'm sorry, Sir, we don't have that here. We have Bruschetta."
"That'll be fine, thank you. And can we get a new tablecloth please? This one doesn't cover the entire surface."
"Okay. I'll see what I can do."
"Thanks."
The waitress hurries off to the next table, probably planning to ignore Mozzie's request. All thoughts of the menu are forgotten as Neal peels labels off their sparkling waters.
GPS watch aside (that embossed Batman on the strap doesn't fool Mozzie), he's surprised The Suit let him take Neal out "unsupervised." Surely he's worried Mozzie will steal him off to an island in the Pacific. Moz isn't quite sure why he's not doing just that.
His first priority Post-ShrinkGate was to reverse the effect, and he's still desperate to do so. He misses his best friend, brainstorming cons, drinking Brunello, contemplating Area 51. He sees Neal slipping away with the Macy's jeans and the Disney movies being pushed at him in the Burke Fortress. Not that he hasn't always thought Neal was a snob with that excessive tailoring but... retail is not Neal. And now cheese sticks?
But watching Neal now, this tiny fresh little ball of wonder, Mozzie realizes this for the golden opportunity that it is. His chance to shape a dazzling young mind from, mostly, the beginning, and curb those ridiculous romantic hero tendencies.
"So how's life at Chez Suit?"
"I beat Petr at chess yestaday," the kid says absently. The label is on its way to becoming some type of mammal-shaped gift for the waitress, he's sure.
Moz waves that off. "Child's play" almost slips out but he steers it into "He has no chance against your brilliant mind, Mon Frére. In fact, I caught on to a new-"
"Moz did you know there's cowboy Casanovas?"
Cowboy what? Oh.
Oh.
"Neal, do they have you listening to country music?"
Neal shrugs. "Liz'beth listens to it while she cooks. I like the red cup song."
"That stuff is written to brainwash the masses, Neal! They play it so the gullible will blindly follow whatever patriotic lies the government and CEOs want you to believe."
"Wow. I better tell Liz'beth."
"Uh, better that you don't. She wouldn't understand."
"Can we have Twinkies for dessert?"
Moz texts himself to look up flights to Bora Bora.
* * * * *
His little fingers squeeze through the dough rhythmically. There's flour in the grout, he broke one of her grandmother's mixing bowls and they had to throw away the first batch because he sneezed into it. Elizabeth had been inclined to use it anyway, to somehow will herself to forget it had happened. It's not like there'd been anything visible there and she hadn't wanted to start over. But he'd picked up the ball of dough, an enormous wad in his tiny arms, carried it to the trash and dumped it before she could stop him.
"Mozzie won't eat it if there's germs." And that's all there was to that. She didn't realize Mozzie would be coming over but, hey, the more the merrier. So they're onto the second batch.
When she'd told Neal they'd bake this weekend, and had asked him for ideas, she'd been prepared for any request from Petit Fours to Orange Ricotta Cheesecake to Hazelnut Tarts. She'd been intrigued when he requested plain old cutout Christmas cookies. In April.
"Okay. If that's what you want."
"The sugar ones that you decorate," he'd clarified, in case she wasn't sure. "With sprinkles."
She'd assumed all those decorations would be hard to find now, that she'd have to go to the specialty store, but they were on the shelf just as if it'd been December, which made her wonder just what was in preservatives. And here they are rolling out dough.
"Like that?"
"Exactly like that. Maybe push down a little harder? It might need to be thinner."
His little tongue peeks out as he pushes the roller across the dough, his brow knit in concentration.
"That looks great, Neal. You ready for the cookie cutters?"
"Yep."
She marvels at how strategically he places each cutter to maximize the dough field. He carefully sets the inner edge of the candy cane around the curve of the bell. The snowman's scarf fits neatly within the crevice of the evergreen's branches. She remembers just sinking the cutters in anywhere there was acres of space when she was his age. She's sure she wasn't able to get half as many cookies as he is now before she'd had to pick it all up and roll out again.
They get three sheets full before she puts the first into the oven. Now to other things.
She knows the answer before she asks. Why else would he choose these cookies but for warm memories of his mother? But she can't help herself. If she's going to possibly (hopefully - please fail, Moz) raise this child, she wants to know more.
"These will be beautiful. You're an expert at this, Neal. Your mother taught you well."
He stills and looks down, his jaw suddenly tight. "No."
"Oh that's okay. So, you baked with Ellen then?"
He shakes his head fiercely, eyes blinking rapidly. He takes a deep breath. "Never did that. I heard 'bout other kids doing it. Sounded like fun. 'Specially the sprinkles."
She watches him try to dictate his emotions like the Neal he used to be. She sits down on the floor and pulls him into her lap. It's easy for him to bury his face in her sweater and she knows he's stifled any tears that may have come to a normal four year old. She hopes he can't see hers. This was the opposite of what she'd expected.
"I'm sure your mama wanted to do things with you, Baby. Maybe she was just too sad."
He nods.
"Do you want to talk about her?"
"Not s'pposed to."
"I won't tell anyone."
He doesn't say anything for a while. His breathing evens out and she's sure he's fallen asleep when he offers, "We used to sing. Ellen came over every night an' gave me a bath an' read to me sometimes an' made sure my clothes were clean sometimes. But mama sang with me while we waited for Ellen to bring dinner. It was pretty."
"I bet it was, Baby. What did you sing?"
"She liked slow songs. Tony Bennett an' Lena Horne ."
"Mmmm. She had good taste. Did she like Ray Charles?"
He looks up at her. "Why are you crying, Lizbeth?"
"It's such a beautiful memory."
Neal turns around in her lap, that beautiful boy, kneels right in front of her. His starfish hands cover her cheeks and he looks at her in sympathy. "I'll sing with you if you want."
A half laugh / half sob sneaks out of her and she hugs him so tight the air rushes out of him. "I would love that, Sweetie."
The oven beeps and Neal pops up, racing around the island.
"Not on your life, Mister!" She catches up with him before he can touch the handle. "This part's all me."
"I've used ovens lots of times, Liz'beth."
"And you will again, but not till you're ten. Or thirty."
Before they start on decorating she texts Peter: Bring Home More Sprinkles.