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Chapter Text

Peter Burke hated magic.

Not the kind with card tricks and sleight-of-hand—Neal loved those, and Peter tolerated them for the sake of his partner’s endless flair. No, Peter hated the kind of “magic” that made his day go from bad to utterly incomprehensible in under an hour.

It started in Brooklyn, in a dusty warehouse that looked abandoned from the outside but had hosted a suspicious number of encrypted signals in the last two weeks. Neal had flagged it while chasing a trail of stolen antiquities—something about a forged amulet with dubious origins and an even more dubious price tag.

Peter hadn’t thought much of it when Neal went in first, overly eager, as usual. He followed with Jones and Diana right behind him, sweeping the perimeter. By the time Peter stepped into the building, Neal had already made it to the center of the room, where the supposed "amulet" sat on a pedestal surrounded by decaying crates and loose wiring. It glowed faintly, blue around the edges.

Peter had just opened his mouth to yell, “Neal, don’t touch that!” when Neal—of course—touched it.

The light surged. There was a crack like thunder, a gust of air, and then—

Silence.

Neal was gone.

Peter froze. “Neal?”

Jones and Diana rushed forward, weapons drawn, but the room was empty except for the humming pedestal and a pile of clothes—Neal’s. His shoes, his belt, his damn FBI-issued tracker anklet.

And something else. Something moving.

Peter stepped forward cautiously, heart pounding, as a small, shirtless body stirred in the center of the pile. A shock of dark curls. Pale, startled blue eyes.

Peter stared.

“Oh my God,” Diana whispered behind him. “Is that... a toddler?”

The child blinked up at them, lips trembling. Then—

“P’tah?”

Peter’s jaw dropped. “Neal?!”

The toddler promptly burst into tears.

Two Hours Later

Peter had faced art thieves, murderers, and terrorists. He’d negotiated hostage situations and argued before federal judges. Nothing—not even Mozzie on a caffeine high—prepared him for toddler Neal.

Three years old. They’d checked—twice—with a very confused ER pediatrician and a still-dazed lab tech from the FBI’s forensics team. All vitals were normal. DNA matched. He was healthy. He was also apparently stuck this way, and no one knew for how long.

The amulet? Gone. Vanished after the energy surge. The lab team was poring over photos and readings, but Peter wasn’t holding his breath.

Now Peter stood in his kitchen, suit coat tossed over a chair, sleeves rolled up, watching three-year-old Neal Caffrey sit cross-legged on the floor, holding a juice box with both hands like it was the holy grail.

He hadn’t said much since the hospital. The big blue eyes had darted around anxiously in the car, taking in the streets of Manhattan like he was seeing them for the first time. Maybe he was. Neal, at three, didn’t seem to remember being an adult.

Or if he did, he wasn’t letting on.

Elizabeth crouched down beside him now, her smile gentle. “Do you want some crackers with your juice, sweetie?”

The toddler nodded solemnly, curls bouncing.

Peter watched in disbelief. “So... this is our life now?”

Elizabeth stood up with a sigh and handed Peter the baby monitor Diana had dropped off an hour ago. “Welcome to parenthood.”

“I didn’t sign up for this.”

Elizabeth gave him a look. “Peter. He’s three. He has your name memorized, he cries when you leave the room, and he tried to climb into your lap for the entire car ride home.”

“He peed on me.”

“He’s a toddler.”

Peter groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He was twenty-nine this morning.”

“Now he’s not. And until the FBI’s science division figures out how to reverse magical toddlerfication, he’s our responsibility.”

On cue, there was a tiny hiccup from the floor. Peter looked down and saw Neal tugging at the hem of his trousers with one hand, the other holding his half-empty juice box.

“P’tah? ‘Lizbiff said I can has snack?”

Elizabeth’s hand shot up to cover a laugh.

Peter exhaled. “Yeah, kiddo. You can have a snack.”

Neal beamed up at him, and Peter’s heart did something uncomfortable in his chest. Something dangerously close to fond.

Later That Night

Peter had thought getting a toddler to sleep couldn’t be that hard.

He was wrong.

Neal—despite looking like an angel in footie pajamas covered in little blue fedora hats (Elizabeth’s idea)—had the energy of a caffeinated squirrel and the patience of a cat during bath time. He’d insisted on being read Goodnight Moon, then The Very Hungry Caterpillar, and then a completely improvised story about a clever little con artist who stole the moon and hid it in a Manhattan penthouse.

Peter stared down at him now, finally sleeping, one thumb tucked in his mouth and the other hand curled around the collar of Peter’s discarded FBI windbreaker.

His tiny chest rose and fell, breaths even.

Peter didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Elizabeth leaned in the doorway of the guest room—now hastily converted into a nursery—with her arms folded. “You’re a goner.”

“I’m not.”

“You let him steal your jacket.”

“He got cold.”

“You tucked him in.”

“I’m not heartless.”

“You brushed his hair off his forehead.”

Peter sighed and stood, joining her in the hallway. He closed the door behind them softly.

“I don’t know how to do this, El.”

Elizabeth slipped her arm around his waist. “We’ll figure it out.”

“He’s Neal. But he’s not. What if he remembers? What if he doesn’t?”

“What if he’s like this forever?”

Peter didn’t answer.

The Next Morning

Peter woke up to the sound of someone singing off-key.

He rolled over, blinking blearily at the bedside clock. 6:02 a.m.

Elizabeth was already gone—probably in the kitchen.

The singing continued. A warbled version of “Fly Me to the Moon,” complete with giggles.

Peter stumbled out of bed and followed the sound. Down the hall. Past the living room.

There, standing on a stool in the kitchen, was Neal. Wearing Peter’s Yankees cap backward. Holding a spoon like a microphone. Beside him, a very tired but entertained Elizabeth stirred something on the stove.

“Da-da-da-da-DAAAA—spaghettiiiii!”

Elizabeth caught Peter’s eye and mouthed, Help me.

Peter walked in, clearing his throat.

Neal gasped, mid-verse, and whipped around. “P’tah!”

He held his arms up.

Peter blinked. “You want me to... pick you up?”

“Uppies,” Neal insisted. “Now, pwease.”

Peter, against every instinct he had as a federal agent and a man trying to hold onto his last shreds of control, scooped the toddler up.

Neal immediately tucked his head under Peter’s chin and sighed.

Peter stood there, shell-shocked. “Is this normal?”

Elizabeth grinned. “You’ve been chosen.”

Meanwhile, at the FBI

Diana leaned on Peter’s office doorframe, holding up a file. “Still no change. Lab guys say it’s like the amulet never existed. Zero trace elements.”

Peter rubbed his temples. “He’s still three. Likes apple juice, hates green beans. Cries if I leave the room without warning.”

“Sounds like adult Neal.”

“Ha. Ha.”

Diana stepped in, smirking. “How’s the diaper situation?”

Peter groaned. “We’re potty training. I think he’s holding it as a form of psychological warfare.”

Diana laughed outright. “You’re doomed.”

Peter reached for his coffee. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Chapter Text

Peter had thought that managing Neal Caffrey as an adult was a full-time job.

Managing him as a three-year-old?

That was a hostage negotiation with juice boxes and crayons.

—

Tuesday – FBI Headquarters, 8:14 AM

“Peter.”

Hughes didn’t raise his voice, but the tone alone could have stopped a freight train. Peter paused mid-stride in the hallway of the Bureau, toddler in tow.

“Yes, sir?”

“What is that?” Hughes gestured with his coffee mug toward the small, curly-haired figure next to Peter’s leg—currently clutching Peter’s tie in one hand and a slightly chewed plush fox in the other.

Peter cleared his throat. “That... is Neal.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“Excuse me?”

Neal—bless him—looked up at Hughes and offered a wide, angelic smile. “Hi, Mister Gruff Guy.”

Hughes squinted. “Burke. You have ten seconds to explain why one of the FBI’s top consultants has become a toddler and is currently wiping apple juice on your slacks.”

Peter sighed. “There was a warehouse. An artifact. He touched it. There was a flash. Boom. This happened.”

“That’s not an explanation.”

“No, sir, but it’s all we’ve got.”

Neal tugged on Peter’s pant leg. “P’tah? Can I see my desk now?”

Hughes stared.

“You brought him to work.”

“I couldn’t leave him at home alone!”

“Burke, he’s three.”

“Exactly.”

There was a long pause before Hughes pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I’m going to pretend this conversation didn’t happen. Get him out of the bullpen before someone from IA walks by and assumes you’ve joined a cult.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And Burke?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t let him near the coffee machine.”

Peter looked down to find toddler Neal already attempting to climb onto the counter in the break room visible through the glass.

“Neal—!”

—

9:45 AM – The Bullpen

Jones leaned over the back of his chair. “He tied my shoelaces together.”

“Again?” Diana asked, mildly impressed.

“Under my desk. While humming Sinatra.”

Peter, walking by with a clipboard and Neal balanced on one hip, didn’t even blink. “Count your blessings. He stuck stickers on my case file this morning. It’s now labeled ‘FBI Important Big Boy Stuff’ in glitter letters.”

Neal, unabashed, beamed.

“I’m helpful.”

“You’re chaos in a onesie,” Peter muttered.

“I don’t wear a onesie anymore. I wear big-boy pants.”

“That’s... true,” Peter allowed reluctantly.

From his perch, Neal proudly held up a plastic FBI badge Elizabeth had printed for him last night. “Agent Neal!”

Jones choked on his coffee.

Diana raised a brow. “So when does he get his own office?”

Peter deadpanned, “The day he stops hiding paperclips in my coffee mug.”

Neal giggled and hid behind Peter’s shoulder.

—

Noon – Outside Mozzie’s Safehouse

Elizabeth was the one who’d made the call. Peter wouldn’t have even tried.

But Mozzie had shown up. Eventually.

Wearing sunglasses, gloves, and what Peter was fairly sure was an anti-surveillance poncho made of aluminum foil, he stepped around the corner of the building like he was entering a war zone.

Peter opened the car door.

Neal peeked out.

“Mozzie?”

The sunglasses slid down Mozzie’s nose.

He blinked. “Is that a... hobbit?”

“Hey!” Neal pouted. “I’m not a hobbit. I’m me.”

Mozzie crouched down, eye level. “Neal?”

Neal nodded, curls bouncing. “I’m three. I like foxes, apple sauce, and stories about pirate ships. Also, P’tah says I’m not allowed to eat glue.”

Mozzie looked up at Peter. “I leave for two days. Two.”

“Believe me, I wish I were hallucinating,” Peter said.

Neal reached out a small hand toward Mozzie. “You’re still my bestest friend.”

Mozzie blinked. Once. Twice. Then, visibly crumbling, he accepted the hug.

“Oh no. No. Don’t do that. You can’t weaponize affection.”

Neal squeezed tighter.

“Fine,” Mozzie muttered. “But if he starts reciting Rousseau again, I’m out.”

Elizabeth grinned from the front seat. “Don’t worry. Right now, he’s obsessed with The Very Hungry Caterpillar and making hats out of napkins.”

Mozzie turned to Peter, deadly serious.

“This is your fault.”

Peter didn’t argue.

—

Later That Afternoon – The Burke House

Nap time.

Or, in this case, the 90-minute battle between one exhausted federal agent and one extremely energetic former con man in a Lightning McQueen t-shirt.

“You need to rest, buddy,” Peter said, tucking the blanket around Neal’s tiny shoulders.

“Don’t wanna.”

“You’ve been awake since six.”

“Not sweepy.”

“You almost passed out on Mozzie’s shoulder.”

“I was... pondering.”

Peter blinked. “Pondering?”

“Big boy stuff.”

“Like what?”

Neal paused, then whispered, “Taxes.”

Peter had no idea if that was a real memory fragment or a toddler bluff, but either way, he gave in with a sigh and sat down next to the bed. “How about I stay here until you fall asleep?”

Neal’s eyes immediately softened. He reached out one small hand.

Peter let him take it.

“You’re warm,” Neal murmured.

Peter stared at the ceiling. “You’re exhausting.”

But he stayed until the kid’s grip loosened, the breathing slowed, and Neal finally drifted off.

—

Evening – Post-Nap Chaos

“You taught him to pick locks,” Peter snapped at Mozzie over the phone.

“I did not,” Mozzie said, utterly unrepentant. “He taught himself. Genius transcends age.”

“He got out of his crib and rearranged all the fridge magnets into a Fibonacci spiral.”

“...That is impressive.”

“Then he put Elizabeth’s shoes in the freezer.”

“That was probably symbolic.”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I need backup. Or sedatives. Or both.”

“Can I offer a goat?”

Peter hung up.

—

Bedtime – The Second Attempt

This time, Elizabeth tried.

She lit lavender candles, dimmed the lights, read three picture books, and even sang softly. Neal snuggled under the blanket and blinked up at her with an adorable smile.

Then he whispered, “I miss me.”

Elizabeth paused. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”

Neal tugged the edge of the blanket higher. “I miss being tall. And tricky. I miss knowing big words and wearing nice shoes.”

“You remember all that?”

He nodded solemnly.

“I’m still me. Just... littler.”

Elizabeth leaned down and kissed his forehead. “You’re still Neal. We’ll help you find the rest again, okay?”

His small fingers wrapped around hers.

“Okay.”

Chapter Text

It was a quiet morning.

Which should’ve been Peter’s first warning.

Neal was already up when Peter shuffled into the kitchen, hair a disaster, tie askew, and coffee mug clutched like a lifeline.

Neal was humming. Painting.

On the walls.

“Neal!”

The toddler startled, his blue eyes wide and innocent. “Mornin’, P’tah!”

“That’s not paper.”

“It’s bigger.”

Peter gaped at the mural spreading across the kitchen wall—swirls of blue and green, stick figures in fedoras, and a very decent impression of what looked like the Manhattan skyline… next to a rocket ship.

“You drew a—why is there a spaceship next to the Chrysler Building?”

“Escape plan.”

Peter blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

Neal leaned in conspiratorially. “In case I gotta get out fast. Mozzie says always have an exit strategy.”

Peter groaned. “Of course he does.”

Elizabeth appeared in the doorway and froze. “Is that acrylic?!”

Neal smiled proudly. “I made art!”

—

Later – At the FBI Headquarters

Peter stood with Neal in one arm and a sippy cup in the other, trying to sign a daycare waiver form with his teeth.

“You sure this is a good idea?” Jones asked skeptically, eyeing the glitter still clinging to Peter’s sleeve.

“We need him watched during office hours,” Peter muttered. “Elizabeth can’t keep missing events, and I can’t bring him to case briefings.”

Jones tilted his head. “He’s been here less than five minutes and already got into your desk.”

Peter looked down.

Neal, now sitting cross-legged on the floor, was using Peter’s FBI badge to “interrogate” a stuffed frog in handcuffs.

“I told you,” Neal growled in a surprisingly accurate imitation of Peter’s tone. “You’ve got one chance to tell me where the cookies are.”

Jones burst out laughing.

Peter sighed. “Daycare. Now.”

—

The Daycare Room

The agency daycare center was a glass-walled, highly secure, playroom-meets-classroom tucked in a quieter corner of the Bureau. Inside were half a dozen agents’ kids, an exhausted-looking teacher named Miss Carla, and enough plastic dinosaurs to reenact Jurassic Park.

Neal eyed it like a hostile border checkpoint.

Peter knelt beside him. “Just for a few hours. El will pick you up after lunch.”

Neal narrowed his eyes. “You want me to go into the box.”

“It’s not a box. It’s daycare.”

“Do you like daycare?”

“I never went to daycare.”

Neal crossed his arms.

“Then I don’t like it either.”

Peter rubbed a hand over his face. “Neal—”

Neal whispered dramatically, “You’re abandoning me.”

“I am not—oh for the love of—look, you’ll be safe, you’ll have snacks, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

Miss Carla waved. “We’ve got stickers!”

Neal looked unimpressed. “Do you have locks to pick?”

Peter scooped him up and handed him over, fast. “Have fun!”

He fled.

—

Forty-Eight Minutes Later

Peter had made it exactly one meeting and three emails into his morning when Diana knocked on his office door, face tight.

“Peter?”

“What now?”

“We have a problem.”

They both looked up as a small voice came through the intercom.

“This is Special Agent Neal Caffrey requesting backup. Repeat—code juicebox. I have escaped. I repeat. I have escaped.”

Peter’s eyes widened.

Diana deadpanned, “He tripped the internal comms system.”

Peter sprinted for the elevator.

—

Operation Escapist

Security footage showed a clear timeline of events:

• 9:05: Neal makes a show of being sleepy and curls up on a nap mat.

• 9:07: While the teacher is distracted, Neal crawls under a table and opens a locked cabinet using a bent juice box straw.

• 9:09: He finds his way into the hallway through a vent (a vent, for God’s sake).

• 9:12: Appears on the second floor via staff elevator, wearing sunglasses.

• 9:15: Enters Peter’s office and locks the door with Diana’s keycard he lifted earlier.

Peter arrived at 9:16 to find Neal sitting in his chair, feet swinging, chewing on a pen.

“Hi, P’tah.”

Peter stared. “How.”

“I didn’t like the box.”

Diana entered behind him. “I’m both impressed and terrified.”

Peter turned to Neal. “What were you even planning to do?”

Neal shrugged. “Take your seat. Make some arrests. Fire up the printer.”

Peter rubbed his eyes. “You’re three.”

Neal pointed to a wall of carefully colored charts.

“I have vision.”

—

Later That Night

Dinner was a disaster.

Neal refused vegetables. Elizabeth refused to let him eat only pudding. Peter was stuck in the middle negotiating like a hostage negotiator.

“I will give you three spoonfuls of peas in exchange for one extra episode of Bluey.”

Neal narrowed his eyes. “Two peas. And I get to wear your FBI badge for an hour.”

Peter huffed. “Deal.”

Neal scarfed the peas and immediately grabbed the badge. “I’m in charge now.”

Peter slumped back in his chair. “God help us.”

—

Bedtime

Bath time ended with the bathroom soaked and Peter wearing shampoo.

Neal insisted on three bedtime stories.

He fell asleep mid-way through the second, curled against Peter with his stuffed fox under one arm and Peter’s tie wrapped around his other.

Elizabeth stood in the doorway watching, arms crossed, smile soft.

Peter looked up. “You ever think this would be our life?”

She shook her head. “Not for a second.”

Peter gently brushed a curl from Neal’s forehead. “And yet… here we are.”

Chapter Text

Peter Burke loved his watch.

It was a sturdy, old Omega Seamaster—reliable, no-nonsense, and a retirement gift from his mentor. It had survived stakeouts, foot chases, and one infamous espresso machine explosion.

It did not survive Neal Caffrey’s idea of bartering.

—

Saturday Morning – The Playground Incident

It started innocently enough.

A rare warm day in the middle of spring. Elizabeth suggested the park. Peter thought it sounded manageable. Neal, sporting his red sneakers and miniature fedora, sprinted toward the sandbox like a man on a mission.

Mozzie tagged along—uninvited, as usual—with a blanket, a suspiciously heavy backpack, and a pair of binoculars “for surveillance.”

Fifteen peaceful minutes passed.

And then Peter realized his wrist felt light.

He looked down.

The watch was gone.

“Neal,” he said, already dreading the answer, “where’s my watch?”

Neal didn’t even look up from his toy dump truck. “I did a trade.”

Peter’s eye twitched. “A what?”

Neal beamed. “That kid over there? He had a shiny red car. I gave him your watch. It was a fair deal, P’tah.”

Peter stood frozen. “You traded a $3,000 watch... for a plastic toy car.”

Neal nodded. “It has doors that open.”

Peter turned to Mozzie, who was munching on kale chips.

Mozzie shrugged. “Supply and demand, Suit.”

“I demand my watch back.”

“Then you better supply a better car.”

—

Two Awkward Apologies and a Crying Toddler Later

Peter did get the watch back.

He had to negotiate with a very confused six-year-old’s mom, who returned it only after Neal burst into tears and announced, “He’s mad because I forgot the value of heirlooms!”

Elizabeth had to walk away to laugh.

Back at the car, Neal was unusually quiet.

Peter strapped him into the car seat with a sigh. “Buddy, you can’t just trade things without asking. Especially not something important to someone else.”

Neal looked up with watery eyes. “But it was so shiny. And I thought... you wouldn’t mind if it made me happy.”

Peter’s heart cracked in two places at once.

“I do care about what makes you happy,” he said gently. “But part of growing up—again—is learning what’s okay to give away, and what you need to keep safe. My watch is something I’ve had a long time. It means something to me.”

Neal sniffled. “Like how I keep Foxie under my pillow?”

“Exactly.”

Neal paused. “Can I trade Mozzie next time?”

Peter sighed. “I’ll consider it.”

—

Saturday Evening – The Bubble Bath Calamity

Peter had just taken a moment to sit on the couch with a beer, flipping through a file while Elizabeth wrapped up a call with a client.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

Peter blinked.

“El?” he called. “Where’s Neal?”

Elizabeth appeared from the hallway, eyes narrowing. “He said he was brushing his teeth.”

They both froze.

Then came the sound.

A splash.

Then another. And a squeal.

Peter bolted for the bathroom.

And opened the door to chaos.

Neal sat in the middle of the tub—still fully clothed—surrounded by a sea of foam. Bubble bath coated the floor, rubber ducks floated in a slow parade across the tiles, and waves of fragrant lavender suds spilled out into the hallway.

Neal raised both arms in victory. “I MADE A BATH OCEAN!”

Peter blinked. “What... is happening.”

Neal grinned. “Foxie and I are sailors! We’re crossing the Ducklantis Sea!”

Foxie, mercifully dry, was perched on the sink, wearing a tissue hat.

Elizabeth arrived, took one look, and burst out laughing.

Peter stepped in and immediately slipped.

Neal gasped. “Man overboard!”

Peter caught himself on the sink. “You dumped the entire bottle in?!”

Neal shrugged. “You said I needed to learn about volume.”

“You just flooded the bathroom!”

“I measured generously!”

Elizabeth handed Peter a towel. “This is your punishment for not childproofing the bubble bath.”

Neal scooped up three ducks and stacked them on his knees. “Don’t be mad, P’tah. It’s art. It’s performance water installation.”

Peter groaned. “I’m going to need another beer.”

Neal reached over, splashing a bit of water onto Peter’s shoe. “I call it ‘Waves of Regret’.”

—

Later That Night – Cleanup and Comfort

Peter was soaked, tired, and halfway through mopping the floor when he heard soft footsteps behind him.

Neal stood in the doorway in clean pajamas, barefoot, toweling his curls dry.

“I’m sorry I traded your watch,” he said.

Peter looked up.

“And I’m sorry about the bath. And the ducks. And your socks.”

Peter set down the mop and walked over, kneeling in front of him. “You know what I’m not mad about?”

Neal blinked. “What?”

“That you’re here. And that every day—even the messy ones—I get to watch you grow up all over again.”

Neal’s mouth trembled, then he threw his arms around Peter’s neck. “I love you, P’tah.”

Peter hugged him tightly. “Love you too, partner.”

Chapter Text

Peter Burke didn’t panic.

He coordinated agents in hostage situations. He diffused bombs—emotional and literal. He stared down suspects twice his size.

But waking up to a toddler-sized cough echoing through the baby monitor at 3:17 a.m.?

That?
That made his heart lurch straight out of his chest.

—

Early Morning – Burke House

Peter padded down the hallway, rubbing his eyes. The light from Neal’s room spilled faintly into the dark.

Inside, Neal was sitting up in bed, cheeks flushed, hair matted with sweat. He clutched his stuffed fox in one arm, the other hand rubbing his eye.

“P’tah,” he croaked.

Peter was at his side in two seconds flat. “Hey. Hey, I’m here.”

Neal blinked up at him. “I don’t feel sparkly.”

Peter pressed a hand to Neal’s forehead. The heat practically radiated off him.

“El!” he called, just loud enough.

Elizabeth appeared a moment later, already shrugging on a robe. One look at Neal and she was pulling the thermometer from the medicine drawer.

A minute later: 102.8°F.

“Okay,” she murmured. “Pajamas off, cool washcloth, dose of Tylenol.”

Peter nodded, already carrying Neal into the bathroom, whispering gentle reassurances as he wiped his face.

Neal, half-delirious, just murmured, “I gots to go to work.”

Peter blinked. “What?”

Neal groaned and squirmed in his arms. “Case files. I have to do briefs. Gotta chase art thieves.”

Elizabeth met them in the hallway. “He thinks he’s back at the FBI.”

Peter stared down at him. “You can’t even stand up right now.”

“I can too,” Neal mumbled, pushing weakly at Peter’s chest. “I’m very important.”

Peter exhaled. “That part checks out.”

—

An Hour Later

The medicine had brought the fever down a little, but Neal was still flushed, restless, and clingy.

Peter was on the couch with the kid curled in his lap, wrapped in a blanket, while Elizabeth made tea and arranged a cold compress.

Neal’s tiny hand was clutching the lapel of Peter’s T-shirt like a lifeline.

“You need to rest,” Peter whispered.

Neal mumbled into his chest, “I have responsibilities.”

Peter brushed back a sweat-damp curl. “You’re three. Your only responsibility right now is to let me take care of you.”

Neal’s lips wobbled.

“I was a big person once.”

Peter nodded slowly. “Yeah. You were.”

Neal sniffled. “Then I got small. And now I feel wrong.”

Peter’s chest ached.

“You’re still you, buddy. Just in a smaller package.”

“I don’t wanna be sick.”

“I know.”

Neal paused, then whispered, “Do you still love me?”

Peter froze.

Then crushed him closer.

“Of course I do. I loved you when you were tall and arrogant and wore suits worth more than my mortgage. I love you now when you’re small and whiny and wearing footie pajamas with raccoons on them.”

Neal sniffled, then whispered against his chest, “The raccoons are cool.”

Peter kissed the top of his head. “They are.”

—

Later That Morning – The Escape Attempt

Elizabeth had just stepped out to pick up more medicine when Peter, bone-weary, ran to the bathroom for thirty seconds.

Thirty. Seconds.

He came back to find the door to Neal’s room wide open and the window curtain fluttering.

“Neal?!”

A groan echoed from the hallway.

Peter sprinted out and found him halfway down the hall, slumped against the wall, trembling in his too-big slippers.

“Neal!”

Neal blinked up at him, fever-glazed. “Gotta... interrogate suspects. Jones said... fingerprints. My tie’s missing.”

Peter knelt and caught him just as he started to slide sideways.

“I told you to stay in bed,” Peter murmured, gathering him up.

Neal’s head flopped against his chest. “I’m fine...”

“You’re not.”

“I’m fine,” Neal repeated, weaker now.

“No,” Peter said softly, holding him tighter. “You’re not, partner. But I’ve got you.”

—

Afternoon – Sick Day Quiet

By the time Elizabeth got back, Neal was asleep on Peter’s chest again, a damp cloth resting on his forehead. Peter had dozed off too, head tilted back, arms securely around the boy.

Elizabeth smiled, set down the medicine, and pulled a blanket over both of them.

Foxie the stuffed fox had somehow ended up on Peter’s stomach.

—

Evening – A Little Better

Neal was still tired, but the fever had eased enough for crackers and applesauce.

He lay on the couch, tucked in with pillows, while Peter read out loud from a book about ocean animals.

“Do I look like a manatee?” Neal asked blearily.

Peter blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You made the voice sound like me.”

Elizabeth burst out laughing from the kitchen.

Peter held up the book. “I was trying to do a serious tone!”

“You did a Neal voice. You made the manatee smug.”

Peter sighed. “Next time, you read.”

Neal smiled, eyes already fluttering closed again.

—

Before Bed

Peter carried Neal to his room after his bath—cool this time, no bubbles—and tucked him in.

Neal, half-asleep, whispered, “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Peter paused, brushing hair from his forehead. “I know, kiddo.”

Neal reached out, fingers curling around Peter’s hand. “Thanks for catching me.”

Peter squeezed gently. “Always.”

—

Chapter Text

Peter Burke liked plans.
He liked rules. Structure. Things going exactly the way they were supposed to.

Unfortunately, Neal Caffrey was in his house.

And Neal Caffrey had just swallowed Elizabeth’s engagement ring.

While pretending to be a magician.

In the living room.

Wearing a bath towel for a cape.

—

The Setup: One Slightly Suspicious Afternoon

Peter had known something was off the moment Neal announced he needed “props” for a magic show and started rummaging in Elizabeth’s jewelry box.

“You can use the fake rings, buddy,” Peter had warned, sipping his coffee on the couch.

Neal, dressed in a button-down shirt, underpants, and a cape that had once been a kitchen towel, frowned deeply. “They don’t sparkle enough.”

“Use glitter.”

Neal ignored him.

Elizabeth had left the room only five minutes earlier to take a call.

When she came back, the ring was gone.

And Neal was standing in the middle of the rug, arms raised dramatically, yelling, “TA-DA! IT’S INVISIBLE!”

Peter stood slowly. “Neal. Where’s the ring?”

“I made it vanish!” Neal said proudly. “It’s part of the illusion!”

Elizabeth squinted. “Where did you hide it?”

Neal tapped his stomach.

Elizabeth froze. “Wait. Neal. Did you… did you swallow it?!”

Neal blinked. “It was part of the act.”

Peter dropped his coffee.

—

Cue Chaos

Fifteen minutes later, Neal was in the back seat of the car, clutching his stuffed fox, while Peter sped through traffic and Elizabeth sat stiffly in the passenger seat, pale and tight-lipped.

“Why would you put it in your mouth?” Peter asked for the fourth time.

“I was gonna do the ‘swallow and pull from behind your ear’ trick! It’s classic!”

“You are three!”

“I’m committed to my craft!”

Elizabeth finally turned in her seat. “Neal. That was my engagement ring.”

Neal’s lower lip trembled. “I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to ruin your love.”

Peter hit the gas harder.

—

Hospital – Triage of Shame

Pediatric ER nurse: “What brings you in today?”

Peter: “He swallowed a ring.”

Nurse: “How big was the ring?”

Elizabeth, deadpan: “One carat. Platinum. Family heirloom.”

Neal, lifting his hand: “I’m gonna poop it out and save the day!”

Peter buried his face in his hands.

—

X-Rays and Awkward Explanations

The X-ray was immediate—and undeniable.

The ring sat, gleaming mockingly, somewhere in Neal’s lower digestive tract.

The doctor tried to keep a straight face.

“No sharp edges. No blockages. It should... pass naturally. You’ll need to monitor it for the next few days.”

Elizabeth groaned. “You mean we have to... sift?”

The doctor smiled sympathetically. “Unfortunately, yes. Keep an eye on his stools and look for the ring.”

Neal chirped helpfully, “I’ll check for sparkles every time!”

Peter muttered, “This is my life now.”

—

Back Home – The Poop Protocol

Neal was surprisingly excited about Operation Ring Recovery.

He made a sticker chart.

He demanded gloves “like a real investigator.”

He insisted on inspecting every flush with a magnifying glass, which Peter suspected had been swiped from Diana’s desk weeks ago.

Elizabeth refused to speak to either of them for several hours.

Peter tried bribing her with wine. It didn’t work.

—

Day Three – The Return of the Ring

It happened at 6:04 a.m.

Peter was brushing his teeth when he heard Neal’s victory cry from the bathroom.

“I FOUND IT!”

He stumbled in, half-panicked, half-hopeful.

There Neal stood, triumphant, holding a plastic cup with something small and sparkly at the bottom. Wearing rubber gloves, his pajama top, and absolutely nothing else.

“I’m a treasure hunter!” he shouted.

Peter gagged.

“Neal—please—put it down.”

Elizabeth arrived just in time to snatch the cup, seal it in a sandwich bag, and drop it into a Tupperware container labeled “DO NOT OPEN.”

Peter turned to Neal.

“We are never doing magic again.”

Neal blinked. “What about coin tricks?”

“Nope.”

“Card tricks?”

“Banned.”

“Sawing Mozzie in half?”

“Don’t even think about it.”

—

That Evening – A Return to Calm

Elizabeth sat at the kitchen table, the newly cleaned and sanitized ring sitting in a jewelry dish beside her, waiting for a professional to check it.

Peter handed her a mug of tea and sat beside her.

“Sorry,” he said.

“You didn’t swallow it.”

“Still.”

She looked at him.

Then laughed. Quiet, and a little wild.

“We have a literal FBI consultant pooping out diamonds in our house.”

Peter shook his head. “I’ve interrogated murderers with less chaos than this week.”

From the hallway, Neal’s voice floated through:

“Come one, come all! The Amazing Neal now makes snacks disappear!”

Peter sighed. “If he eats your earrings, I’m filing a report.”

Elizabeth just laughed again. “You love him.”

Peter didn’t even argue.

—

Chapter Text

There were few things more dangerous in the Burke household than a sleeping Neal Caffrey.

Not because he was volatile.

But because waking him up mid-nap had, on multiple occasions, resulted in:

• a crayon being flung into Peter’s coffee,

• a tantrum involving juice box negotiations,

• and once, somehow, glitter on the ceiling.

So when Peter found him curled up on the living room rug that afternoon, sound asleep with one chubby hand wrapped in Satchmo’s collar, he knew instinctively: he must not be disturbed.

—

Earlier That Day – Sugar, Sparkles, and Stuffed Foxes

Neal had been a whirlwind all morning.

A “spy mission” with binoculars from the kitchen counter to the couch.
A brief but intense dance routine to the Mission: Impossible theme on Peter’s phone.
A high-stakes card game with Elizabeth where the stakes were animal crackers and he lost every hand but still claimed victory.

By noon, Peter was practically counting the seconds until nap time.

But Neal had other plans.

“I’m not sweepy,” he’d declared, hands on hips.

Ten minutes later, he was facedown on the carpet, passed out in the middle of the rug with his stuffed fox beneath his cheek.

Satchmo, ever the loyal bodyguard, had trotted in, sniffed Neal once, and promptly settled down in a protective curl around him, his big golden body curved like a warm shield.

Neal snuffled in his sleep and scooted closer into the fur.

Peter stood at the doorway, utterly still, as if movement might set off an invisible alarm.

—

The Sacred Nap Zone Rules (Unspoken, But Very Real)

1. Do Not Make Noise.
   No stomping. No dropping things. No sudden calls to Diana about case files. Peter had once sneezed near a napping Neal and paid for it with thirty minutes of dramatic wailing and demands for back rubs.

2. Do Not Move the Fox.
   Neal’s fox was the key to equilibrium. Remove it, and the toddler reverted to chaos. Peter still had a scar on his thumb from trying to wash it without permission.

3. Respect the Dog Perimeter.
   If Satchmo was in guard mode, nothing crossed that threshold—not even juice.

Peter knew all this.

Which is why, when he needed to get his case file from the bookshelf on the other side of the room, he stared down the route like he was approaching a laser trap in a museum vault.

He took a deep breath.

And tiptoed.

—

Peter’s Slowest Mission Ever

Step.
Pause.
Check the dog.

Step.
Freeze.
Check the napper.

Neal sighed softly and rolled to his side, one foot peeking out from beneath Satchmo’s tail.

Peter held his breath.
Then took another step.

The folder was within reach. One more shuffle.

He leaned in—

Satchmo opened one eye.

Peter froze, hand hovering.

Satchmo stared.

Peter slowly mouthed, just the file.

Satchmo blinked once. Then shut his eye again.

Peter grabbed the file and tiptoed back like he was carrying nuclear launch codes.

—

Later – The Awakening

Neal stirred at exactly 2:16 p.m., stretching with a soft groan, rubbing his eyes.

Satchmo lifted his head and licked his cheek once before ambling to the kitchen.

Peter, still in the corner chair, looked up from his file.

“Hey, sleepyhead.”

Neal blinked. “Did I nap?”

“You did. On the rug.”

Neal blinked again. “I don’t nap on rugs.”

“You did today.”

Neal yawned. “...Was it majestic?”

Peter smiled. “Very.”

“Was Satchmo there?”

Peter nodded. “You used him like a pillow.”

Neal nodded solemnly. “He’s very dependable.”

Peter closed his file. “You want a snack?”

Neal stretched dramatically. “I’ll allow it. But only if it’s cheese cubes and I get to arrange them into a skyline.”

“Deal.”

—

Evening – Family Time

That night, Peter, Elizabeth, and Neal curled up on the couch with Satchmo at their feet. A movie played quietly in the background, but Neal was more interested in organizing his cheese cubes and narrating their “architectural significance.”

Elizabeth leaned into Peter’s side. “He’s growing up again.”

Peter looked down at Neal, now humming to himself while trying to turn two crackers into a helipad.

“Yeah,” Peter said softly. “All over again.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Do you think we’ll ever get our Neal back?”

Peter kissed her temple. “He’s still right here.”

—

Chapter Text

Peter Burke had survived undercover ops, double agents, and testifying in front of Congress.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—could have prepared him for a full day of toddler mood swings.

By 4 p.m., he was considering calling in backup.

—

Morning – The Giggling Phase

It started innocently enough.

Neal had woken up in an unusually good mood—bouncing on his bed, fox in one hand, shouting “GOOD MORNING WORLD!” with Broadway-level projection.

Peter, still groggy, peeked into the room and was greeted by a sock flung directly at his face.

Neal howled with laughter. “YOU’VE BEEN ATTACKED BY THE SOCK MONSTER!”

Peter caught the second sock midair. “The Sock Monster’s going in time-out.”

Neal giggled harder, curled up in a ball of footie pajamas, squeaking, “P’tah, you’re the funniest dad ever!”

Peter blinked.

“Wait—what did you call me?”

But Neal was too busy belly-laughing to notice.

Downstairs, breakfast devolved into a giggle-fest as Neal tried to balance a strawberry on his nose while Elizabeth attempted to cut waffles.

He laughed until he choked on syrup, and even then, he was still smiling.

Elizabeth chuckled as she passed Peter the napkins. “We’re off to a strong start.”

Peter, ever the realist, muttered, “Too strong.”

—

Late Morning – The Sudden Sobbing Phase

It started with a crayon.

Specifically, a broken crayon.

Neal had been coloring happily at the dining table—intently scribbling a self-portrait titled “Neal as a Grown-Up Again (With a Cool Hat)”—when his navy blue crayon snapped in half.

There was a pause.

Then his eyes welled up.

Peter looked over from the couch just in time to see Neal throw his arms over the table, burst into tears, and wail, “IT’S RUINED! EVERYTHING IS RUINED!”

Elizabeth rushed over. “It’s just a crayon, sweetheart—”

“It was my favorite! Now I’ll never finish! My art is lost forever!”

Peter raised a brow. “That’s dramatic, even for you.”

Neal slid off his chair and buried himself in the blanket pile, sobbing so hard he hiccupped.

Elizabeth tried comforting him with a new crayon. Neal rejected it like it was forged.

Peter knelt beside him. “Hey. What’s really going on?”

Neal sniffled. “I’m just... tired of being little.”

And suddenly it wasn’t about the crayon anymore.

Peter gently pulled him into a hug, and Neal curled in close, damp-faced and trembling.

“I wanna go back,” Neal whispered. “I miss being tall.”

Peter swallowed hard. “We know, buddy. We miss it too.”

—

Afternoon – The Dancing Phase

Fifteen minutes after the sobbing subsided, Peter stepped out to grab his phone charger.

When he returned, Neal was dancing.

Wildly.

To Benny Goodman.

Blasting from the kitchen speaker.

He had strapped a dish towel around his waist like a skirt and was spinning in circles with a wooden spoon microphone, belting out nonsense lyrics about “detective jazz” and “cufflinks of justice.”

Peter froze. “Did I miss... something?”

Elizabeth grinned, arms crossed as she leaned on the counter. “He said he needed to shake off the sadness.”

Neal struck a dramatic pose. “No one can stop... THE RINGMASTER OF STYLE!”

Peter muttered, “We’re never letting him near Mozzie’s playlist again.”

Neal leapt off a chair, did a spin, tripped over a stuffed animal, and immediately declared the performance a “creative success.”

Then collapsed in a heap of giggles.

—

Evening – The Sulking Phase

By 5:30, dinner was on the table.

Spaghetti, garlic bread, salad.

Neal took one look, crossed his arms, and pouted so hard his entire face folded into itself.

Peter sighed. “What now?”

“I wanted macaroni.”

“You asked for spaghetti this morning.”

“That was a different Neal.”

Elizabeth blinked. “Are there... multiple Neals?”

He nodded solemnly. “Today there are four. And none of them like salad.”

Peter set down his fork. “Okay, Mr. Four Personalities, you’re going to eat two bites and thank Elizabeth.”

Neal stared at the plate.

Then at Peter.

Then at the wall.

Then mumbled, “I’m not hungry.”

And pushed the plate away.

Five minutes later, he was curled up in his armchair, sulking, while Satchmo lay beside him.

Peter leaned against the counter. “Do we let him sit in it?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “He’s not melting down. He’s just... processing.”

Peter sighed. “We should start a support group for emotionally exhausted parents of former art thieves.”

Elizabeth smiled softly. “He’s grieving. In miniature.”

Peter’s chest ached. “I know.”

—

Bedtime – Tired Hearts, Full Arms

Neal didn’t protest bath time.

Didn’t ask for two stories.

Didn’t try to sneak a juice box under his blanket.

He just sat quietly in bed, fox in hand, blanket up to his chin, eyes distant.

Peter came in and sat on the edge.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Long day.”

Neal nodded. “I was a lot today.”

Peter smiled. “You were. But we’re still here.”

Neal hesitated. “Are you tired of me yet?”

Peter’s breath caught. “Never.”

Elizabeth appeared in the doorway, walked over, and kissed Neal’s forehead. “We love all the versions of you, okay?”

Even the four-personality spaghetti-refusing drama king, Peter thought—but didn’t say.

Neal sniffled, eyes glassy again. “I love you too.”

Peter and Elizabeth tucked him in together, staying longer than usual, arms linked, watching as his eyes finally closed.

The day had been exhausting. Chaotic. Too much.

But they wouldn’t trade it for anything.

—

Chapter Text

Peter Burke had one job that morning.

Keep Neal contained.

Just one hour.
One calm, chaos-free hour at the FBI.
No glitter, no glue, no impromptu performances of The Fox (What Does the Fox Say?) in the evidence locker.

He should’ve known better.

Because within ten minutes, Neal had already vanished.

And somewhere in the building, an elevator was dinging like a slot machine in Vegas.

—

Earlier That Morning – The Setup

“Peter why is there a child in your office again?” Diana asked, arms crossed, raising a brow.

Peter didn’t even look up from his paperwork. “Because I lost a bet with Elizabeth. Also, daycare’s closed today.”

Neal, dressed in a tiny blue button-up shirt, Peter’s FBI badge lanyard trailing around his neck like a victory sash, was seated at the corner of the desk, scribbling furiously on an old case folder with a red crayon.

“I’m redesigning your surveillance van,” he announced. “More windows. Disco lights. Better snacks.”

Diana blinked. “Does it need snack compartments?”

“Always,” Neal said gravely.

Peter muttered, “No disco lights.”

Neal swung his legs. “We compromise.”

Peter set his pen down. “I need to drop this file with Hughes. Watch him for thirty seconds.”

Diana gave him a look. “I’m not a babysitter.”

Neal gave her his best puppy eyes. “Pweeeeeease?”

Diana sighed. “Fine. Thirty seconds.”

Peter left.

And Neal struck.

—

The Escape

Peter returned two minutes later to find Diana standing in the middle of the bullpen, fuming.

“Where is he?” he asked.

She pointed to the empty chair.

“He was right there. I turned around for two seconds.”

Peter blinked. “Did he say where he was going?”

Diana’s jaw twitched. “All he said was: ‘Ding goes the bell.’”

Peter swore. “The elevator—”

Diana was already running.

—

The Elevator Incident

On the third floor, the elevator doors opened with a cheerful ding to reveal a very pleased Neal, standing in the center like he was the conductor of a chaotic orchestra.

“I made it go ding!” he announced proudly.

Peter and Diana skidded to a halt in front of him.

Peter’s tie was crooked. Diana’s shoes squeaked. A nearby intern looked like he might faint.

Neal beamed. “Every floor has a button. I pressed all of them.”

Peter lunged. “Neal—!”

Diana groaned. “Oh no.”

The elevator dinged again.

Then again.

And again.

From above, and below, and across the building, soft chimes echoed as elevators responded to Neal’s enthusiastic button-mashing.

Somewhere, a receptionist swore.

Neal twirled dramatically. “Behold! Elevator Symphony Number One in D-Minor!”

Peter picked him up, face buried in his hands. “You hijacked federal transportation, you tiny menace.”

Neal tilted his head innocently. “Is that bad?”

Peter glared. “We are never letting you near a button again.”

Neal gasped. “Not even the crosswalk ones?”

Diana crossed her arms. “Especially not the crosswalk ones.”

—

Aftermath – The Interrogation Room

Jones gave them five minutes in the interrogation room “for dramatic effect.”

Peter set Neal in the tiny chair.

Diana stood behind the two-way mirror with her arms crossed like she was channeling every detective drama ever aired on cable.

Neal leaned forward on the table. “Do I get juice?”

Peter sat across from him, sighing. “Not until you answer one question.”

Neal blinked. “Am I under arrest?”

“Possibly.”

Neal leaned back, feigning cool. “You’ll never take me alive.”

Peter rubbed his face. “Why’d you do it, Neal?”

Neal grinned. “Because it goes ding.”

Diana’s muffled laughter from the hallway made Peter close his eyes.

—

Later – The Return Home

Elizabeth met them at the front door, holding a sippy cup and a freshly folded towel.

“How was he?”

Peter handed Neal off like a sack of flour. “He initiated a vertical hostage situation. With an elevator.”

Neal gave Elizabeth a sheepish smile. “I made friends with the delivery guy on the third floor.”

Elizabeth kissed his forehead. “I bet you did.”

Peter groaned. “He also impersonated me to security. And flashed my badge.”

Elizabeth raised a brow. “How many cookies did he get?”

“Three.”

Neal gave a small fist pump.

Elizabeth bit her lip, trying not to laugh. “I’ll handle snack duty tonight.”

Peter collapsed onto the couch. “You handle snacks. I’m researching straightjackets.”

—

Evening – Winding Down

Neal had changed into pajamas and was stacking pillows into what he called “a button-free fortress.”

Satchmo lay beside it, watching with mild concern.

Elizabeth curled up beside Peter, who nursed a glass of wine with the thousand-yard stare of a man who’d fought the law... and the law was three feet tall and giggling.

“He’s happy,” she said quietly.

Peter smiled, tired but genuine. “Yeah. He is.”

Elizabeth rested her head on his shoulder. “And so are we.”

From the pillow fortress, Neal called out: “P’tah?”

“Yeah?”

“I forgive you for not letting me press more buttons.”

Peter sighed. “Generous of you.”

Neal yawned. “Tomorrow I’m gonna fly a drone.”

Peter groaned. “No.”

Neal whispered, already falling asleep, “Diiiiiiing...”

—

Chapter Text

Elizabeth loved her vases.

Peter could count the number of times he’d nearly knocked one over on one hand. Neal, at full-grown height, had never dared go near them—probably because Elizabeth could unnerve even the smoothest con with a single arched brow.

But toddler Neal?

He was a Category Five in socks.

And one of her favorites never stood a chance.

—

The Incident – 10:42 a.m.

It was a quiet morning, which should’ve been Peter’s first clue.

Too quiet.

He walked into the living room to find Neal mid-spin in a dramatic re-enactment of what he called “The Great Dance of the World’s Best Detective Slash Wizard”—complete with paper cape, glitter wand, and slippery feet.

Peter opened his mouth just as Neal twirled.

One sock slid.
A hand flailed.
A vase wobbled.
Then—
CRASH.

The world stopped.

The glitter wand clattered to the floor.

Neal froze.

Peter winced.

The shattered glass sparkled across the hardwood like fallen stars.

From the kitchen, Elizabeth called out: “What was that?”

Neal’s eyes widened. “P’tah,” he whispered urgently, “hide me.”

Peter sighed. “Kid…”

—

The Aftermath – 11:00 a.m.

Elizabeth stood in the doorway, staring down at the mess.

It had been her favorite—a slim blue vase, hand-blown, from her college art fair days. One of the few things she never moved, dusted religiously, and never let anyone else handle.

Neal clutched Peter’s pant leg, eyes wide and anxious.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said in a tiny voice. “I was being magical.”

Elizabeth didn’t raise her voice. She just knelt and started sweeping up the shards in silence.

That hurt Neal more than if she’d yelled.

He sniffled, lip trembling. “I’m sorry, El…”

Elizabeth looked up—tired, but soft. “I know, sweetheart.”

Peter placed a hand on Neal’s shoulder. “Come with me. We’re going to talk about what a real apology looks like.”

—

The Lesson – 11:30 a.m.

Peter set Neal in front of the hallway mirror and crouched beside him.

“Okay, look at me,” he said. “This is important.”

Neal nodded solemnly.

“An apology isn’t just saying ‘sorry’ because someone’s upset. It’s about understanding what you did, how it made them feel, and showing you care enough to make it right.”

Neal furrowed his brow. “So I say, ‘Sorry I broke your vase’?”

Peter shook his head. “Try this: ‘I’m sorry I was rough and broke something you cared about. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.’”

Neal whispered it back, fumbling slightly. “I’m sorry I was rough and broke... your favorite. I didn’t want you to be sad.”

Peter smiled. “Good. Now try looking in the mirror and saying it like you mean it.”

Neal turned toward the mirror, stood straighter, and practiced. Once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth, he added a soft, wobbly smile.

“I’m sorry I was a tornado.”

Peter blinked. “That’s... honestly perfect.”

Neal turned to him. “Tornados don’t mean to smash things. They just go fast and knock stuff over.”

Peter gently ruffled his curls. “Then go tell her. Be the brave tornado.”

—

The Hug – 12:02 p.m.

Elizabeth sat on the couch, sipping tea and reading emails.

Neal padded in slowly, fox in one hand, determination in the other.

He climbed onto the couch beside her and tapped her arm.

She looked over. “Hi, sweetie.”

Neal took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry I was a tornado.”

Elizabeth blinked.

Neal continued, “I didn’t mean to break your pretty vase. I was spinning and forgot how fast I go. I don’t want to make you sad.”

Elizabeth’s eyes softened.

Then, wordlessly, she set down her tea, pulled him into her lap, and hugged him tight.

Neal melted into her.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “You’re more important than any vase.”

Neal blinked up at her. “Even your favorite vase?”

“Even that one.”

Peter stood in the hallway, watching them quietly.

—

Later That Afternoon – The Make-It-Right Plan

Neal insisted on helping Peter sweep the last of the glass.

Then he found Elizabeth’s craft bin and, after a suspicious period of silence, returned with a construction paper “Sorry Card,” decorated with blue hearts, a tornado with a smiley face, and stick-figure El hugging a fox.

He handed it to her with a serious nod. “You can put this where the vase was.”

Elizabeth hung it up on the mantle.

Neal beamed. “Now your shelf has art and feelings.”

Peter muttered, “You’re not wrong.”

—

Evening – Tornado at Rest

That night, Neal fell asleep curled in the center of the couch, surrounded by couch pillows and Satchmo’s tail, fox tucked under one arm.

Peter and Elizabeth watched him, hearts full, nerves fried.

Elizabeth whispered, “You think this version of him will remember this?”

Peter shrugged. “Maybe. But we will.”

Elizabeth leaned into his shoulder.

From the couch, Neal mumbled in his sleep, “I’m still a little tornado... but I’m your tornado…”

Peter smiled. “Yeah, you are.”

—

Chapter Text

Some days felt like slow, golden honey—lazy Saturdays filled with sunshine, sidewalk chalk, and juice boxes.

This started as one of those days.

Until the bee.

And then it was all stingers and tears.

—

The Setup – Backyard Bliss

It was the kind of afternoon Elizabeth loved most. Warm breeze. Lemonade on the patio. Neal in a floppy sunhat, toddling around the backyard with Satchmo close behind and a plastic magnifying glass clutched in one hand.

“I’m investigating nature,” Neal declared earlier, pointing to a dandelion. “It’s suspicious.”

Peter, in a lawn chair with his phone and a case file, had chuckled. “Everything’s suspicious to you.”

Neal beamed. “That’s why I’m good.”

Peter had no argument.

He looked up from his phone just in time to see Neal crouch low beside the flowerbed, poking at something with a stick.

Satchmo let out a single warning bark.

And then it happened.

—

The Sting – 2:14 p.m.

There was a tiny buzz, a sharp cry, and then:

“OW!”

Elizabeth was on her feet in an instant. Peter dropped the file.

Neal had stumbled back from the flowerbed, tears already spilling down his cheeks, holding his hand out like it had betrayed him.

“I—I didn’t mean to!” he sobbed. “I didn’t do anything! It stabbed me!”

Elizabeth reached him first, scooping him into her arms.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”

Peter was already dialing the pediatrician with one hand while scanning Neal’s swollen finger.

“It was just a bee,” Elizabeth said softly, rocking him gently. “You startled it.”

Neal wailed into her shoulder. “I didn’t want to steal its pollen! I just wanted to see its wings!”

Peter turned to Satchmo, who was now barking furiously at the offending flowerbed, tail stiff.

“Easy, boy. The bee’s gone.”

Satchmo growled once more for good measure.

—

The Panic – 2:20 p.m.

Peter’s voice was clipped as he spoke into the phone. “He was stung. No breathing issues. Swelling localized to one finger. No known allergies.”

Elizabeth rubbed Neal’s back in slow, steady circles. “You’re okay, baby. We’re right here.”

Neal was hiccuping now, small and hot in her arms, face blotchy.

“Is my finger gonna fall off?” he sniffled.

“No, sweetheart,” she said gently, wiping his tears. “But you’re gonna get some ice and lots of snuggles.”

“...and a sticker?” he asked hopefully.

Elizabeth smiled. “Definitely a sticker.”

Peter hung up. “Pediatrician says we’re in the clear. Cool compress. Tylenol if needed. Watch for signs of swelling around the face.”

Neal pressed his wet face against Elizabeth’s collarbone. “That bee was mean.”

Peter crouched in front of them. “He was scared, just like you were. Bees sting when they feel threatened.”

Neal blinked at him. “You think I was scary?”

Peter smiled. “You’re intimidating when you’re on a mission.”

Elizabeth added, “Especially with that magnifying glass.”

Neal let out a tiny, broken giggle.

—

Later – Couch Recovery Mode

Neal lay wrapped in a fuzzy blanket like a burrito, finger bandaged and elevated on a tiny pillow. Satchmo lay curled at his feet, still glancing at the back door like he expected the bee to return for revenge.

Elizabeth handed Neal a juice box and gently patted his hair. “Feeling better?”

“A little,” Neal mumbled.

Peter returned with a cold compress and a cool sticker sheet featuring smiling bees and tiny jars of honey.

Neal eyed it suspiciously. “That feels like a trap.”

Peter laughed. “It’s diplomatic. Peace offering.”

Neal selected one bee sticker and solemnly stuck it to Peter’s shirt. “This one is in jail.”

Peter nodded gravely. “Justice has been served.”

—

Evening – Post-Sting Philosophy

That night, Neal sat curled on Peter’s lap, staring up at the ceiling.

“Do you think the bee was mad at me?”

Peter shook his head. “I think it was startled. But I also think you were brave.”

Neal turned the injured hand over, frowning. “Did I cry too much?”

Elizabeth sat beside them, placing a kiss on his temple. “You cried just enough.”

Neal looked up. “You ever cry when you were big?”

Peter cleared his throat. “Once or twice.”

“Did El hug you, too?”

Peter smiled. “Every time.”

Neal yawned. “I think hugs are better than band-aids.”

Elizabeth pulled the blanket up around him. “I think you’re right.”

—

Chapter Text

Peter Burke had faced his fair share of heart-stopping moments.
Car chases.
Gunfire.
One particularly tense incident involving a stolen Monet and a ladder with one too few rungs.

But nothing—not even hearing the words “we’ve lost visual on the suspect”—compared to the fear that gripped his chest when he realized:
Neal was gone.

—

Earlier That Afternoon – “Hide and Seek” Gone Too Far

It had started innocently enough. Neal, newly energized from a nap and three animal crackers too many, had demanded an activity that “stimulated his genius.” Peter suggested chess.

Neal suggested hide and seek.

Elizabeth raised a brow. “Inside only. And don’t hide in anything dangerous.”

Neal threw up a hand. “P’tah gets to count. Satchmo gets to sniff. I’m gonna vanish like Houdini!”

Peter leaned against the wall, rolled his eyes, and started counting aloud.

“...twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. Ready or not, here I come!”

Satchmo trotted ahead, tail wagging.

“Neal?” Peter called, checking behind curtains. Under the couch. Behind the plant where he’d once hidden a half-eaten lollipop.

Silence.

He checked the hall closet. Nothing.

Ten minutes later, the apartment was in chaos.

Peter was pacing. Elizabeth was checking under furniture with a flashlight. Satchmo was whining by the laundry room.

“Neal?” Peter shouted, louder now. “This isn’t funny anymore!”

No answer.

Elizabeth’s voice trembled. “Peter—he wouldn’t have gone outside, would he?”

Peter’s heart plummeted. He grabbed his phone. “I’m calling the doorman. Then Jones. We’ll issue an alert.”

He had the number half-dialed—

When Satchmo let out a loud woof and scratched at the laundry closet door.

Peter sprinted.

Swung it open—

And there, curled like a kitten in the laundry hamper, was a very asleep Neal Caffrey.

Surrounded by mismatched socks.

A towel draped over his head like a blanket.

Mouth open. Thumb in mouth. His stuffed fox tucked under one arm like a prized jewel.

Peter stared.

Elizabeth appeared behind him, breath catching. “Oh my God.”

Peter lowered the phone. “Cancel the search. The suspect’s been located... in the whites bin.”

—

The Wake-Up – Ten Minutes Later

Neal blinked awake slowly, blinking up at Peter’s face hovering over him.

“P’tah?” he mumbled. “Did I win?”

Peter exhaled shakily. “No. No, you gave me a heart attack.”

Neal yawned. “I found the perfect hiding spot. Then I got cozy.”

“You fell asleep in a laundry basket.”

Neal shrugged, still blinking. “It smelled like El’s shampoo.”

Peter didn’t know whether to hug him or cry.

Elizabeth dropped to her knees beside them. “Do you know how scared we were?”

Neal looked up, small and suddenly uncertain. “You... weren’t mad?”

Peter’s voice was low. “We weren’t mad, kiddo. We were terrified. We thought you were gone.”

Neal sniffled. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to be good at hiding.”

Elizabeth cupped his face gently. “You were too good.”

Neal leaned into her palm. “I’m sorry.”

Peter pulled him into his arms and held him tight. “No more hiding without telling us first. Deal?”

Neal nodded against his chest. “Deal.”

—

Later – The Post-Panic Recovery Plan

That evening, Neal drew a series of increasingly abstract “emergency hiding maps” with bright arrows and labeled zones like:

• “Safe Cozy Spots (With Pillows)”

• “Too Dangerous—Nope!”

• “Satchmo’s Territory”

• “El's Good-Smell Zone”

Peter hung one on the fridge.

Neal also insisted on creating an “I’m Not Missing” badge, which he wore proudly on his pajama top before bed.

It read, in wobbly marker:
“STILL HERE. DON’T WORRY.”

—

Bedtime – Reassurance and Routine

Neal lay in bed, the fox tucked under his chin, the badge pinned to his blanket.

Peter sat beside him, rubbing small circles on his back.

“I really scared you,” Neal whispered.

“Yeah,” Peter said honestly. “You did.”

Neal sniffled. “But... you found me.”

Peter kissed his forehead. “Always will.”

Elizabeth stood in the doorway, arms folded, heart full and heavy.

Neal smiled sleepily. “I was hiding in your socks.”

Peter groaned. “Next time, just hide in plain sight.”

“I’ll hide behind Satchmo,” Neal murmured, already drifting.

Peter chuckled. “Good luck. He sheds worse than you do.”

—

Chapter Text

Peter Burke liked concrete. Brick. Asphalt. Reliable structures with plumbing, walls, and strong Wi-Fi signals.

Camping?

Camping was not on his approved list of recreational activities.

But Elizabeth had that look—the one that meant he was outvoted before he even opened his mouth.

And Neal?

Neal thought “camping” was code for spy training in the wilderness.

Peter was doomed from the start.

—

Friday Afternoon – The Arrival

“Look at all the trees!” Neal gasped from the back seat, face smooshed against the window. “They go up forever! Do you think they have surveillance squirrels?!”

Peter sighed as he parked at the designated campsite. “No one’s spying on us. The only threat out here is mosquitoes.”

Neal held up his stuffed fox, whispering, “Stay alert.”

Elizabeth grinned, already opening the back. “Let’s set up the tent while we still have daylight.”

Peter muttered, “We should’ve brought a hotel.”

Neal bounced out of the car in a flash, racing ahead to the gear bag. “I wanna help! I’m good at puzzles!”

Elizabeth handed Peter the instructions. “You’re in charge of poles. I’m on tarp duty. Neal—just stay nearby and don’t wander.”

“Copy that, Boss Lady.”

Peter glanced at the long, confusing tangle of fabric, nylon cords, and segmented metal rods.

“This looked easier online.”

—

Twenty Minutes Later – Disaster Strikes

“I think that’s upside down,” Elizabeth said, watching from her log-seat throne.

Peter wiped sweat from his brow. “It’s fine. I’ve got it.”

Neal, meanwhile, had somehow connected three poles into what could only be described as an accidental trebuchet.

“I made a tent sword!” he declared proudly.

Peter took one look and said, “Please don’t swing that.”

Neal swung it.

A rope snapped. A pole bent. The back half of the tent collapsed with a dramatic whump, taking Peter with it.

Peter shouted, “Neal—!”

Elizabeth burst into laughter.

The canvas folded in on itself like a dying star. Poles tumbled. A shoe flew out.

Neal peeked through the wreckage. “P’tah? Are you still alive?”

Peter, tangled in the remains of the tent, groaned. “Tell my wife... she was right.”

Elizabeth was now full-on laughing, doubled over, tears in her eyes. “Oh my God, Peter—you look like a trapped raccoon.”

Neal climbed on top of the canvas heap. “I helped!”

Peter glared. “You helped us enter a tent-based hostage scenario.”

Elizabeth finally knelt down, wiping her eyes. “Okay, okay, everyone out. Let’s try again, this time with an adult-only pole team.”

Neal raised his hand. “I’m still your tiny consultant.”

Peter muttered, “Then consult your way into fetching juice boxes.”

—

Evening – Campfire Calm

The tent was finally standing (more or less straight), the fire crackled, and Neal was munching marshmallows with a face so sticky he looked glazed.

Elizabeth passed Peter a metal mug. “Still hate camping?”

Peter looked out at the stars. “The tent tried to eat me.”

“But...?”

He exhaled. “The view’s not bad.”

Satchmo snored nearby, curled at Neal’s feet like a bodyguard.

Neal stretched, chocolate on his chin. “This is the best spy camp ever. We survived the tent monster, built fire with El, and now we’re living off the grid.”

Elizabeth smirked. “You have three granola bars, a stuffed animal, and juice pouches. You are not off the grid.”

Neal pointed skyward. “I see five satellites. I’m totally being tracked.”

Peter shook his head. “You’ve been reading Mozzie’s manifestos again, haven’t you?”

Neal grinned. “I’m a kid with classified knowledge.”

Elizabeth raised her mug. “To our tent tornado, tiny fugitive, and bedtime beneath the stars.”

Neal clinked his mug of milk against theirs. “To the best camp crew ever.”

—

Bedtime – Under the Stars

Later, Neal curled between them inside the tent, still humming softly under his breath.

“I’m sorry I collapsed the tent,” he mumbled.

Peter kissed his curls. “It’s okay. You also invented a sword and declared war on gravity.”

“I did good?”

Elizabeth wrapped an arm around them both. “You did amazing.”

From outside, an owl hooted. Neal sat up and whispered, “Was that the surveillance squirrel’s boss?”

Peter sighed. “Go to sleep.”

Neal yawned. “Fine. But if the tent eats me again, I’m not going quietly.”

Elizabeth smiled into the darkness. “Deal.”

—

Chapter Text

Camping, Peter had decided, was a test.
Of patience.
Of resourcefulness.
Of how long one could go without reliable Wi-Fi or dry socks.

But most of all, it was a test of how fast a grown man could launch himself into a lake after a three-year-old with no sense of physics, temperature, or self-preservation.

All because of a floating leaf.

—

Early Morning – The Lakeside Adventure Begins

The morning mist rolled low over the water. Elizabeth, sipping coffee from a camp mug, sighed happily from her spot on a rock near the lakeshore. “This is peaceful.”

Peter stood nearby, still thinking about yesterday’s tent collapse incident, and grunted in agreement.

Neal, meanwhile, stood on the dock—hands on his hips, wind blowing his hair dramatically like he was in a shampoo commercial. He wore his full outfit: jeans, long sleeves, mismatched socks, and his backup fedora. (The first one had been sacrificed to a campfire marshmallow accident.)

He was watching a leaf.

Floating.

Drifting further from the dock.

Peter looked up just in time to hear Neal yell—

“IT’S IN TROUBLE!”

Peter blinked. “What?”

And then Neal was gone.

—

The Splash

The sound was unmistakable.

A sploosh.
A shriek.
Followed by an enormous spray of water and a voice yelling, “I’M COMIN’, LEAF!”

Peter dropped everything.

“NEAL!”

Elizabeth bolted up, her coffee sloshing.

In the lake, about eight feet from shore, Neal flailed—not drowning, thankfully—but struggling to swim while his jeans dragged him down like denim anchors.

“I got it!” he shouted, waving a soggy maple leaf in triumph.

Peter didn’t think. He dove.

Fully clothed. Wallet, phone, and all.

—

Rescue Operation: Leaf and Lunatic

Peter reached him in two strokes.

“Buddy—stop kicking, I’ve got you!”

Neal held up the leaf. “We’re safe! He’s okay!”

Peter looped an arm around him, paddling back to shore, muttering a steady stream of parental curses under his breath.

They emerged dripping and freezing. Neal coughed once and sneezed into Peter’s shoulder.

Elizabeth met them with towels. “What happened?!”

Neal sniffled, shivering. “The leaf was drifting... all alone... I had to save it.”

Peter blinked, water streaming down his nose. “You jumped into a lake to rescue a piece of plant debris.”

Neal looked up with big, innocent eyes. “He was brave. But I’m braver.”

Peter exhaled and turned to Elizabeth. “My phone’s done.”

Elizabeth deadpanned, “You dove in with your entire pants ecosystem.”

Peter glared. “He went in first!”

She kissed his cheek. “You’re a good dad.”

Neal beamed. “You’re the wettest dad.”

Peter sighed. “Into dry clothes. All of us. Now.”

—

Back at the Tent – Recovery Mode

Neal sat wrapped in a fuzzy blanket burrito, holding a mug of lukewarm cocoa with marshmallows. The rescued leaf had been dried between two napkins and was now taped into his “Field Notebook of Nature and Heroism.”

Peter was in sweats, socks steaming by the campfire, grumbling at his now-waterlogged phone and soggy wallet.

Elizabeth returned from the campground lodge. “New phone’s coming Monday. They said this isn’t the first ‘lake incident’ this season.”

Peter looked up. “Is that supposed to comfort me?”

She kissed his forehead. “A little.”

Neal leaned over. “P’tah?”

“What.”

“If you were in trouble, I’d jump in for you too.”

Peter paused.

Then turned to him, voice quiet. “Even if I were just a leaf?”

Neal nodded solemnly. “Especially if you were just a leaf.”

Peter exhaled and ruffled his wet curls. “You little maniac.”

Neal smiled, proud. “That means ‘hero’ in toddler.”

—

Evening – Stars, Cocoa, and Slight Paranoia

That night, Neal curled up between them in the tent, clutching Foxie and the leaf.

Elizabeth whispered, “He scared me today.”

Peter pulled the blanket tighter. “Yeah. Me too.”

Neal stirred sleepily. “Don’t worry. I won’t jump in again unless it’s really important.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Define important.”

Neal yawned. “If a fox is floating... or a cookie.”

Peter groaned. “No more near the lake.”

Elizabeth added, “Tomorrow, we hike.”

Neal murmured, already drifting off, “As long as we don’t lose any more foliage...”

Peter sighed. “Just wait until he sees squirrels.”

Elizabeth smiled. “God help the trees.”

—

Chapter Text

Peter Burke’s idea of a hike involved sidewalks, a good pace, and maybe a decent sandwich at the end of it.

Neal’s idea of a hike involved dramatic pauses, “investigating clues,” and shouting, “TREASURE AHEAD!” every fifteen feet.

It was not a relaxing morning.

—

Setting Out – The Quest Begins

The sky was clear, the path was mostly dry, and Neal—now back in dry clothes and full of juice box energy—was stomping ahead like he was leading a National Geographic expedition.

He had:

• His stuffed fox strapped to his backpack.

• A walking stick (“This is my evidence pointer.”)

• A roll of stickers for marking “important nature.”

Peter trudged behind him, adjusting his pack. “We’re not going far. Two miles, max. Gentle loop. No cliffs.”

Elizabeth smiled from his side. “Don’t worry. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Peter gave her a long look. “Have you met our child?”

Up ahead, Neal gasped. “EVERYONE STOP! I FOUND MOSS WITH FEELINGS!”

Peter groaned.

Elizabeth laughed. “I’ll get the camera.”

—

Thirty Minutes Later – Clues and Chaos

Neal’s so-called “moss with feelings” turned out to be a clump of soft green fuzz on a boulder. He poked it reverently.

“This moss is thinking deep thoughts. It’s probably, like, a hundred.”

Peter deadpanned, “It’s probably dirt.”

Neal gasped. “You’re offending it!”

Elizabeth grinned. “Apologize to the ancient plant, Peter.”

Peter muttered, “I’m not apologizing to mold.”

They continued up the trail with Neal zigzagging ahead, declaring every pinecone a clue and every squirrel a witness.

At one point, he shouted, “A treasure chest!” and pounced on a pile of leaves.

It was a tree stump.

Still, he gave it a sticker labeled “mystery.”

—

Disaster Strikes – Forest 1, FBI 0

It happened during a particularly enthusiastic detour.

Neal darted off the path with a shout of “X marks the spot!”—his walking stick waving dramatically. Peter moved to follow—

—and a branch slapped him square in the face.

Hard.

Peter stumbled back with a curse, clutching his eye.

“P’tah?” Neal called from up ahead. “Did nature attack you?”

Peter’s voice was muffled. “I told you to stay on the trail.”

Elizabeth rushed to his side. “Let me see. Is it scratched?”

“It feels like it left a dent in my soul.”

She bit back a laugh. “You’ll live.”

Neal trotted back and patted Peter’s hand. “It’s okay. I have a sticker for that.”

Peter stared as Neal carefully pressed a bright red heart sticker right next to his temple.

“Now you’re marked for recovery.”

Peter sighed. “Thanks, Doc.”

—

The Return – Treasure Secured

Eventually, the hike looped back around to the campground. Neal was tired, muddy, and carrying six sticks, a rock he named “Gary,” and what he believed was an ancient “leaf sword.”

He stumbled mid-step and reached up toward Elizabeth with a quiet, “I’m... too treasure-y to walk.”

She scooped him up without hesitation.

Neal wrapped his arms around her neck. “You’re the best donkey ever.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Did he just call you a donkey?”

Elizabeth smirked. “He means pack mule.”

Neal whispered, “You’re strong and beautiful.”

Peter muttered, “Smooth criminal.”

Elizabeth laughed. “That’s my boy.”

—

Back at Camp – Rest and Reflection

Neal sat bundled in a hoodie by the fire, holding a pinecone and whispering, “What secrets do you hold, Forest Egg?”

Peter sat beside him with a clean bandage under his eyebrow.

Elizabeth brought cocoa and a first aid kit, just in case.

Neal leaned into Peter’s side. “You okay, P’tah?”

“Fine.”

“You look like you lost a fight with a tree.”

Peter raised his cup. “Because I did.”

Neal giggled. “I still like your face.”

Peter chuckled, pulling him close. “I like yours too, kid.”

Elizabeth kissed the top of both their heads. “And mine?”

Neal nodded. “You’re the queen of camping.”

Peter sighed. “We are never living this down.”

—

Chapter Text

Peter Burke liked his car.

It wasn’t flashy.
It wasn’t fancy.
It was clean, reliable, and sensible—like everything else in his meticulously ordered life.

So when he walked out the front door that morning, travel mug in hand, badge clipped to his belt, and saw it…

He froze.

Then blinked.

Then slowly whispered, “What the hell happened to my car?”

—

Earlier That Morning – The “Art Project”

It had started the way most of Neal’s art projects began: quietly. Suspiciously. With a glue stick and far too much confidence.

Elizabeth had been in the shower. Peter had been shaving.

Which left Neal alone in the living room with:

• A box of sticker sheets.

• A pack of glitter pens.

• A roll of duct tape (God knew from where).

• And an imagination that should be registered with Homeland Security.

He’d chosen his canvas carefully.

Peter’s car.

By the time Elizabeth walked past the window and caught a glimpse of a rainbow dolphin on the hood, it was too late.

“Neal!” she gasped, rushing to the door.

“I’m making it cooler!” Neal called back.

And oh, he had.

—

The Reveal – 8:10 a.m.

Peter stood in stunned silence.

His dark blue sedan was now:

• Covered in glittery unicorn stickers galloping majestically across the windshield.

• Sporting butterflies on the mirrors.

• Sporting googly eyes on the headlights.

• Featuring a line of neon green dinosaurs dancing up the driver’s side door.

• And somehow... a “Be Kind to Bees” sticker centered proudly on the bumper.

Neal stood beside it, beaming.

“I upgraded it!”

Peter turned slowly.

“You… upgraded… my government-issued vehicle.”

Neal nodded. “It was too boring. Now it sparkles!”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. “You put a mermaid on the gas cap.”

“That’s Ariel. She’s the security system.”

Elizabeth appeared in the doorway, trying not to laugh. “He was very committed. Had an artistic vision.”

Peter turned to her, betrayed. “You let this happen?”

“I caught him halfway through the hood. It was already too late.”

Neal pointed to the rear bumper. “And I put a sticker that says ‘My Dad is a Superhero.’ That’s the best part.”

Peter opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Then sighed.

“Get in the car.”

—

The Commute – A Rolling Daycare Billboard

Peter drove to work with:

• A line of stars shimmering across his side mirrors.

• A unicorn winking on his windshield.

• And a suspicious trail of glitter wafting out of the vents every time he turned on the AC.

At the first red light, a teenager in the next lane burst out laughing and gave him a thumbs-up.

Peter stared straight ahead.

—

FBI HQ – The Arrival

Jones stopped mid-sentence when Peter stepped out of the car.

“Uh… Peter?”

Peter held up a hand. “Don’t ask.”

Diana walked around closer to the car and burst out laughing. “Oh my God. He even got the tires!”

Peter sighed. “There are kittens. On the rims.”

Jones grinned. “Kittens improve everything.”

“Tell that to the director when he sees me in the Bureau parking lot looking like I run a mobile glitter farm.”

Diana leaned in, smug. “You’re just mad because it sparkles.”

Peter muttered, “He used the good stickers. I was saving those for his reward chart.”

—

Later – Sticker Removal, Kind Of

That night, Peter returned home and found Neal standing beside the car with a wet sponge, frowning.

“I tried to clean it. But the unicorns don’t want to come off.”

Peter stared at the half-smeared windshield.

“You used glue, didn’t you?”

Neal looked up sheepishly. “Just... a little. For sparkle security.”

Peter rubbed his face. “I’ll drive the SUV tomorrow.”

Elizabeth appeared with wipes and a smile. “Or you can just embrace the aesthetic.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “You want me chasing suspects in a Lisa Frank crime cruiser?”

Neal grinned. “Sparkle justice.”

Peter looked at his car. Then at Neal. Then at the glitter still stuck to his collar.

And sighed.

“You get one more day of upgrades. Then we’re returning this car to the realm of adults.”

Neal nodded solemnly. “Deal.”

Pause.

“Can I add a dragon?”

Peter groaned. “Only if it breathes justice.”

—

Chapter Text

There were many things hanging on the Burkes’ fridge.

• Grocery lists.

• Coupons for dog treats.

• A slowly growing pile of preschool-level artwork.

• And now—something Peter didn’t quite expect to make his chest ache.

It was a crayon drawing. A bit lopsided. A bit chaotic.
And it meant everything.

—

The Afternoon That Started It

It had been a quiet Saturday.

Quiet, which in toddler-Neal terms meant: only three cereal spills, one minor glue incident, and no glitter-related emergencies.

Peter was reorganizing the bookshelf (again), while Elizabeth folded laundry and Neal sat at the dining table with his tongue between his teeth, furiously focused on a piece of paper.

Crayons were scattered everywhere. A cup of juice stood guard. His fox sat perched beside him like a personal muse.

Peter glanced up from a stack of novels. “What are you working on, buddy?”

Neal didn’t look up. “Secret project.”

“Does this secret involve glitter?”

“No glitter. Just... hearts.”

Elizabeth gave Peter a look. Peter mouthed, Hearts? Elizabeth smiled.

Fifteen minutes later, Neal climbed down from the chair, paper in hand, and padded across the room with exaggerated care.

He stood in front of Peter and Elizabeth, held up the paper, and declared, “This is us.”

—

The Drawing

Peter took it carefully.

At the center: four stick figures, each with their names above in wobbling crayon letters.

• “P’tah” was tall, with a badge and a serious face and a small coffee mug drawn in his hand.

• “Lizbif” had a swirl of bright orange hair, a pink dress, and sparkly earrings (somehow done with silver crayon).

• “Mee” had dark curls, a big smile, and was holding hands with both the taller figures.

• “Satchmo” was mostly ears and tail, with a bone in his mouth and a little heart above his head.

Above them, in bold red crayon letters:

MY HOME.

Peter blinked.

Elizabeth pressed a hand to her chest.

Neal stood proudly. “Do you like it?”

Peter didn’t speak at first. He just crouched down, pulled Neal close, and whispered, “I love it.”

Elizabeth joined them, kneeling on Neal’s other side, brushing a curl off his forehead. “You made us all look so happy.”

Neal nodded. “Because we are.”

He hesitated.

“I know I’m little right now. But even when I was big, I never had a home that felt like this. So I wanted to draw it. To remember.”

Peter wrapped his arms around them both. “We’re your home, no matter what size you are.”

Neal sniffled quietly and pressed his face into Peter’s shoulder.

“I think I’m gonna make a whole series. Next one’ll be us fighting space pirates. With cookies.”

Elizabeth laughed softly. “Can’t wait.”

—

Later – A Place on the Fridge

Peter carefully smoothed out the drawing and, without a word, used two magnets to pin it front and center on the fridge.

The one with the FBI seal.
And the one with the Eiffel Tower.

Neal stood beside him, watching silently.

Then whispered, “Now everyone’ll see.”

Peter nodded. “They will.”

“You think when I get big again... I’ll remember this?”

Peter crouched down, cupped Neal’s cheeks.

“You won’t have to remember it,” he said. “Because we’ll still be here.”

Neal’s eyes filled with tears—but this time, the good kind.

“I really love you guys.”

Peter smiled.

“Welcome home, Neal.”

—

Chapter Text

The FBI was built on structure. Discipline. Secure protocols.
Biometric entry systems. Surveillance-grade firewalls.
And one tiny, sticker-covered wildcard in footie socks.

Which is why when Clinton Jones returned to his workstation after grabbing coffee and found his desktop background had been changed to a crayon drawing of Satchmo…

He knew exactly who the culprit was.

And he knew it was already too late.

—

Earlier That Morning – Take Your Kid to Work (Again?)

Peter hadn’t meant to bring Neal in.

But Elizabeth had a last-minute catering crisis, and Peter had a case meeting, and Jones had said, “Yeah, sure, I can keep an eye on him for a bit.”

That was the moment where everything began to go sideways.

Because Neal, freshly sugared from a morning donut and sporting his junior agent baseball cap (courtesy of Diana), arrived at the office with a mission.

“I want to help with real cases today,” he said, marching into the bullpen like he owned it.

Peter raised a brow. “You’re three.”

Neal pointed to his badge (a sticker). “I’m undercover.”

Peter sighed and handed him off to Jones with a half-apology. “Twenty minutes. Tops. Don’t let him near anything with clearance.”

Jones patted Neal’s head. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Famous last words.

—

The Crime Scene: Jones’s Desk, 10:42 a.m.

Jones returned from the break room, sipping his coffee.

He stopped mid-step.

Neal was perched on his swivel chair, feet dangling, enthusiastically clicking the mouse with one hand and tapping keys with the other.

“Neal.”

Neal looked up innocently. “Hi, Mr. Jones!”

Jones blinked. “What are you doing?”

“I upgraded your computer.”

Jones set down his coffee. “Define upgrade.”

Neal pointed proudly to the screen.

There, stretched across the monitor in grainy, enthusiastic color, was a scanned crayon drawing of Satchmo—ears too big, tongue lolling out, heart stickers floating in the sky behind him. In the corner, in crooked bubble letters:
“Agent Satchmo: Paw Enforcement”

Jones stared.

Neal beamed. “He’s a hero.”

Jones blinked once. Twice.

Then sat slowly. “You... changed my background.”

“I also tried to make a slideshow, but I couldn’t remember how to do transitions.”

Jones sighed. “You opened six tabs and somehow started downloading a screensaver called ‘Glitter Dog Squad.’”

Neal held up a USB stick. “You’re welcome.”

—

Elsewhere in the Office – The Fallout

Peter walked out of the conference room and saw Jones approaching with a look of quiet dread.

Peter squinted. “What happened?”

Jones held up the USB.

Peter paled. “Oh no.”

Jones exhaled. “He climbed on my chair. Opened my email. Sent Diana a file labeled ‘Important Poodle File.’”

Peter turned. “Neal!”

Neal peeked around the corner. “I made your friend’s computer better!”

Peter groaned. “You don’t touch other people’s machines, buddy. That’s a rule.”

Neal’s lip trembled. “But Satchmo looked so good!”

Peter knelt. “He does. And we’ll print it and put it on the fridge. But if you want to help the FBI, you need to ask before pressing buttons.”

Neal sniffled. “Even the glowing ones?”

“Especially the glowing ones.”

—

Resolution – A Deal is Struck

Diana appeared moments later, holding her phone.

“So, my inbox just got a drawing of a poodle in a tutu.”

Neal lit up. “That’s from the Canine Task Force!”

Diana deadpanned. “Of course it is.”

Peter sighed. “We’ll make it up to you.”

Diana smirked. “He can repay me by not joining our IT department.”

Neal held out his arms dramatically. “I was born to lead digital transformation.”

Jones leaned over to Peter. “This is what happens when you raise a con artist in a building full of federal systems.”

Peter shook his head. “We’re doomed.”

—

Evening – Back Home and Decompressing

Peter opened his laptop later that night, sighing deeply.

His background had also been changed.

A drawing of Neal, Peter, and Elizabeth standing triumphantly on top of a very large, smiling computer.
Captioned:
“Team Button: Solving Crimes with Kindness and Clicks.”

Peter stared.

Then smiled.

And left it exactly as it was.

—

Chapter Text

The FBI's interrogation room was supposed to be sterile.
Professional.
A place for truth and tension, with a steel table, two chairs, and zero nonsense.

Which was exactly why it now being repurposed as a cardboard castle with a crayon flag felt... inevitable.

Especially when the architect was three feet tall, armed with tape, stickers, and wild ambition.

—

Earlier That Morning – “Quiet Time”

Peter had needed to step away for five minutes.

Five.

He left Neal sitting just outside the bullpen, coloring at Diana’s desk with a juice box and a firm instruction:

“Don’t go into the hallway.”

Neal had smiled sweetly. “I won’t go through the hallway.”

What Peter had failed to account for was that Neal’s definition of “not going through” apparently involved a crawl under the reception desk, a side detour past the copy machine, and a stealth infiltration into the interrogation room.

By the time Peter returned, his son was gone.

By the time Jones checked the cameras?

Neal was wearing a blazer as a cape and dragging file folders into the secured room like a miniature contractor on a deadline.

—

The Discovery

Peter opened the interrogation room door and froze.

Inside was… a structure.

Two chairs had been flipped.
The table was draped in paper and manila folders.
A tower of evidence boxes formed a second wing.
And the window to the hallway had been artfully decorated in glue-on googly eyes and legal-sized rainbows.

Neal popped his head out of a folder flap and grinned. “Welcome to Fort Caffrey! Password, please.”

Peter blinked. “Password?”

Neal held up a plastic spoon. “No entry without clearance!”

Peter exhaled. “Neal—”

But before he could finish, the door swung open again.

And in walked Reese Hughes.

—

The Moment of Silence

Hughes froze mid-step.

Took in the googly eyes.

The flag labeled “PROPERTY OF AGENT NEAL.”

The sea of carefully filed evidence folders now formed into turrets.

Then he looked at Peter.

Peter opened his mouth.

Hughes just held up a hand.

“Don’t.”

Neal, undeterred, popped out again. “Are you here for questioning? I only interrogate real bad guys.”

Peter buried his face in his hand.

Hughes stepped forward slowly, surveying the fort.

“You turned a federal interview room into a daycare craft zone.”

Neal grinned. “I repurposed it. That’s efficient.”

Hughes looked to Peter. “This your doing?”

Peter groaned. “Five minutes, sir. I left him for five minutes.”

Hughes considered this.

Then reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a pen, and handed it to Neal.

“Needs a guard tower,” he said, deadpan.

Neal gasped. “You’re hired!”

Peter stared. “Sir?”

Hughes turned back toward the door. “You let me walk in here and keep a straight face, Burke. That earns him one artistic violation.”

Then he left.

Peter muttered, “We’re going to end up on the annual report.”

—

Later – Fort Deconstruction

Under heavy negotiation (i.e., two Oreos and a promise to let him keep one of the flags), Neal agreed to take the fort down.

Kind of.

One chair was still upside down.

A folder stuck to the window.

And the crayon sign now read:
“RETIRED – DO NOT TOUCH. THIS WAS AN ART INSTALLATION.”

Peter dragged him out, one hand on Neal’s shoulder.

Jones passed them in the hallway and snorted. “So that’s what a federal offense looks like with crayons.”

Neal beamed. “Next week I’m doing a courtroom.”

Peter groaned. “No. No, you’re not.”

“Fort Caffrey II: Justice Returns!”

Peter turned to Elizabeth (who had arrived to pick Neal up). “Please. Please take him.”

Elizabeth kissed Peter on the cheek. “He’s your legacy now.”

Neal saluted dramatically. “Long live the fort!”

—

Chapter Text

It started as a whisper of sound—soft, wet coughs muffled behind blankets.
Then a wheeze.
Then another cough—sharper, strained.
And then came the frightened little voice, trying hard not to cry.

By the time Peter was fully awake, Neal’s cough had become a steady rhythm of panic echoing down the hall.

Peter was out of bed before the third wheeze hit.

—

1:13 AM – Blanket Fort Distress

He followed the coughs through the darkened hallway, heart thudding. He passed Neal’s room, which was empty, and instinct kicked in. He turned toward the living room.

The fort was there—just as Neal had left it earlier that evening after declaring, “I’m sleeping in my castle tonight!”

At first, it looked quiet. Just blankets and shadows.

Then another hoarse cough rattled through the still air.

Peter dropped to his knees and lifted the blanket flap gently. “Neal?”

Inside, Neal was curled into a tight ball, his little chest heaving, his face damp with sweat. His stuffed fox was clutched in one hand, and the other was gripping the blanket like it was the only thing keeping him anchored.

Peter reached out instantly. “Hey—hey, it’s okay. I’m here.”

Neal looked up, eyes glassy and scared. “P’tah… I can’t… my chest feels tight.”

Peter's throat clenched. “Okay. We’ve got you.”

Elizabeth appeared a moment later, thrown robe over her pajamas, worry etched across her face.

Peter gently gathered Neal into his arms. The heat coming off his skin was alarming. “He’s burning up.”

Elizabeth took one look and sat beside him, pulling Neal into her lap, stroking his curls gently, voice low and soothing. “You’re okay, sweetheart. We’re right here.”

Peter pulled out his phone, dialing with shaking hands. “I’m calling the pediatrician.”

—

1:20 AM – On the Line

Peter paced the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, trying not to sound as anxious as he felt.

“Yes, he’s coughing—a deep, wet cough, and wheezing. Low-grade fever, clammy skin, and he says his chest feels tight.”

The pediatrician’s on-call nurse was calm, reassuring. “It sounds like it could be viral-induced asthma or a respiratory infection. If the wheezing continues or his lips look pale or blue, get him to the ER immediately. Otherwise, cool mist, fluids, and come in first thing in the morning.”

Peter scribbled notes even though he knew he’d remember every word. “Got it. Thank you.”

He hung up and hurried back.

—

1:30 AM – Comfort and Cool Mist

The living room was dim now, just a nightlight on. Elizabeth sat on the couch with Neal wrapped in a fresh blanket, propped up slightly on her chest. She was murmuring softly, rubbing his back in circles, her touch gentle and rhythmic.

Neal’s eyes were half-lidded, but every few moments, his chest shuddered with another weak cough.

Peter returned with a humidifier and a glass of water.

“P’tah?” Neal croaked.

“I’m here, buddy.” He knelt in front of him, brushing a damp curl from Neal’s forehead. “You scared me, you know that?”

Neal gave a small, sad smile. “Didn’t wanna wake you up…”

Peter shook his head and kissed the top of his head. “You always wake me up. Especially when you don’t feel good.”

“I was in my fort,” Neal mumbled. “It was s’posed to be safe…”

Peter wrapped his arms around both him and Elizabeth. “It is safe. It’s just even safer with us inside it.”

Elizabeth leaned down and whispered, “We’ll stay in the fort all night if that’s what you want.”

Neal gave a small nod, then coughed again. Peter handed him the water. Neal took a few sips, then settled back into Elizabeth’s arms, eyes fluttering closed.

Peter set the humidifier nearby and sat down on the floor, back against the couch, hand still resting on Neal’s foot through the blanket.

They sat like that for a long time.

—

2:40 AM – Castle Guardians

Neal drifted into a quieter sleep, his breathing still a little raspy, but slower, steadier.

Peter didn’t move.

Elizabeth stroked Neal’s hair. “He’s calmer now.”

Peter nodded. “We’ll take him in first thing.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder. “You handled it.”

Peter looked at the little boy curled between them. “Barely.”

“No,” she whispered. “You did exactly what he needed.”

Peter looked around at the half-crumbled blanket fort, the glowing nightlight, the humidifier quietly humming, and the crayons still scattered across the coffee table.

“We’re going to need stronger walls,” he said.

Elizabeth smiled. “We’re the walls.”

And between them, Neal murmured in his sleep, “…P’tah and El are the best guards…”

Peter kissed the top of his head again and whispered, “Sleep, little guy. Your fortress is holding.”

—

Chapter Text

Peter Burke had faced down white-collar criminals, outmaneuvered forgers, hackers, and high-end art thieves.
But nothing—nothing—tested his resolve quite like a three-year-old Neal Caffrey staring him down over a plastic spoon of cherry-flavored antibiotics.

“You’re trying to poison me.”

Peter blinked. “It’s literally bubblegum flavored.”

Neal folded his arms. “It smells like regret.”

—

Morning Standoff – The Medicine Wars

It had been three days since the midnight wheezing scare. The pediatrician confirmed it was a mild respiratory infection with a small asthmatic response—nothing life-threatening, but Neal needed antibiotics to clear it up.

Twice a day. Easy, right?

Wrong.

So very wrong.

Peter crouched beside the kitchen counter, holding the spoon like a peace offering. “Neal. It’s two spoonfuls. That’s it.”

Neal backed up like it was radioactive. “I know my rights.”

Elizabeth leaned in from the hallway, holding Satchmo’s leash. “How’s it going?”

Peter held up the full spoon. “We’ve entered hostage negotiations.”

Neal pointed at the spoon. “That is poison pink. I saw that color in a crayon once. It’s the color of danger.”

Peter deadpanned. “You drew a unicorn in that color two days ago.”

“That unicorn exploded.”

Elizabeth covered her laugh with a cough and disappeared back around the corner.

—

Attempt One: Bribery

Peter brought out the heavy artillery: cookies.

“Take your medicine, you get two of El’s chocolate chip cookies. Two. Fresh.”

Neal sniffed the spoon. “It still smells like death.”

“It smells like fake strawberries.”

“Strawberries that died in a lab.”

Peter groaned. “You used to con people, remember?”

“I never conned myself.”

—

Attempt Two: Logic

“Your body needs this. To fight the bad germs.”

“I am fighting them. With my willpower.”

“That’s not how it works.”

Neal pointed to his forehead. “I’m focusing really hard.”

Peter considered his life choices.

—

Attempt Three: Threats (Gentle Ones)

“Neal. If you don’t take it, we’re going back to the doctor. Shots, maybe.”

Neal gasped in betrayal. “You’d inject me?!”

Peter rubbed his eyes. “Please, just—”

And then Elizabeth reappeared.

Carrying a spy toy kit.

And a look of absolute maternal mischief.

—

The Breakthrough – Operation Spy Serum

Elizabeth knelt beside Neal, pulling out a pair of plastic sunglasses, a toy wristwatch, and a sparkly plastic pen with a button that made beeping noises.

“Neal,” she whispered, crouching like they were in enemy territory, “We just got word from HQ. Your agent name is Fox Cub.”

Neal’s eyes widened. “Fox Cub?”

Peter whispered to himself, “You made that up.”

She ignored him. “We have confirmation the evil bacteria gang—Codename: Snot Squad—is inside your system.”

Neal leaned in, intrigued. “Where inside?”

“Deep. But we’ve developed a top-secret formula. Only agents can drink it.”

Peter blinked. “The medicine?”

Elizabeth nodded solemnly. “Codename: Operation Secret Serum.”

Neal narrowed his eyes. “What happens if I drink it?”

“You unlock Level Five Immunity. And get the power of super sneezes.”

Neal gasped. “Do I get a badge?”

Elizabeth pulled one from her purse—a sticker with a fox and the words "Spy Squad: Level 5 Agent" in sparkly letters.

Neal grabbed the spoon, pinched his nose, and downed the dose in one quick motion.

He gagged once. Then dramatically declared, “It tastes like enemy tears.”

Elizabeth patted his back. “That’s how you know it’s working.”

—

Aftermath – The Medal Ceremony

Peter watched as Neal marched around the living room in sunglasses, the sticker badge on his chest, a plastic walkie-talkie in one hand.

“Snot Squad has been neutralized,” he said into the device. “Operation: Tastebud Betrayal was successful.”

Elizabeth leaned against the kitchen counter, beaming.

Peter handed her the spoon. “You’re a genius.”

She smirked. “You just have to speak his language.”

Neal posed heroically on the couch. “I’m ready for my next mission!”

Peter muttered, “Let’s hope it’s not toothpaste.”

Neal gasped. “The Mint Resistance?!”

Elizabeth laughed, and Peter gave up.

—

Chapter Text

It had been a long week.

Neal had finished his antibiotics.
His cough had mostly faded.
The fever was gone.
But his energy—his usual spark—was still slow to return.

Which is why, on a rare quiet afternoon, Neal didn’t build a fort.
Didn’t demand glitter.
Didn’t ask for juice boxes with a twisty straw.

Instead, he curled up on the couch with Satchmo and a worn blanket, tugged it around his small body, and whispered something so soft that Elizabeth almost missed it.

“Can you… just sit?”

—

The Living Room – Midday Stillness

Elizabeth had been folding laundry, humming to herself in the sunlit kitchen.

When she peeked in to check on him, expecting crayons or chaos, she found Neal half-buried under a gray knit blanket, Satchmo curled protectively beside him like a furry pillow.

His eyelids were heavy, lashes casting shadows on flushed cheeks. His little fingers curled against the dog’s fur, and one corner of his blanket was clutched in his fist like an anchor.

Elizabeth stepped closer, voice gentle. “Sweetheart? Want me to read to you?”

Neal shook his head slightly, not looking up. “Can you… just sit?”

—

A Rare Kind of Quiet

Elizabeth didn’t ask again.

She eased down onto the couch beside him without a word, tucking her feet beneath her and letting her hand rest lightly on his back.

Neal exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that spoke more than words. A release of tension. A silent thank you.

Satchmo gave a quiet huff, then resettled himself with his muzzle draped over Neal’s legs.

No games.
No music.
Just warmth.
Just presence.

The quiet was sacred.

—

A Few Minutes Later – A Whisper in the Stillness

Neal’s voice was quiet. Sleepy. “El?”

“Yes, baby?”

“…I don’t wanna be little forever.”

Elizabeth’s heart twisted, but she kept her voice soft. “I know.”

“I don’t… I don’t remember everything. But I know I’m supposed to be big. I had suits. And art. And secrets.”

She smiled gently. “You still have some secrets.”

He let out a tiny laugh. “But I don’t mind being little… with you and P’tah. You make it feel… safe.”

Elizabeth leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “You don’t have to be big to be loved, Neal. You just have to be you.”

He yawned, his fingers twitching sleepily against Satchmo’s ear. “I’m really tired…”

“That’s okay.”

Neal hesitated. Then: “Will you stay?”

Elizabeth tightened her arm around his tiny frame. “I’m not going anywhere.”

—

Peter Comes Home – A Quiet Discovery

Peter stepped through the front door around four, briefcase in one hand, tie already loose around his neck.

He paused the second he saw the living room.

Neal was asleep—completely still beneath the blanket, half-wrapped around Satchmo like he was part dog himself. Elizabeth sat beside them, one hand resting on Neal’s back, her head tilted against the cushion, eyes closed in peace.

Peter didn’t say a word.

He set his bag down quietly, shrugged off his coat, and moved slowly toward the couch.

Neal stirred just a little as Peter knelt beside them.

“P’tah…?”

“I’m here.”

Peter gently brushed his hand through Neal’s curls. “Everything okay?”

Elizabeth whispered, “Just tired. He wanted quiet.”

Peter nodded. “I can do quiet.”

He sat on the floor next to the couch, back resting against Elizabeth’s legs. His hand found Neal’s under the blanket.

Neal’s fingers wrapped around his without hesitation.

The house stayed quiet for a long time after that.

Just breathing. Just warmth. Just love.

No noise needed.

—

Chapter Text

It started with a sniffle.

A quiet, trembling sound from down the hall, followed by the soft, almost panicked call:
“El?”

Elizabeth wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and stepped out of the laundry room. “Neal?”

She found him in the middle of the hallway, curls messy, lower lip trembling, still in his fox pajamas even though it was nearly noon.

“I—I can’t find Foxie,” he whispered, eyes already glassy with forming tears. “He’s gone.”

Elizabeth crouched instantly. “Okay. Okay, sweetie. We’ll find him. You had him when you got up, right?”

Neal nodded, fists clenched tightly at his sides. “I had him for breakfast. He was watching me eat my cereal. And then—and then I went to brush my teeth and now he’s—he’s gone.”

The dam broke.
Tears started to fall.
Not dramatic tantrum-tears, but quiet, desperate ones—the kind that came with a twist in the chest and a deep, aching fear.

Foxie wasn’t just a toy.
Foxie was comfort, protection, and home.
And he was missing.

—

The Search Begins

Elizabeth took Neal’s hand. “Alright. We’re going to find him. Let’s start where you last saw him, okay?”

Together, they retraced every step.

• The bathroom? No Foxie.

• Neal’s room? Only other stuffed animals, all watching like they were in mourning.

• The couch cushions? Tossed.

• Under the table? Just crayon wrappers.

• The laundry basket? No luck.

• The trash can? Elizabeth double-checked with a gloved hand. Still no Foxie.

Neal was beginning to hiccup through his sobs.

“I think he ran away. Or got fox-napped.”

Elizabeth pulled him into a gentle hug. “I don’t think he’d leave you, honey. You’re his favorite person.”

“Then why did he disappear?”

Elizabeth brushed the tears from his cheeks. “Sometimes things hide in silly places. Let’s keep looking. We’ll find him, I promise.”

—

The Revelation

They had just searched the living room again when Peter walked through the front door, briefcase in one hand.

He paused mid-step. “Uh… is there a reason the couch is upside down?”

Elizabeth looked up from the floor. “Missing fox.”

Peter blinked. “Ah.”

Neal trudged out of the hallway, red-cheeked and miserable. “Foxie’s gone forever.”

Peter’s brows lifted. “Did you check the fridge?”

Elizabeth turned. “Peter—”

Peter shrugged. “Last week I found a juice box in my shoe and a banana in the dog bed. Nothing’s off the table anymore.”

Neal’s eyes widened.

“The fridge.”

—

The Cold Case

Elizabeth opened the refrigerator and scanned.

Top shelf—juice.
Middle shelf—leftovers.
Bottom—

“Oh.”

She leaned in and gently moved a head of lettuce.

There, curled up between a Tupperware of pasta and the grapes, was Foxie.

Slightly chilled.
A bit squashed.
But still smiling with that same crooked stitched grin.

“Found him,” Elizabeth called softly.

Neal came running, socks skidding across the tile, and when he saw the little plush shape in her arms, his face crumpled all over again—but this time in relief.

He let out a breath that sounded like a sob and launched himself into Elizabeth’s arms.

“You saved him,” he whispered, squeezing both her and Foxie so tightly that his tiny arms shook. “He was cold and scared and I left him in there. I’m the worst person ever!”

Elizabeth pulled him close, pressing her cheek to his curls. “Sweetheart, you are not. You’re not even close.”

“He could’ve froze to death!”

“He’s very brave. And you found him.”

Neal sniffled and looked down at Foxie, hugging him like he’d never let go again. “I’m gonna keep him warm forever.”

Peter, leaning against the doorframe, smiled softly. “Might want to check the freezer next time.”

—

Aftermath – A Recovery Mission

Elizabeth made Neal cocoa.

Peter wrapped Foxie in a mini dish towel like a blanket and announced a “debriefing” for the plushie.

Neal, now curled up on the couch again with Foxie tightly clutched, looked between them and said softly, “I didn’t feel okay without him.”

Elizabeth stroked his hair. “Of course not. He’s part of your heart.”

Neal nodded. “But so are you and P’tah.”

Peter grinned. “Well, that’s good. We’re a little harder to misplace.”

Neal yawned into Foxie’s ears. “Not if I glue you to me.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Let’s keep glue out of this.”

—

Chapter Text

Peter Burke had a file open on his computer.
Seven tabs, three spreadsheets, and a very intense expression.
The kind of look he usually reserved for major white-collar criminals.
Except today’s target wasn’t a con or a fence or a corporate embezzler.

Today, it was… Little Steps Learning Center.

—

One Week Earlier – The Suggestion

It had been Elizabeth’s idea.

“Peter,” she’d said gently, wiping jelly off Neal’s cheek for the third time that morning, “we need a break. Just a few hours, maybe twice a week. A safe, fun daycare could be really good for him.”

Neal, face sticky and sparkly with who-knows-what, had smiled up from the floor, where he was trying to teach Satchmo how to paint with pudding.

Peter had looked at the scene, then at Elizabeth, and agreed. In theory.

But in practice?

He was going to know everything about the people who’d be caring for Neal. Every address. Every misdemeanor. Every tax filing.

—

Now – The Investigation

Jones appeared in Peter’s office doorway, holding two coffees and raising an eyebrow.

“You’ve been at this for three hours.”

Peter didn’t look up. “I’m almost done.”

Jones stepped in, setting a coffee down. “Almost done with what, exactly?”

Peter clicked a folder open. “So far: no red flags. But I still don’t like that one assistant’s traffic ticket from 2008. Who gets caught doing seventy-five in a school zone?”

Jones blinked. “Peter. You’re running background checks on preschool teachers.”

Peter scrolled. “And the janitor. And the part-time puppeteer.”

Jones folded his arms. “You know you’re not technically allowed to do that.”

Peter finally looked up. “I know.”

Jones sipped his coffee. “So you're doing it unofficially.”

Peter nodded. “Exactly.”

Jones sighed and pulled up a chair. “Give me the list. I’ll help.”

—

Meanwhile – Operation El’s Distraction

Elizabeth, for her part, had wisely stayed out of Peter’s digital witch hunt. She was sitting with Neal at the kitchen table, helping him draw a self-portrait for his “new adventure.”

Neal was suspicious.

“Is this a trap?” he asked, eyes narrowed as he colored in his curly hair.

Elizabeth blinked. “A trap?”

“This place with all the tiny chairs and singing. Is it a prison?”

Elizabeth smiled. “It’s a daycare.”

“I’ve seen movies. Daycares always have villains.”

She chuckled and leaned in close. “This one has art, and naptime, and a sandbox shaped like a pirate ship.”

Neal paused. “Are there snacks?”

“Good ones.”

“Do I have to wear shoes?”

“Yes.”

Neal huffed. “That’s a strike against them.”

—

That Evening – Interrogation Debrief

Peter stood in the living room, arms crossed. “I’ve compiled dossiers on every staff member.”

Elizabeth handed him a wine glass. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m preparing.”

“El, did you know the part-time music teacher used to play in a ska band?”

Neal piped up from the couch. “What’s ska?”

Peter groaned. “Exactly.”

Elizabeth gave him a patient look. “Peter. Sweetheart. He’s not going to spy on the Pentagon. He’s going to play with blocks.”

Peter hesitated. “But what if someone tries to manipulate him? He’s Neal. Even at three, he’s still charming enough to make a pickpocket blush.”

Neal beamed proudly. “Thank you.”

Elizabeth put her glass down and walked over, resting her hands on Peter’s chest.

“He’s going to be okay. Because we’ll still be here when he gets home. And you’ll check in. And probably install a hidden microphone in his lunchbox.”

Peter didn’t deny it.

Neal coughed dramatically. “If there’s a camera in my sandwich, I’m suing.”

Peter finally smiled. “No camera. But I am walking you in.”

Neal grinned. “Like a secret agent?”

Peter kissed his forehead. “Exactly.”

—

Chapter Text

The morning sun streamed through the curtains, warm and golden, the kind of light that promised a fresh start.

And a tantrum.

Neal stood in the hallway with both arms wrapped around Peter’s leg like an anchor, his grip firm and his face defiant.

“I’m not going.”

Peter sighed, trying to walk and drag him at the same time. “Neal. You said last night you wanted to meet the pirate sandbox.”

“That was before I remembered strangers exist.”

Elizabeth walked past with Neal’s little backpack—blue canvas, fox patch sewn carefully onto the front—and smiled as she handed it to Peter. “He’ll be fine. He just needs some extra reassurance.”

Neal sniffled. “What if they don’t like me?”

Peter crouched down, pulling Neal into his arms. “Impossible. You’re the most likable criminal I’ve ever met.”

Neal looked up through watery lashes. “You’re biased.”

Peter ruffled his curls. “Absolutely.”

—

At the Daycare – Tension and Tiny Chairs

Little Steps Learning Center was bright, clean, and cheerful in a way that felt like it had been designed by an over-caffeinated kindergarten architect.

There were colorful posters, shelves of books and toys, and the faint smell of applesauce and Play-Doh.

Neal, now clutching Foxie under one arm and his juice box under the other, stared through the open door of the Bumblebee Room with deep suspicion.

“They're already playing. That’s suspicious behavior. They’re probably part of a gang.”

Elizabeth crouched beside him. “They're playing blocks, sweetheart.”

Peter took a slow, calming breath. “Okay. This is what we talked about. We’re going to walk in, say hello to the nice teacher, and if you want, I’ll stay for a few minutes—”

“No!”

Peter paused. “No?”

“No just a few minutes. You stay for all the minutes.”

Peter smiled gently. “Neal…”

“Or at least twenty of them. That’s non-negotiable.”

—

Inside – The Compromise

Miss Carla, a sweet woman with gentle eyes and the kind of patient voice saints must train for, greeted them at the door.

“And this must be Neal,” she said, crouching to his level.

Neal gave her a once-over. “You don’t look like a villain.”

Carla blinked. “That’s… good?”

“He’s going through a cautious phase,” Elizabeth said brightly.

Neal leaned into Peter’s side. “I’ll stay if I can draw.”

“Of course!” Carla pointed toward the art table. “And if you want, you can make a picture for someone special.”

Neal perked up just a little. “Like a present?”

Peter nodded. “Perfect idea.”

Neal gave a small sigh of noble sacrifice. “Fine. But only if the crayons aren’t broken.”

—

Ten Minutes Later – The Masterpiece

Peter sat on a tiny chair near the wall, knees practically up to his chest, watching Neal draw with intense focus. Elizabeth stood nearby, smiling as she sipped her coffee.

Neal finally held up his finished piece. “Done.”

It was a crayon sketch of a man in a full suit and tie, towering proudly over a tiny building. There was a little golden crown perched on his head and a badge drawn on his chest.

Above it, in big block letters:
“KING OF THE SUITS”
And underneath, scrawled carefully:
“My Peter”

Peter stared at the drawing.

His throat did something strange.

Elizabeth leaned over, reading it. Then looked at him. “Well. You’ve been promoted.”

Peter rubbed at his jaw. “I didn’t even know I was in the monarchy.”

Carla smiled as she took the picture to hang it on the wall. “He has quite the imagination.”

Elizabeth nudged Peter’s arm gently. “We should go.”

Peter looked over at Neal, who was now listening intently as another kid showed him how to build a crayon rocket. Foxie sat beside them, honored guest to the construction crew.

Neal glanced up.

Peter hesitated.

Then Neal gave a tiny nod—barely a twitch of his head.

Peter got it.

He stood.

—

Outside – The Letting Go

They stepped into the sun. Peter’s hands were empty. His chest was a little tight.

Elizabeth looped her arm through his. “He’s going to be fine.”

Peter nodded. “I know.”

“He has Foxie. And snacks. And he crowned you king, which is honestly a huge deal.”

Peter chuckled softly. 

They started walking toward the car.

Peter glanced back once.

Through the big window, he saw Neal sitting at the little table. He was laughing.

Peter let himself smile, heart swelling.

“I think I’m going to miss him.”

Elizabeth squeezed his hand. “That just means you’re doing it right.”

—

Chapter Text

Peter had handled evidence from million-dollar heists.
He’d worn thousand-dollar suits to trial and undercover meetings alike.
He’d even braved a baby food stain or two when Neal had sneezed with a spoon in his hand.

But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the glory of the glitter tie.

—

Daycare Pickup – 3:07 PM

“P’tah!”

Neal burst through the Bumblebee Room door the moment Peter walked in, arms stretched out, a massive grin plastered across his face.

Peter bent down immediately, scooping him up. “Hey, buddy! How was your day?”

“I made something!” Neal wiggled in his arms until Peter set him down. He darted back to the art table, where Carla handed him a folded construction paper creation.

Neal turned around and held it up triumphantly.

It was a paper tie.
Cut out in rough angles.
Splotched with five different colors of glitter glue.
Sequins. Googly eyes. One pipe cleaner coiled like a spring.
And in crooked black marker:
“To: My Peter. For Missions Only.”

Peter stared.

It sparkled menacingly in the sunlight.

Elizabeth, who’d arrived a few minutes earlier, leaned in. “Oh no. It’s beautiful.”

Neal beamed. “You have to wear it to work.”

Peter coughed. “Work?”

“It’s for missions,” Neal said seriously. “And work is your spy job. So you have to wear it. Promise.”

Peter looked into those wide blue eyes. The ones that had once conned millionaires, now asking for a very different kind of trust.

He sighed. “I promise.”

—

The Next Morning – Operation: Glitter Protocol

Peter arrived at the FBI office precisely at 8:42 a.m.

Wearing a perfectly pressed navy suit.
A crisp white shirt.
Polished shoes.

And the glitter monstrosity tied over his real silk tie like a child’s battle ribbon.

Jones looked up from his desk and froze mid-sip of coffee.

“…Are you bleeding sparkles?”

Peter dropped his briefcase. “Don’t start.”

Diana walked past and burst into laughter. “You’re glowing. In multiple colors.”

Peter deadpanned. “It’s tactical distraction. Part of a covert op.”

Jones grinned. “Code name?”

Peter opened his folder. “Operation: Fox Cub.”

—

The Explanation

He gave in five minutes later and told them the truth.

Neal had worked on it all afternoon. He’d even tested “stickiness strength” by trying to hang it on Satchmo’s tail before settling on adhesive Velcro tabs.

“He said it’s ‘spy armor,’” Peter muttered, flipping through case files while pretending he didn’t hear Jones snapping photos.

“Agent Burke,” Diana said between giggles, “you know that’s going on the office bulletin board, right?”

Peter sighed. “I wore a wire into a mob ring in Brooklyn. I can survive this.”

Jones nodded solemnly. “But did that wire have pom-poms?”

—

Back at Home – The Debrief

That night, Peter arrived home, tie still in place.

Neal saw it immediately and gasped like someone in a romcom.

“You wore it?!”

Peter crouched. “All day.”

Neal wrapped his arms around Peter’s neck, eyes shining. “Did it work? Did you complete your mission?”

Peter smiled, pulling him in tighter. “Absolutely. The criminals didn’t stand a chance.”

Elizabeth walked in with a smirk. “You’ve got glitter in your hair.”

Peter muttered, “It’s embedded in my soul now.”

Neal beamed. “That means it’s working.”

—

The Tie Stays

That night, Peter carefully unfastened the glitter tie and hung it next to his real ones.

It wasn’t going in a drawer.

It had earned its place.

Not just because it was ridiculous.
Not even because he loved the boy who made it.

But because when Neal looked at him and said, “You’re my Peter,”
and handed him something made with glue and pride…

Peter knew there was no other mission more important.

—

Chapter Text

Neal stood on the coffee table with one hand on his hip and the other clutching his stuffed fox like a badge of honor.

“I have to go, P’tah! It’s Bring Your Child to Work Day!”

Peter sat at the kitchen table with his coffee, blinking slowly.

Elizabeth stood by the fridge, silently filming the scene on her phone.

Neal’s voice rose dramatically. “You can’t just leave me behind! I’m your partner!”

Peter lowered his mug. “Neal. You’re three.”

Neal scowled. “And an essential part of the operation. I’ve saved lives.”

“You flushed a goldfish to ‘free it into the wild.’”

Elizabeth covered her mouth to stifle a laugh.

“That was a tactical release!” Neal cried. “Besides, you said I’m part of the team. I made you a tie!”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. “I wore the tie, remember? I was glitter-bombed for your honor.”

Neal narrowed his eyes. “Then you owe me.”

—

The Negotiation

Peter crouched beside the table. “Neal. My office has agents, guns, and people who don’t know how to toddler-proof their coffee. You’d be bored. And very possibly arrested for turning someone’s computer background into crayon art again.”

Neal folded his arms. “I’ll wear my serious face. I’ll even bring snacks for the team.”

“You’ll last ten minutes before building a fort out of file boxes.”

Neal smirked. “That’s still ten minutes of value.”

Peter sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“*Impossible to replace.”

Elizabeth, finally intervening, walked over and knelt beside both of them. “How about a compromise?”

Neal’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t like that word.”

She ruffled his curls. “You get to help Peter prepare for the day. You can draw badges, assign code names, and pack his spy supplies. But no field missions.”

Neal looked between them. “I also want a walkie-talkie.”

Peter groaned. “You already have three.”

“This one needs range.”

Elizabeth winked. “I'll see what I can find.”

—

Pre-Mission Briefing – From the Living Room HQ

The next morning, Peter stood near the front door, briefcase ready, suit pristine… and a crayon-drawn folder in hand labeled:
TOP SECRET: OPERATION TIE 2.0

Neal, still in pajamas but wearing a plastic badge and sunglasses twice too big, paced in front of him.

“Okay, Agent Daddy,” Neal began, “today your mission is to find the blue folder with the really mean lady who forged all those checks.”

“You mean the embezzlement case?”

“Yes. But cooler sounding.”

Peter opened the folder. Inside was a single drawing of him chasing a dollar sign with legs and angry eyebrows. It had “Arrest Me!” written across the top.

“Neal…”

“That’s the perp.”

Elizabeth came over, handing Peter a juice box. “From your handler.”

Peter took it with a smile. “What would I do without my team?”

Neal puffed up. “Probably get compromised.”

—

Later at Work – The Team Reacts

Peter arrived at the office and unloaded his briefcase.

Inside were:

• One glitter tie (again)

• A crumpled drawing of Diana labeled “Laser Eyes”

• A granola bar (“in case of hostage situations”)

• And a Post-it note that said:
  Don’t forget to poop before you leave a building. Love, Fox Cub.

Diana snorted. “He’s learning field protocol early.”

Jones held up the drawing. “Laser Eyes, huh?”

Peter sighed. “We had a very serious debriefing.”

—

Back at Home – The Final Report

Peter returned home that night to find Neal sitting at the table with a clipboard and his fake glasses on.

“Well?” Neal asked, completely serious. “Mission success?”

Peter dropped the glitter tie on the table like a trophy. “Unqualified victory. No casualties. One very close call with a vending machine.”

Neal nodded solemnly. “Did you remember to poop?”

Peter stared. “I refuse to answer that.”

Elizabeth handed Neal his juice box and kissed the top of his head. “You make a very good handler.”

Neal grinned. “You should see my real plans.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”

“Very.”

—

Chapter Text

Peter was halfway through a budget meeting when his phone buzzed.
He checked the screen and sighed.
Little Steps Learning Center.

Beside him, Diana raised an eyebrow. “Neal again?”

Peter nodded. “Either someone broke into the snack stash… or he started a coup.”

Jones murmured, “I vote snacks.”

Peter stood. “I’ll be back. Save me a donut if this takes a while.”

—

The Crime Scene

By the time Peter arrived at the daycare, the director—Ms. Carla—was waiting near the front door with a clipboard and an expression of weary patience.

“Agent Burke,” she greeted him, voice calm but tinged with the kind of exhaustion that only glitter and toddlers could cause. “We have a situation.”

Peter tried to look concerned.

“I take it this isn’t about finger paint again?”

She turned and led him to the Bumblebee Room without a word.

Inside, three entire feet of wall space were covered in looping, colorful crayon lines.

Swirls. Zigzags. A stick figure holding what appeared to be a briefcase and wearing a glitter tie.

Beneath it, in red marker, someone had attempted to write “MISSION ACCOMPLISHED,” though the spelling had suffered under toddler enthusiasm.

Peter blinked.

That was definitely him in the drawing.

—

The Accused

Neal sat on the time-out mat, arms crossed, chin up.

He looked like someone falsely accused at a congressional hearing.

Carla whispered, “He claims he’s innocent.”

Peter approached slowly, arms folded. “Neal.”

Neal looked up.

“Wanna tell me what happened here?”

Neal widened his eyes. “It wasn’t me.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “It wasn’t you?”

“Nope.”

Peter gestured toward the very detailed stick figure with curls and a plastic badge. “You’re saying you didn’t draw that?”

Neal sighed dramatically. “It was… the invisible raccoon.”

Peter blinked. “The… sorry. The what?”

Neal nodded solemnly. “The invisible raccoon. He lives in the art corner. He’s very mischievous.”

Peter rubbed his jaw to hide the growing smile. “Uh-huh. And did the invisible raccoon also use your name tag as a stencil?”

Neal hesitated. “He borrowed it.”

Peter crouched down, trying very hard to keep a straight face.

“Neal, buddy. You can’t draw on the walls.”

“I tried to stop him, but he’s invisible and sneaky and I think he’s part raccoon, part spy.”

Peter covered his mouth briefly and cleared his throat. “Look… I know you didn’t mean to cause trouble. But you need to tell the truth.”

Neal squirmed. “If I say it was me, am I still going to FBI jail?”

“There is no FBI jail for drawing on walls.”

Neal lowered his eyes. “Okay… it was me.”

Peter smiled softly. “Thank you.”

Neal looked up, hopeful. “Can I still keep the raccoon? For… pretend emergencies?”

Peter chuckled. “Only if he promises not to use crayons unsupervised.”

—

The Consequences (Kind Of)

After a very serious conversation about responsibility, Peter stayed behind with Neal to help scrub the walls. Elizabeth arrived midway with wipes, hugs, and juice boxes.

Neal scrubbed hard at one blue line and muttered, “Invisible raccoon better be helping.”

Peter smiled. “He can start by putting your crayons back in the box.”

Neal paused. “He says you’re kind of bossy.”

Elizabeth stifled a laugh and gave Peter a wink. “Well, he’s not wrong.”

—

Later That Night – Debriefing

Back at home, Peter placed a fresh box of wall-safe art paper on the kitchen wall at Neal’s height.

“This is your new mural zone,” he said. “Draw here. Not on anything else.”

Neal beamed. “Can the raccoon use it too?”

Peter ruffled his curls. “Sure. But if he tries anything sneaky, I’m assigning him to Jones.”

Neal gasped. “He’s not ready for field work!”

Peter winked. “Then he better behave.”

—

Chapter Text

The daycare call came just after Peter had settled into his desk.

“Agent Burke,” said Carla gently over the phone, “nothing serious—he’s safe—but I thought you should know… Neal ate lunch alone today.”

Peter immediately sat up straighter. “Why?”

“There was a misunderstanding. Another child thought Neal had taken their toy and told him he wasn’t allowed at their table. The teachers handled it, but… he wouldn’t sit with anyone else. Said he didn’t mind, but…” She hesitated. “He didn’t eat much.”

Peter’s stomach sank. “I’ll come early.”

“Of course.”

He was out the door before Jones could finish asking, “What’s up?”

Peter just muttered, “Kid stuff,” and grabbed his coat.

—

Pickup – Quiet Eyes and Heavy Feet

Neal wasn’t running toward the door like usual.

He was sitting by the window, Foxie hugged tight in one arm, legs swinging off the bench. His juice box was untouched beside him.

When he looked up and saw Peter, his face brightened—but only for a second.

Peter knelt down. “Hey, buddy.”

Neal looked at the floor. “Hi.”

Peter gently tapped his knee. “Want to tell me what happened?”

Neal shrugged. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

Peter nodded slowly. “Okay. Then let’s go somewhere where not-big-deals taste like fries and chocolate milk.”

Neal peeked up through his lashes. “The diner?”

Peter smiled. “Only if you promise to help me eat an unreasonable amount of fries.”

Neal stood without a word and slipped his hand into Peter’s.

—

At the Diner – Comfort Food and Conversations

The corner booth was warm and familiar. The red vinyl squeaked as Neal climbed up, and Peter handed him a kids’ menu and a crayon out of habit.

Neal didn’t draw.

Peter ordered them both grilled cheese, fries, and chocolate milk.

They sat in quiet for a minute before Peter said gently, “You don’t have to tell me. But you can.”

Neal stared at the napkin dispenser. “They said I stole something.”

Peter waited.

“I didn’t. It was on the floor, and I gave it back. But… they said I couldn’t sit with them anyway.”

Peter nodded. “That wasn’t fair.”

Neal blinked hard. “I didn’t even want to sit with them. But when I sat alone, it felt… bad. And then I thought—maybe I am bad.”

Peter’s heart twisted.

He reached across the table and gently took Neal’s hand.

“Hey. Listen to me. You’re not bad. You’re smart, and kind, and yes—sometimes you make trouble—but you always try to fix it. That’s what good people do.”

Neal sniffled. “Even if people don’t want me around?”

Peter leaned in. “They’re missing out.”

Neal looked down. “I didn’t want to cry in front of them.”

“You can cry whenever you want.”

Neal’s voice was small. “You don’t think I’m a baby?”

Peter gave him a soft smile. “You’re my partner.”

That earned the tiniest grin.

—

Fries and Feelings

Their food arrived, and Neal perked up almost instantly at the mountain of fries.

Peter stole one. “So what do we do when someone treats us unfairly?”

“Eat all their fries?”

Peter chuckled. “Tempting. But no.”

Neal munched thoughtfully. “Tell a grown-up?”

“Good. And?”

Neal kicked his legs under the booth. “Don’t believe the mean thing they said.”

Peter pointed his fry at him. “Exactly. One bad moment doesn’t mean you’re bad. Got it?”

Neal popped a fry in his mouth and nodded. “Got it.”

Peter leaned back. “That’s my guy.”

—

Back at Home – A Plan for Tomorrow

That evening, Neal sat at the kitchen table with a fresh sheet of paper and every marker he owned.

Elizabeth looked over his shoulder. “What are you drawing, sweetie?”

He grinned. “A new seat sign. It says ‘Everyone Can Sit With Me.’”

She smiled and kissed his curls. “That’s beautiful.”

Neal looked up at Peter. “And if someone sits alone, I’m gonna sit with them.”

Peter ruffled his hair. “Sounds like someone I’d want on my team.”

Neal beamed. “We’re already on the same team.”

Peter smiled back. “Forever.”

—

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun poured gently through the windows of the Burke home, casting golden light over half-finished coloring pages, a spilled bin of Legos, and one very intense cardboard spy mission.

Elizabeth stood in the kitchen, stirring a pot of pasta sauce and humming along to the radio.

Neal had been unusually quiet for the last twenty minutes.

Which, for Neal, was always suspicious.

—

Operation Undercover: Solo Mission

Earlier that afternoon, Neal had declared that his crayons were “top secret spy gadgets,” and the dining table was now “Headquarters.”

He’d set up a perimeter with empty paper towel tubes, placed Foxie on lookout duty by the table leg, and crawled under with a mission: color-coded blueprints of a “laser maze” that would guard his snack drawer.

Peter had warned him to stay clear of actual wires.

Neal had just nodded solemnly and muttered something about “non-lethal glitter traps.”

And then… silence.

—

Discovery

“Neal?” Elizabeth called out, wiping her hands. No answer.

She checked the living room. Nothing.
Peeked into the hallway. Empty.
Backyard door was locked.

Then she saw the faintest flicker of red and blue beneath the edge of the tablecloth.

She knelt and lifted the hem.

There he was.

Neal Caffrey, age three, sound asleep in the dim hush beneath the dining table, curled up like a kitten next to an impressive pile of crayons and half-drawn blueprints.

Foxie was tucked under one arm. A green marker was still in his hand, the cap missing.
He snored once, adorably, and muttered something like “counter surveillance macaroni.”

Elizabeth smiled so wide it made her cheeks ache.

—

The Rescue Operation

Peter arrived home a few minutes later and found her crouched by the table, phone out, clearly filming.

“What’s going on?”

Elizabeth beckoned him over with a finger to her lips.

He dropped his briefcase and knelt beside her, peeking under.

Peter blinked. “He fell asleep under the table?”

“Mid-mission.”

Peter chuckled softly. “Did he secure the perimeter first?”

Elizabeth nodded. “Foxie’s on duty.”

Peter reached under and gently brushed the curls from Neal’s forehead. “He works hard.”

“He plays hard.”

“He plots hard.”

They exchanged a smile, then Peter whispered, “Should we move him?”

Elizabeth hesitated. “He looks too peaceful.”

“Fair. But his leg is halfway into the kitchen and I’m afraid I’m gonna trip and die.”

Elizabeth giggled. “We’ll extract the asset carefully.”

—

The Lift

Peter slid an arm under Neal’s back and the other under his knees.

Neal stirred only slightly, sighing into Foxie’s fur but not waking up.

“He smells like apple juice and markers,” Peter muttered.

“Spy life is messy,” Elizabeth whispered.

They carried him gently to the couch, where Elizabeth tucked a blanket over him and Peter adjusted Foxie into proper snuggling position.

Neal turned onto his side, still sleeping, and whispered, “Don’t forget the glitter mine…”

Peter snorted softly. “We need to cut back on his espionage picture books.”

Elizabeth leaned against him. “I’m not even sorry.”

—

Later That Night – Crayon Cleanup

While Neal napped, they cleaned up the mission zone.

Peter uncapped six rogue markers and found three wedged between couch cushions. Elizabeth found a crayon inside the coffee mug cabinet.

Peter shook his head. “He has a gift.”

Elizabeth stacked the blueprints. “If he turns this into a real security system, we’re in trouble.”

Peter laughed, then looked toward the couch.

Neal was still sleeping soundly, thumb curled near his chin, Foxie under his cheek.

Peter’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s been calmer lately.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Still wild, still mischievous… but he trusts us now.”

Peter exhaled. “And I trust him. With all my heart.”

Elizabeth slid her hand into his. “Ours too.”

—

Chapter Text

The house was finally quiet.

No crayons clicking on hardwood.
No juice box straw slurping.
No galloping toddler feet or sudden declarations of, “I’m a rocket!”

Just the hush of nighttime, the gentle rhythm of Satchmo’s tail thumping on the floor… and the soft, steady breathing of a little boy fast asleep upstairs.

Peter and Elizabeth sat side by side on the front porch, two mugs of steaming chamomile tea warming their hands, a shared blanket over both their laps.

The porch swing creaked gently in the late summer breeze.

It had been a long day.

A good day.

But long.

—

Tired Bones, Full Hearts

Peter leaned back, sipping slowly. “He used to steal paintings, you know.”

Elizabeth smiled behind her mug. “Now he steals juice boxes.”

Peter nodded solemnly. “And hearts.”

They sat in silence for a moment, both looking out at the quiet street. The porch light buzzed gently above them. Moths danced in its glow.

Inside the house, the baby monitor on the table gave a soft rustle—just the sound of Neal turning in his sleep.

Then Elizabeth broke the silence.

“He changed everything.”

Her voice was low but certain.

Peter looked over at her.

And nodded.

“And somehow made it all better.”

—

One Step at a Time

Elizabeth leaned her head on Peter’s shoulder, warm and solid beneath her.

“I thought it’d be harder,” she said softly. “Taking in a three-year-old version of someone who used to fake his own death and flirt with FBI agents.”

Peter chuckled. “It is hard. But not in the ways I expected.”

“He makes it easy to love him.”

Peter’s throat tightened just slightly. “Yeah. He does.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes. “Sometimes I think about what happens if he doesn’t change back.”

Peter was quiet.

“I don’t know if I want him to,” she added in a whisper.

Peter let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Me neither.”

There was another rustle through the baby monitor. Neal sighed in his sleep, then muttered, “Captain Peter… treasure’s behind the couch…”

Peter smiled, heart aching in the best way.

“He’s not who I expected to raise,” he said. “But he’s exactly who I needed.”

Elizabeth reached over and took his hand.

“I think he needed us too.”

—

Settled

Eventually, the tea was gone.

The stars peeked out above the trees.
Satchmo snored softly by the door.

Peter stood first, stretching with a groan. “Tomorrow’s going to start at 5 a.m., I can feel it.”

Elizabeth smirked. “Especially if someone finds his pirate map again.”

Peter offered her his hand and helped her up.

They walked inside quietly, locking the door, switching off the porch light, and checking once more on Neal—curled in bed with Foxie, surrounded by plushy “guards,” the glitter tie draped over the side of his nightstand like a flag.

Peter leaned against the doorway, watching the slow rise and fall of the little boy’s chest.

He turned to Elizabeth and whispered, “He changed everything.”

Elizabeth brushed a hand over Neal’s curls and smiled.

“And somehow,” she whispered, “made it all better.”

—

Chapter Text

It was a perfect afternoon for the park.

The sun filtered through tall trees, dappling the grass in warm gold. Birds chirped from the playground fence. Somewhere nearby, a kid laughed as a kite swooped overhead.

Neal was running in erratic loops around the sandbox with a red bucket on his head like a helmet and a stick he had declared a “spy saber.”

Peter and Satchmo sat on a nearby bench, keeping a watchful eye.

Well—Peter watched. Satchmo monitored.

—

The Runaround

“Look at me!” Neal shouted, wobbling under the weight of the bucket. “I’m invisible! You can’t see me!”

Peter sipped his coffee and chuckled. “You’re screaming, buddy. That kind of defeats the purpose.”

“I’m a stealth rocket!” Neal insisted, tripping into a pile of leaves.

Satchmo’s ears perked slightly at the tumble but didn’t move. He was used to this.

Peter leaned back on the bench, his hand resting on Satchmo’s head. “You’ve got the easiest job in the Bureau, don’t you?”

Satchmo just huffed and rested his chin on Peter’s knee.

—

The Stranger

It happened fast.

A man in a gray hoodie stepped off the walking path and headed toward the sandbox—too directly. Too quickly.

He wasn’t looking around. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t watching the other kids.

He was walking straight for Neal.

Peter stood immediately, the coffee forgotten.

But Satchmo was faster.

The moment the man got within six feet of Neal, Satchmo moved—silent and swift, inserting himself between them with one fluid motion, ears back, shoulders stiff.

He didn’t bark.

He didn’t snap.

He just growled.

A low, steady warning that rumbled in his chest like thunder.

Neal froze, looking up. “Satch?”

The man stepped back instantly, hands up. “Whoa, hey, I wasn’t— I thought he dropped something. Sorry.”

Peter was already there, hand on Satchmo’s collar but not pulling him away. His eyes locked onto the man’s. “You know this kid?”

The man shook his head quickly. “No—I thought he dropped a toy. My bad.”

Peter didn’t blink. “Keep walking.”

The man nodded and turned, walking—too fast now—back toward the sidewalk.

Peter’s jaw tightened as he watched until the guy was well out of range.

Only then did he crouch down next to Satchmo and Neal.

—

The Aftermath

Neal looked up at Peter with wide eyes. “Was that a bad guy?”

Peter softened immediately. “I don’t know. Maybe just someone not thinking.”

Neal wrapped his arms around Satchmo’s thick neck. “He didn’t like him.”

Peter rubbed Satchmo’s back slowly. “No, he didn’t.”

The dog was calm again, standing still but alert. His tail gave one slow wag only after Neal buried his face into his fur.

Peter stared at the place where the man had been.

Satchmo had known. Before Peter saw anything, before Neal noticed a thing—Satchmo knew.

He gently scratched behind the dog’s ear. “You’re more than a good boy, pal.”

Satchmo gave a low snort like he already knew that.

—

Later – At Home

Peter poured a little extra into Satchmo’s food bowl that night.

Neal noticed immediately.

“Why does he get the good wet food?”

Peter knelt beside him. “Because today, Satchmo was a hero.”

Neal blinked. “He already is a hero.”

Peter smiled. “Today he proved it.”

Elizabeth looked between them. “What happened?”

Neal answered for them both, solemn as a judge. “There was a man. He tried to interfere. But Satchmo protected me. He growled like a guardian dragon.”

Peter chuckled, wrapping his arm around Neal’s small shoulders. “Exactly like that.”

Neal reached over and dropped a few goldfish crackers into Satchmo’s bowl. “You’re on my team forever.”

Satchmo chomped happily.

And wagged his tail.

—

Chapter Text

The flyer had been pinned to the fridge for two weeks.

Bright colors. Glitter-glued borders. Big block letters reading:
"Family Friends Day – Thursday, 2 p.m."
Bring your favorite grown-up. Sing-along. Juice and cookies provided.

Neal had been talking about it nonstop.
Rehearsing his song in the living room.
Practicing his “welcome dance.”
Making Peter a badge that said:
“Special Agent Daddy of the Year.”

And Peter had promised.

But then Thursday came.

And the call came with it.

A suspect on the move. A last-minute break. The kind of lead Peter couldn’t ignore.

He didn’t mean to miss it.

But he did.

—

That Evening – Silence

The front door creaked open at 6:12 p.m.

Peter stepped in, briefcase over his shoulder, tie loose, guilt heavy.

Elizabeth was in the kitchen, cleaning up from dinner. She didn’t smile when she saw him.

“He didn’t eat much.”

Peter’s heart sank. “Is he upstairs?”

Elizabeth nodded, then added, “Still wearing his paper crown. Didn’t want to take it off.”

Peter swallowed hard. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Be gentle.”

—

Neal’s Room – The Fallout

Peter knocked softly, then pushed the door open.

Neal was curled up in bed, still fully dressed. His golden crown—slightly crumpled now—was slipping sideways over his curls.

Foxie lay at his side.

Peter crouched next to the bed. “Hey, bud.”

Neal turned his face into the pillow.

Peter tried again. “El told me you did amazing today.”

No answer.

“I’m really sorry I wasn’t there.”

Silence.

Peter exhaled, sat back on his heels. “I didn’t want to miss it.”

At last, Neal mumbled into the pillow, “You care more about bad guys than me.”

Peter’s chest ached. “That’s not true.”

“You missed my song.”

Peter closed his eyes for a moment. “I know. I know I did. And I’m so sorry. I wanted to see it more than anything.”

Neal turned toward him, face blotchy and serious. “You promised.”

Peter nodded slowly. “I did.”

“And you didn’t come.”

Peter swallowed. “Something came up at work. But that doesn’t mean you’re not the most important thing in my life. You are. Always.”

Neal’s lower lip trembled. “Even more than your badge?”

Peter reached into his pocket.

And pulled out the crumpled homemade badge Neal had made—construction paper, crooked tape, and all.

“I kept it in my pocket all day,” Peter said softly. “Even during the arrest.”

Neal blinked.

“I showed it to Jones and Diana,” Peter added. “Told them it’s the most important badge I have.”

A long pause.

Then Neal whispered, “You really did?”

Peter nodded. “Swear on my best necktie.”

Neal didn’t say anything, but he sat up slowly, the crown flopping sideways.

Peter reached to straighten it.

“I was brave,” Neal said quietly. “I didn’t even hide during the clapping.”

“I’m so proud of you,” Peter said. “So proud, Neal. Always.”

—

Rebuilding

Elizabeth peeked in a few minutes later to find Peter stretched across the bed sideways, Neal curled on his chest like a sleepy cat, crown abandoned on the floor.

They were both whispering under the blanket.

“I’ll come next time,” Peter promised.

“You better,” Neal muttered. “I made you two drawings.”

“I’ll frame both.”

Elizabeth smiled, closed the door gently, and left them to patch things in their own time.

—

-

Chapter Text

The morning started like any other.

Elizabeth left early for a client meeting, blowing kisses as she grabbed her coffee. Peter stayed behind to handle daycare drop-off.

Neal, still in pajamas, was coloring a squirrel with purple stripes at the dining table. Crayon shavings were everywhere.

And Satchmo?

Satchmo was lounging like a king on the couch, belly-up, tail occasionally thumping against a pillow with contentment.

Peter took one look at him and grinned.

“Well, somebody’s having a lazy morning.”

Satchmo didn’t move except to let out a loud huff.

Peter chuckled and crossed the room, sitting beside him and scratching gently behind his ears. “You're the only one in this house who doesn't spill juice or require bedtime negotiations.”

Satchmo licked his hand in reply.

Peter settled back, resting one arm around Satchmo’s shoulders. It was peaceful—quiet even.

Which, in retrospect, should’ve been a warning sign.

—

A Storm Brewing

Neal glanced up from his drawing.

His eyes flicked to Peter.

Then to Satchmo.

Then to the hand resting on Satchmo’s fur—the same hand that usually ruffled his curls during movie night or held his hand walking down steps.

Neal's face fell.

He stared for another second, lips pressing into a tight line.

Then—wordlessly—he stood up, crayon dropping onto the floor.

He stormed into the hallway, grabbing Foxie on the way, muttering something unintelligible about “pillow castles and traitors.”

—

The Fallout

Peter found him twenty minutes later in the hallway closet, sitting atop a pile of towels, arms crossed, eyes watery.

Foxie was crammed beside him.

“Hey,” Peter said gently, crouching.

Neal didn’t look up.

“You disappeared, buddy.”

No response.

Peter sat on the floor outside the closet. “Want to tell me what’s wrong?”

After a long silence, Neal mumbled, “Nothing.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing.”

Another pause.

Then, quiet and broken: “I thought you liked him more.”

Peter’s heart cracked.

He reached in slowly. “Satchmo?”

Neal wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve. “You were cuddling him. Not me.”

Peter took a deep breath. “Neal. You know I love Satchmo, right?”

Neal nodded reluctantly.

“But I don’t love him the same way I love you.”

That made Neal glance up, his eyes wide. “You don’t?”

Peter smiled. “Satchmo’s our dog. He’s family. He’s important.”

Then he reached in and brushed a curl from Neal’s forehead.

“But you’re my boy. That’s something else entirely.”

Neal sniffled, then whispered, “But you looked so happy cuddling him.”

“I’m happy cuddling you, too. Even when you’re a little wiggly.”

Neal gave the tiniest smile. “I’m not that wiggly.”

“You really are.”

Peter held out his arms. “Want a turn?”

Neal hesitated for half a second, then launched himself out of the closet and straight into Peter’s lap.

Peter held him tight, rubbing his back.

“Next time,” Neal murmured against his shoulder, “can I sit there first?”

“Always,” Peter said, kissing the top of his head. “Always.”

—

Later – Reconciliation

They returned to the living room together.

Satchmo looked up and gave a curious little chuff.

Neal hesitated.

Then walked over and patted Satchmo’s head. “Sorry I was mad. You’re still my second-best friend.”

Satchmo wagged his tail, clearly accepting the terms.

Neal turned to Peter. “Can we all cuddle now? I made room on the couch.”

Peter smiled, settling onto the cushions, arms wide.

Neal climbed into one side, Satchmo flopped onto the other.

Peter sighed contentedly, wrapping both in a warm hug.

The perfect, slightly chaotic sandwich.

—

-

Chapter Text

It started with a new pair of sneakers.

Blue with red lightning bolts. Light-up soles.
Neal had chosen them himself at the store, practically vibrating with excitement. He called them his “mission shoes.”

The only problem?

They had laces.

And Neal had never tied a shoelace in his life.

Not in this body, anyway.

—

The First Attempt

Saturday morning dawned bright and quiet—until Neal stomped down the stairs wearing his new sneakers, tongue flopping out, laces dragging behind him like streamers.

“Shoes ready!” he declared.

Peter looked up from his coffee. “Buddy… those aren’t tied.”

Neal looked down. “They’re on.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “And what happens when you trip and do a somersault into the front bushes?”

Neal grinned. “I land like a spy.”

Peter shook his head with a smile. “Come here, 007. Time to learn how to tie those.”

—

The Lesson Begins

They sat together on the couch, Satchmo watching from his usual post beside the coffee table.

Peter pulled Neal’s foot into his lap. “Okay. Step one—make an ‘X’.”

Neal followed the motion carefully, tongue poking out in concentration.

“Now loop one lace under and pull tight.”

So far, so good.

“Next, make a bunny ear—”

“Why does a bunny have anything to do with my shoes?” Neal asked suspiciously.

Peter smirked. “Just go with it.”

Neal made the loop. Peter guided his hand. “Wrap the other lace around…”

“Like a scarf?”

“Exactly.”

“Then?”

“Pull it through the hole and—ta-da!”

Peter gave a theatrical tug and the bow held.

Neal blinked. “I did it?”

“You did it.”

Neal beamed.

Then tried again on the other shoe.

The loop fell apart halfway.

Then again.

It slipped loose.

Again.

Tangled.

Again.

Total knot.

Neal huffed, cheeks pink with frustration. “Ugh! I used to wear loafers!”

Peter bit back a laugh. “Yes, well… you also used to drink thousand-dollar wine and fake your death.”

Neal scowled.

Peter leaned closer. “Welcome to Velcro and perseverance, kiddo.”

—

Velcro and Perseverance

They tried again.

And again.

And once, Neal nearly flung a shoe across the room before Peter caught it mid-arc.

After the seventh attempt, Peter raised his eyebrows. “Want a break?”

“No,” Neal grumbled. “I’m winning against the shoes.”

Peter grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

—

Victory, Finally

It happened when Peter wasn’t even looking.

He was mid-sip of his coffee when Neal gasped. “I did it!”

Peter turned—and sure enough, there it was.

A lopsided, slightly floppy, but completely functional bow.

Neal looked at him, beaming like he’d cracked the Louvre’s security grid.

Peter grinned. “That, my friend, is art.”

Neal puffed out his chest. “I’m a lace master.”

Peter ruffled his hair. “Just don’t untie them before we leave the house.”

“I won’t,” Neal promised. “Not unless I need to prove something.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

—

Later – Show and Tell

That afternoon, Neal made Elizabeth sit on the couch and watch the entire process.

When he finally tied both shoes—almost symmetrically—she applauded like he’d won a Nobel Prize.

Neal bowed dramatically.

Peter clapped from the hallway. “Next up: buttoning shirts the right way.”

Neal’s eyes widened. “We’re doing more?”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Perseverance, remember?”

Neal groaned. “Can I fake my death again instead?”

Elizabeth laughed. “Nope. You’re stuck with us. Buttons and all.”

—

Chapter Text

It had been sitting in the garage for two weeks.

A shiny, cobalt-blue toddler-sized bike, complete with training wheels and a little silver bell. Neal had picked it out himself—after examining every model, color, and accessory known to man—and declared it “worthy of a gentleman on the move.”

Peter had assembled it the same day, muttering under his breath about plastic washers and metric bolts while Neal offered “helpful” advice like, “Did you tighten the sprocket? That’s very important.”

But today—finally—was the big day.

Neal was going to ride.

—

Ready for Launch

The sidewalk stretched straight and even ahead of them. Elizabeth stood at the end of the driveway with her phone camera ready. Satchmo sat dutifully beside her like the Official Cheer Squad.

Peter crouched behind the bike, hands gripping the back of the seat.

Neal, in a red helmet two sizes too big and his favorite sunglasses, adjusted his grip on the handlebars like a tiny action hero. “I’ve got this.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “You sure? First time riding means a little wobble.”

Neal turned his head and gave a very serious expression. “Peter. I used to parkour across rooftops.”

Peter smirked. “Used to.”

“Details.”

—

The Ride Begins

“Alright, on three,” Peter said. “One... two...”

“Three!” Neal shouted, immediately launching forward before Peter had fully let go.

Peter jogged beside him, one hand still holding the back of the seat as the bike teetered left, then right.

“You’re doing great,” Peter said.

“I know!” Neal replied, wind catching his voice as he rang the bell triumphantly. “I don’t even need your—WHOA—”

—

The Bush Incident

Peter’s hand slipped just as Neal veered slightly toward the grass.

The bike jerked, Neal overcorrected, the bell let out one last heroic ding—and then:

WHUMP.

Straight into the nearest hedge.

Elizabeth gasped. Satchmo barked once.

Peter sprinted forward. “Neal!”

A muffled voice came from within the bush. “I’m okay.”

Peter parted the branches to find Neal tangled in a thicket of leaves and stubborn twigs, still holding the handlebars with a stunned expression.

Foxie had somehow ended up in the basket, miraculously unharmed.

“I had control,” Neal said weakly.

Peter bit back a laugh. “Sure you did.”

—

The Recovery

Peter lifted the bike out of the bush with one hand and scooped Neal up with the other, brushing leaves from his helmet.

Neal crossed his arms. “I told you I didn’t need help.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “And that went great.”

Neal huffed. “It was the wind.”

“Of course it was.”

Peter set him on the sidewalk again, checking his knees. No scratches. Just a bruised ego.

“Want to try again?”

Neal hesitated.

Peter knelt beside him. “This time, I’ll hold on the whole way.”

Neal looked up, stubbornness melting just a little. “You promise?”

Peter smiled. “Always.”

—

Round Two

This time, Peter held tight.

Neal pedaled slower. More steady.

They made it all the way to the end of the block before Neal dared let out another proud, “I GOT THIS!”

And this time?

He didn’t crash.

—

Later – Storytelling

That night, Elizabeth tucked a sleepy Neal into bed, his helmet resting beside Foxie like a trophy.

Peter leaned on the doorway.

“I didn’t fall the second time,” Neal mumbled.

“You sure didn’t.”

“I’m gonna go faster tomorrow.”

Peter smiled. “Let’s keep it on the sidewalk for now.”

Neal grinned sleepily. “Okay. But if you ever fall into a bush, I’ll rescue you too.”

Peter stepped in, ruffling his curls. “Deal.”

—

Chapter Text

It all started with a bird.

A little bluejay, perched on the fence just outside the kitchen window, let out a clear, cheerful trill as Peter rinsed breakfast dishes.

Neal, standing on a stool beside him in shark-print pajamas, froze mid-chew on his toast. “What was that sound?”

Peter glanced out the window. “That’s a bird whistle.”

Neal narrowed his eyes like he was analyzing a master con. “The bird made music with its face.”

Peter chuckled. “Pretty much.”

Neal turned to him, eyes bright. “I want to do that.”

And just like that, the morning became The Great Whistle Lesson.

—

Phase One: Airflow

Peter leaned down and demonstrated slowly.

“You just pucker your lips, breathe in a little, and blow a stream of air—soft, not too hard.”

He made a simple, clean whistle.

Neal’s mouth dropped open in awe.

“That was perfect!”

Peter smiled. “Your turn.”

Neal leaned forward, concentrating. Lips puckered. Chest full of air.

He blew—

PFFFTHTH.

A fine mist of spit sprayed the countertop. A chunk of toast crumb followed it.

Peter blinked, then slowly reached for a paper towel. “Okay. Good first attempt.”

Neal stared, wide-eyed… then burst out laughing.

—

Phase Two: Persistence

Ten minutes later, the kitchen echoed with a mix of:

“Like this?”
“No, round your lips a little more.”
“PHHHHFFFTT!”
“Still too wet, buddy.”
“IT’S LIKE MY MOUTH’S BROKEN!”
—and more laughter.

Peter had given up on wiping the counter between tries. Satchmo had relocated under the table, clearly sensing danger.

Elizabeth peeked in once, caught a glimpse of Peter drenched in toddler-spit, and turned back out with a muffled laugh and a, “Good luck.”

—

Phase Three: Victory… Sort Of

Finally—after fifteen tries, one milk break, and Peter quietly Googling how to teach a toddler to whistle—Neal managed a tiny, breathy wheeze that sort of resembled a tone.

He froze.

Peter leaned in. “That sounded like a whistle to me.”

Neal gasped. “I’M DOING IT!”

He tried again.

PFFFFFT.

A new spray misted Peter’s shirt.

Neal collapsed onto the floor in a fit of giggles, kicking his feet.

“I’m a spit-cannon!” he howled.

Peter wiped his face with the hem of a dish towel. “You are something, that’s for sure.”

—

Later – Reflection

By lunchtime, the bluejay had flown off, the kitchen had been mopped, and Peter had changed shirts twice.

Neal, sitting cross-legged on the floor, was still trying to whistle between bites of sandwich.

Peter leaned on the counter, arms crossed.

“You know,” he said, “when you were grown up, I don’t think I ever saw you laugh that hard.”

Neal smiled up at him. “I like laughing now.”

Peter ruffled his curls. “So do I.”

Neal puckered his lips and blew again—barely making a high squeak.

Then he beamed. “Did you hear that?!”

Peter grinned. “Loud and clear, Spit-cannon.”

—

Chapter Text

It started off suspiciously quiet.

Too quiet.

Peter was in his bedroom going over case files while Elizabeth arranged tulips in a vase in the kitchen. Satchmo was snoozing in a sunbeam. All signs pointed to a peaceful Saturday morning.

Which, as Peter would later recall, should have been the first warning.

Because when Neal was quiet, it meant he was planning something.

And when he was quiet and missing?

It meant the situation was already critical.

—

Discovery: The First Clue

Peter noticed it when he went to the bathroom and found the toilet paper roll missing.

Not just low. Gone. Completely unspooled. The entire roll trailed out the doorway like breadcrumbs.

Peter frowned and followed the paper trail down the stairs.

Downstairs, he stepped into… chaos.

The Scene

The entire living room had been transformed into what looked like the start of an emergency arts-and-crafts disaster zone.

Toilet paper was everywhere.

Spirals across the carpet.

Loops on the furniture.

Dozens of white paths forming intersecting lines like an airport tarmac—leading to one central “launchpad” on the coffee table, where Neal stood, armed with a paper airplane and wearing his aviator sunglasses.

Foxie sat next to him, covered in at least three loops of toilet paper, looking mildly concerned.

Neal grinned and shouted:
“Clear the runway for takeoff!”

He hurled the airplane with all the dramatic flair of a NASA launch.

It soared—

Then promptly nose-dived into a couch cushion.

Neal let out an epic sigh. “Abort mission.”

Peter just… stared.

—

Aftermath: Interrogation and Justification

“Neal,” Peter said, carefully stepping over several paper trails. “Why did you unroll every toilet paper roll in the entire house?”

Neal turned, completely unbothered. “It’s a runway.”

“For what?”

He gestured grandly to the fallen airplane. “My test pilot needed proper clearance. It’s a safety thing.”

Peter pointed down the hall. “There’s paper stretched into the laundry room.”

“That’s the international terminal.”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose.

—

Enter Elizabeth

Elizabeth walked in a beat later with a basket of laundry.

She stopped. Blinked. Looked around slowly.

Then:

“Peter,” she said calmly, “Why is the house covered in toilet paper?”

Peter raised both hands. “Apparently, this is an airport now.”

Neal chimed in: “I’m the air traffic controller and the pilot.”

Elizabeth stared a moment longer.

Then—without missing a beat—said, “Do I need to show you where the mop is, or is that also part of your airport?”

Neal blinked. “It could be the janitor’s cart.”

Peter hid his laugh behind a cough.

—

Cleanup Operation: Flight Cancelled

Thirty minutes later, the great Toilet Paper Runway was dismantled and repurposed into one very full trash bag.

Neal, now in timeout on the couch (with Foxie loyally beside him), sulked dramatically.

Peter sat beside him, arms crossed.

“You know what I use toilet paper for?”

“Definitely not runways,” Neal muttered.

Peter nodded. “Correct. It's for something slightly more essential.”

Neal huffed. “I measured it first. I didn’t take the short rolls.”

Peter tried not to laugh. “That’s... thoughtful, I guess.”

After a beat, Neal looked up. “Can I build a paper airport outside next time? With chalk and sticks?”

Peter exhaled. “Fine. As long as the bathroom remains operational.”

—

Later That Night

At bedtime, Neal whispered, “The airplane didn’t even fly that far.”

Peter tucked the blanket under his chin. “Maybe tomorrow we tweak the design.”

Neal’s eyes lit up. “With better paper!”

Peter pointed a warning finger. “Not toilet paper.”

Neal giggled, pulling Foxie into the covers beside him. “Okay, okay. No more airport in the house.”

Peter kissed his forehead. “Deal.”

Neal grinned. “But maybe… a helipad?”

Peter groaned.

—

Chapter Text

It had been a long day.

The kind of day that started with spilled orange juice, a missing shoe, and Peter accidentally buttoning Neal’s shirt unevenly again. Add to that a failed attempt at naptime, three toddler meltdowns (two Neal’s, one Peter’s), and a very necessary grocery run before dinner.

Now here they were—three p.m., aisle nine.

Neal had started the trip bouncing in the cart, waving at strangers like royalty and declaring loudly that “marshmallows are a food group.”

But after twenty minutes of snack negotiations and one close call in the produce section involving a toppling pyramid of apples…

He hit a wall.

—

The Cereal Section

Peter was comparing cereal brands when he felt the sudden, eerie stillness behind him.

He turned.

And there was Neal.

Sitting in the grocery cart’s child seat, body slumped to one side, head dramatically tilted against the handle, lips parted in a soft snore.

Clutched tightly in his arms: a family-sized box of Froot Loops.

Peter blinked.

The box was being hugged like it was a beloved stuffed animal.

One of Neal’s socks was missing.

Foxie was tucked under his arm like a co-pilot.

It was, without exaggeration, the most ridiculous and heart-melting sight Peter had ever seen.

—

“Sir, is that your child?”

A passing shopper chuckled and nudged Peter gently. “Your kid’s out cold.”

Peter looked down. “He’s had a rough day.”

“Looks like he’s dreaming of sugar,” the woman grinned.

Peter smiled. “Aren’t we all?”

—

Careful Driving

Peter pushed the cart with all the caution of transporting a priceless artifact through a museum hallway.

Every turn was slow.

Every bump avoided.

Every wheel squeak met with a silent prayer that it wouldn’t wake the sleeping beast in the seat of sugar.

Neal didn’t stir.

At one point, Peter paused in the checkout line and watched as Neal murmured something in his sleep and pulled the cereal box tighter.

Like a cereal-scented teddy bear.

The cashier blinked. “Uh. He gonna be okay?”

Peter whispered, “Let the Froot Loops do their work.”

—

Back at Home

Peter carried Neal inside, cereal box and all.

Laid him gently on the couch.

Neal blinked blearily, then yawned and murmured, “We buy the loops?”

Peter smoothed his hair. “You insisted.”

Neal cuddled the box tighter. “Good. They’re my dream snacks.”

Peter just nodded and pulled a blanket over him.

Satchmo hopped up beside the couch, settling nearby like a guard dog on cereal duty.

—

Later – Debrief

Elizabeth arrived home to find Neal still asleep, the Froot Loops tucked in like they, too, needed rest.

Peter gestured to the scene. “It was a sugar-fueled battle. He fell in the line of snack duty.”

Elizabeth grinned and kissed his cheek. “Parenthood looks good on you.”

Peter smirked. “You mean the dark circles and the pocket full of crushed crackers?”

“No,” she said, curling up beside him. “I mean this.”

Neal stirred in his sleep and mumbled, “Need… milk.”

Peter sighed. “We forgot the milk.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Tomorrow?”

Peter nodded. “Tomorrow.”

—

Chapter Text

It was nearing bedtime, and Elizabeth knew the signs.

Neal was bouncing instead of walking, using the couch like a trampoline, speaking exclusively in spy code, and, most telling of all—wearing mismatched pajamas on purpose “for camouflage.”

Peter had escaped to the porch with Satchmo and a mug of decaf, muttering something about "preparing for battle."

Elizabeth stood in the kitchen, arms crossed, holding up the toothbrush like a weapon of her own.

“Neal. Time to brush, pee, and get in bed.”

Neal skidded into the doorway, socks sliding on hardwood.

“I propose an alternate bedtime protocol.”

Elizabeth raised one eyebrow. “Do you now?”

—

The Negotiation Table

Neal climbed onto a dining chair, folded his arms across the table like a tiny diplomat, and pushed a Post-it note toward her.

On it, in crayon, was written:
“1 scoop of choclut now = no fuss later.”

Elizabeth blinked.

“That's a bribe,” she said.

“It’s a contract,” Neal corrected. “Win-win. I get ice cream. You get silence and snuggles.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “And if I say no?”

Neal slid another Post-it across.
This one said:
“2 scoops later = sugar crash at 11pm.”

Elizabeth stared.

Peter peeked in through the window, mouthing, “Don’t cave.”

Neal batted his lashes. “I’ll even brush for thirty seconds.”

She sighed. “Fine. Half a scoop.”

Neal’s grin split across his face. “Deal.”

—

The Spoils of Victory

Neal chose the chocolate-chunk-strawberry-fudge-swirl.

Elizabeth handed him a tiny scoop in a small bowl and leaned against the counter, watching him devour it like it was a crown jewel.

Foxie sat at his feet, tail swishing hopefully. Neal dropped one mini chunk, and Satchmo snuck over to claim it under the table with military stealth.

“See?” Neal beamed, licking the spoon. “No protests. I’m a man of my word.”

“You’re a boy of stomachaches waiting to happen,” Elizabeth murmured.

—

Ten Minutes Later

The moment they reached the bathroom, Neal flopped dramatically against the counter.

“My tummy feels… wobbly.”

Elizabeth glanced at him. “How wobbly?”

Neal groaned, sliding to the floor like a fallen soldier. “It’s the price of sweet success.”

Peter walked in, towel over his shoulder, and surveyed the scene.

“What happened?”

“Ice cream treaty gone wrong,” Elizabeth said.

Peter knelt down. “Let me guess—fast negotiation, no terms for sugar capacity.”

Neal curled into his lap. “I thought spies had iron stomachs.”

Peter gently rubbed his back. “You’re not a spy. You’re a little guy who just downed dairy faster than physics allows.”

Neal blinked. “Can I sleep in your bed? For medical reasons?”

Peter smiled. “Yeah, buddy. Come on.”

—

Tucked In (and Regretful)

Neal curled between Peter and Elizabeth, clinging to Foxie and groaning once every three minutes for effect.

“I might need a tummy transplant.”

Elizabeth whispered, “You negotiated your way into this.”

Neal sniffed. “No one said victory would hurt.”

Peter ruffled his curls. “Next time you want leverage, try something lower lactose.”

Neal yawned. “Like cookies?”

Elizabeth and Peter said, in unison: “No.”

—

Chapter Text

The house was quiet, bathed in the soft golden hush of late evening.

Dinner had been long since cleared. Neal’s little fork still lay abandoned on the table, caked in the remnants of mac and cheese. Foxie was tucked under one arm, Satchmo lay sprawled at the foot of the couch, and Peter had gone to tidy the kitchen.

Elizabeth sat on the floor in Neal’s room, carefully folding freshly laundered pajamas. Neal had already slipped into his dinosaur pair and was now curled up on his blanket, watching her in silence.

He wasn’t bouncing or humming or telling her that dinosaurs needed fedoras.

He just… watched.

Quiet. Still. Thoughtful.

Too thoughtful.

Elizabeth looked up. “You okay, sweetheart?”

Neal blinked, and then his lips moved. “Can I tell you a secret?”

She smiled gently and crossed to him, kneeling beside his little bed. “Of course you can.”

Neal leaned in, voice soft as tissue paper.

“I remember being… bad. Before.”

Elizabeth’s heart stilled.

She brushed a curl from his forehead. “What do you mean?”

Neal's voice wavered. “I stole stuff. Lied a lot. Ran away. People said I was ‘bad’ all the time.” His brow furrowed. “But now…”

She waited.

Neal looked up, eyes shining.

“…Now I like being good.”

Elizabeth’s throat tightened. “You were never bad, Neal.”

He frowned. “But I did bad things.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “But that didn’t make you a bad person. You were scared. Alone. And smart in ways people didn’t understand.”

He sniffled. “You hug me more when I’m good.”

Her heart broke and swelled all at once.

She pulled him close, wrapping her arms around his small frame and holding him tightly.

“I hug you because I love you, not because you’re good,” she whispered. “But I love how proud you are of yourself. And you should be.”

Neal nodded into her shoulder, and for a while, they just stayed there.

Quiet. Safe. Held.

—

Later – With Peter

Peter found them like that a little while later.

Elizabeth sat on the floor, back against the wall, with Neal dozing in her lap. His hands were still clinging to Foxie. Her eyes flicked up when Peter entered the doorway.

“He remembered something,” she murmured.

Peter knelt beside them. “What?”

Elizabeth stroked Neal’s back gently. “That he used to be ‘bad.’ That he likes being good now because… we hug him more.”

Peter exhaled. Slowly. Deeply.

Then he reached out and placed his hand gently on Neal’s back, just above Elizabeth’s.

“He wasn’t bad,” Peter whispered.

“I told him that.”

Peter leaned in, brushing a kiss to the top of Neal’s head.

Then they sat together, holding the little boy who had once been so complicated and untouchable—and who now trusted their arms more than his own shadows.

—

Chapter Text

It was a sunny Saturday morning—the kind that practically begged for mischief.

Peter had just finished mowing the lawn, Elizabeth was tending to her herb garden, and Neal was pretending to be an astronaut, using a mixing bowl as a helmet and a broomstick as his “oxygen wand.”

“Base to mission control,” he said seriously into a plastic walkie-talkie. “I need backup for launch.”

Peter, sipping water from the porch, muttered, “And backup for my sanity.”

But just as Neal was preparing to launch himself off the porch step, a familiar figure rounded the corner of the house, wearing a trench coat despite the weather and carrying what looked suspiciously like a bundle of old schematics.

Neal’s eyes widened.

He dropped the broomstick, squealed, and ran full tilt across the lawn.

“Uncle Moz!!!”

Mozzie barely had time to brace before Neal collided with him, arms flung around his knees.

Mozzie blinked behind his sunglasses. “Well, if it isn’t the pint-sized prodigy.”

Neal looked up, bouncing in excitement. “Can we build a spaceship? A real one. I need to go to Mars.”

Peter, from the porch: “Why Mars?”

Neal: “I left a snack there.”

Mozzie raised an eyebrow. “We’ll need cardboard. And duct tape. And a proper flag.”

Neal beamed. “I have crayons!”

“Excellent. Begin mission prep.”

—

Construction Begins

Peter had barely finished warning Mozzie not to start any conspiracies when the garage became a flurry of cardboard flaps, duct tape rips, and scientific-sounding phrases like:

• “We need reverse thruster power!”

• “The stabilizer wing is crooked.”

• “Pass the banana stickers—those are critical insulation panels.”

Elizabeth brought snacks, took photos, and at one point whispered to Peter, “Are you going to tell them Mars doesn’t exist in our backyard?”

Peter replied, “I’m just trying to keep him from duct-taping the dog.”

—

The Final Build

Two hours later, a massive cardboard contraption stood in the center of the lawn.

It had a cone made of pizza boxes, “solar panels” made from foil-wrapped paper plates, and a chalk-drawn control panel featuring buttons labeled “Zoom,” “Wiggle,” and “Emergency Snack.”

Neal climbed inside proudly, peeking out through a cutout window.

Mozzie adjusted his sunglasses. “Captain Neal, your vessel is ready.”

Neal saluted. “Uncle Moz, you are now my chief engineer.”

Peter snorted from his lawn chair. “What does that make me?”

Neal grinned. “You’re ground control. You stay here.”

—

Blastoff

Neal shouted, “TEN… NINE… EIGHT…”

Peter whispered to Elizabeth, “He better not throw himself out the back.”

“…THREE… TWO… ONE—LAUNCH!!”

Neal made a loud rocket noise and began shaking the spaceship from inside while tossing glitter into the air like stardust.

Satchmo barked.

Mozzie threw confetti.

Peter caught a sparkly sticker to the forehead.

Neal popped his head out. “We made it to orbit. Requesting snack delivery.”

Elizabeth handed over a juice box with a solemn nod. “Astronaut-approved.”

—

Later – Wind-down

By the end of the afternoon, Neal had declared Mars “too sandy,” the spaceship “a masterpiece,” and Mozzie “a genius of galactic architecture.”

Peter, covered in duct tape residue, muttered, “Remind me to lock the garage next time.”

Neal was curled in the grass, Foxie in one arm, wearing his bowl helmet like a crown.

Mozzie leaned beside him. “You ever think about building a moon base next?”

Neal yawned. “Only if it has snacks.”

Peter smiled.

Elizabeth leaned against him. “I love how happy he is with just cardboard and imagination.”

Peter nodded, watching the little boy whose world had shrunk so small—and yet somehow grown so big again.

—

Chapter Text

The day started like any other.

Neal had woken up slowly, quieter than usual, and clung to Foxie without his usual chatter. Peter had raised an eyebrow, but Neal insisted he was “just tired from flying to Mars.”

But by noon, Neal’s forehead was burning to the touch, and his cheeks were flushed with heat that had nothing to do with imaginary space missions.

Elizabeth frowned as she held the thermometer under Neal’s arm.

It beeped.

She glanced at the screen. Her expression shifted instantly.

“Peter.”

He was beside her in two seconds flat.

“One-oh-three-point-eight.”

Peter’s jaw tightened. “Get your purse. I’ll grab the keys.”

Neal blinked up at them from the couch, eyes glazed and glassy. “I’m okay,” he croaked, voice hoarse.

Elizabeth bent down and brushed damp curls from his forehead. “Sweetheart, we need to get you checked out. Just to be safe.”

Neal’s bottom lip trembled. “But I hate the doctor.”

Peter scooped him into his arms. “I know, buddy. But we’ll be with you the whole time. Okay?”

Neal buried his face in Peter’s shirt and didn’t say a word.

—

ER Waiting Room

The waiting room was bright and cold and smelled like sanitizer.

Neal sat wrapped in Peter’s arms, head resting on his shoulder, Foxie tucked between them like a silent buffer against the noise.

Every now and then Neal whimpered softly. Peter whispered reassurances into his hair. Elizabeth handled the paperwork, her hands tense and steady all at once.

Finally, they were called in.

And then came the needles.

—

Panic

When the nurse came in with the IV kit, Neal went rigid.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no.”

Elizabeth moved to kneel by his side. “Neal—”

He turned sharply to Peter, eyes wild and tear-bright. “Don’t let them take me away!”

Peter’s heart dropped.

“Hey,” he said, cupping Neal’s hot cheek. “Hey. No one’s taking you anywhere.”

Neal’s little fists clutched at Peter’s shirt, white-knuckled.

Peter leaned in close, forehead to forehead. “I’m not going anywhere. Neither is Elizabeth. You’re safe. You’re just sick, and they need to help you feel better. That’s it. That’s all.”

Neal blinked. “But they’ll make me go.”

“Not this time,” Peter whispered. “I promise. No more running. No more leaving. Just us.”

Elizabeth took his hand, grounding him too.

The nurse waited patiently, her eyes soft. “We can go slow, okay? You can hold onto your bear and your dad’s hand.”

Peter didn’t correct her.

Neal sniffled and nodded, still clinging.

—

Bravery

It took two tries.

But Neal kept his eyes squeezed shut and counted the whole time.

“One… two… three… OWWWW FOUR FIVE SIX—”

Then it was done.

He was tucked into a tiny hospital bed, warm blanket pulled up, Foxie in the crook of his elbow, Peter sitting right on the edge, one hand never leaving his.

Elizabeth smoothed a cool cloth over his forehead.

“You did so good, sweetheart.”

Neal was too tired to smile. “I don’t like needles.”

Peter kissed his temple. “You were brave anyway. That’s what counts.”

—

Later – A Whisper

Hours passed. Fever lowered. The machines beeped quietly in the dimmed room.

Neal stirred.

Peter leaned forward. “Still with us?”

Neal gave a sleepy hum. “Still here.”

He shifted closer. “You stayed.”

“Of course we did.”

“I like when you stay.”

Peter rubbed circles on his back. “I always will.”

Neal closed his eyes again, Foxie tucked under one arm, his other hand wrapped around Peter’s thumb.

“I don’t want to be taken away again,” he whispered.

“You won’t,” Peter promised.

“Even if I grow up again?”

Peter swallowed hard. “Even then.”

—

Chapter Text

Captain Reese Hughes was a man known for his stern expression, military posture, and no-nonsense attitude. Most agents feared him. Some respected him. A few—Peter among them—trusted him like family.

And exactly one three-year-old considered him “the loud grandpa with the best juice.”

It had started weeks ago.

Hughes would never admit it out loud—God forbid—but after Neal’s unexpected de-aging and adjustment to toddler life, there was a softening in the office. Quiet at first. Then… contagious.

Jones brought coloring books. Diana brought snacks.

And Hughes?

Well, Hughes kept a single apple juice box tucked in the top drawer of his desk. Right next to the paper clips. No one was to mention it. No one was to look at it.

But every time Neal visited the office, somehow… it would appear.

Casually. No fuss.

Hughes would just grunt, “Someone left this here. You want it or not?”

Neal always did.

—

Tuesday Morning Visit

Peter had brought Neal in for a short visit—nothing major, just a quick swing by the office before heading to the pediatrician. Neal was in his usual blazer, looking like a miniature conman going to a board meeting.

He clutched Foxie in one hand and waved the other grandly as they walked past desks.

“Good day, gentlemen.”

Jones saluted.

Diana gave a dramatic bow.

Peter rolled his eyes.

Then, from across the bullpen, Hughes called, “Caffrey. In my office.”

Neal gasped and whispered to Peter, “Do you think I’m in trouble?”

Peter smiled. “Only if you took his stapler again.”

“I did not,” Neal said gravely. “I only borrowed it for my art project.”

—

Inside the Lion’s Den

Hughes stood behind his desk, arms crossed, brow furrowed.

Neal stepped inside with the same composure he once used to charm FBI agents into letting him slip a tracker.

“Sir,” Neal said solemnly.

Hughes grunted. “You keeping your nose clean?”

Neal nodded.

“Coloring between the lines?”

Neal hesitated. “Mostly.”

Hughes opened his top drawer. Pulled out the juice box.

“Then I suppose this isn’t contraband anymore.”

Neal beamed and took it reverently. “Thank you, Captain Grandpa.”

Hughes blinked. “Excuse me?”

Neal took a long slurp, then said brightly, “You’re like a grandpa. But louder.”

Peter, watching from the doorway, immediately turned around so Hughes wouldn’t see him laugh.

Hughes looked at Neal, deadpan. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Neal nodded. “It is.”

Then, without warning, Neal walked around the desk and hugged Hughes’s legs.

The room went completely still.

For a second, Peter wasn’t sure if Hughes was going to freeze, short-circuit, or file paperwork against public affection.

But then—

Hughes’s hand awkwardly hovered above Neal’s back…

And settled.

A single, warm pat.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered. “Go hug someone with less paperwork.”

Neal grinned, downed the rest of the juice box, and trotted back to Peter.

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Told you not to call him Grandpa.”

Neal whispered, “I upgraded him.”

—

Later – In the Elevator

As they rode down to the lobby, Neal looked up at Peter.

“Can I still visit the office when I grow big again?”

Peter smiled. “Of course.”

Neal tilted his head. “Even Hughes?”

Peter laughed. “Especially Hughes.”

From deep in his jacket pocket, Neal pulled out an extra juice box he’d swiped from Hughes’s drawer.

Peter gave him a look.

Neal grinned. “He’ll never notice.”

Peter shook his head. “You really are like a mini version of yourself.”

“I’m the limited edition,” Neal said proudly.

And Peter couldn’t argue with that.

—

Chapter Text

It was a rainy afternoon at the FBI.

Peter had a mountain of paperwork. Neal was getting antsy. The conference room was a fortress of boredom and white noise.

That’s when Diana stepped in—literally and figuratively.

She peered into Peter’s office, raising an eyebrow. “How many paperclips has he dismantled so far?”

Peter looked up, exhausted. “Four. And my watch.”

Neal, sitting in Peter’s chair with his feet swinging and a pen in his mouth, beamed. “I’m reorganizing your desk, Peter. You’re welcome.”

Diana sighed fondly. “Okay, come on, kid.”

—

The Art of Distraction

She brought him over to her own desk, set down a pile of printer paper, and pulled a handful of markers from her drawer.

Neal’s eyes lit up like Christmas morning.

“Can I draw anything?”

“As long as it doesn’t explode,” Diana said. “Have at it.”

Neal set to work immediately—tongue poked out in concentration, marker caps flying, humming under his breath as he scribbled furiously.

Diana kept glancing over from her reports, her curiosity growing.

Then finally—

“Done!”

He presented the page with a proud flourish.

It was… shockingly detailed.

A cartoon version of Diana stood heroically in front of a city skyline. She wore a cape, sunglasses, and a badge the size of a dinner plate. She was shooting truth rays out of her hands. A little banner in crayon read:

“Special Agent Diana – Super Catcher of Bad Guys”

Diana blinked.

Neal said confidently, “You fight meanies. You have to be a superhero.”

She cleared her throat. “Well. That’s… accurate.”

He held the paper up higher. “Can you hang it up? So people know.”

Diana hesitated—then smiled and pulled a pushpin from her corkboard.

“Front and center.”

Neal grinned.

—

Granola Bar Goldmine

Later, Neal wandered off with Foxie in tow and found himself exploring the bullpen’s lesser-known corners.

That’s when he stumbled on it.

Jones’s desk.

Or more accurately…

Jones’s bottom drawer.

Inside: a meticulously stacked stash of granola bars—peanut butter, chocolate chip, blueberry oat. All labeled with sticky notes like “DO NOT TOUCH” and “AGENT JONES FUEL ONLY.”

Neal gasped.

It was like discovering buried treasure.

Jones came back from the printer just in time to find Neal clutching a chocolate bar to his chest, wide-eyed.

“Agent Jones,” Neal said reverently, “you are the best FBI agent ever.”

Jones blinked. “...Because of granola?”

Neal nodded. “You have snacks. You protect the world. You have pens that click. You’re amazing.”

Jones looked between the stolen bar, the serious little face, and the superhero drawing now pinned over at Diana’s desk.

He sighed. “Take it.”

Neal squealed and hugged his leg.

From that day forward, Jones kept a separate, unlabeled granola stash.

Just for Neal.

—

Later – Debrief in the Car

Peter buckled Neal into his car seat after their long office visit.

“Did you behave?” he asked.

Neal held up the granola bar like a trophy. “I earned this. I praised an agent and elevated morale.”

Peter gave him a look. “Did you say that word-for-word, or did Diana teach it to you?”

Neal grinned. “Both.”

Peter shook his head and ruffled his curls. “Come on, Super Spy. Let’s go home.”

Neal leaned back in his seat, beaming. “We should get capes.”

Peter muttered, “Please don’t tell Mozzie that.”

—

Chapter Text

It had been a long day.

Not the kind that ends with cozy cocoa and bedtime stories, but the kind that leaves toys scattered from living room to hallway, half a sandwich forgotten under the couch, and one very small Caffrey bouncing off the walls long after he should have been asleep.

Peter had reached his limit.

“Bed. Now,” he said for the fourth time, standing at the bottom of the stairs with arms crossed.

Neal, perched halfway up with a blanket cape tied around his shoulders, held up a single finger. “Counterproposal.”

Peter blinked. “What?”

“I will agree to one more episode of Ducktective, a juice box, and ten additional minutes of cape time—in exchange for early teeth-brushing tomorrow.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not how this works.”

Neal raised an eyebrow. “Then I must respectfully decline your bedtime.”

“Neal.”

“I am not tired.”

—

The Breaking Point

Peter tried to keep his tone even. He really did.

But after a day of crayons on the wall, a Satchmo escape mission, and Neal gluing googly eyes to every light switch, his patience snapped.

“Enough!” he barked, louder than he meant to. “This is not a negotiation! You’re going to bed—now!”

The silence was instant.

Neal froze mid-climb on the stairs, wide blue eyes filling with sudden, sharp hurt. His lip trembled.

And then—

The tears came.

Big, hot, messy tears.

Not the tantrum kind.

Not manipulative.

Real.

Gutted.

He didn’t even run. He just sat down on the step and sobbed, burying his face in his hands.

Peter immediately regretted everything.

“Neal…” he said softly, taking a step forward.

But Neal flinched away. “You yelled.”

Peter dropped to a knee in front of him. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“I wasn’t crying ‘cause of bedtime…” Neal sniffled. “I was crying because you yelled.”

Peter’s chest clenched. “You’re right. I did. And I shouldn’t have.”

Neal hiccupped, curls damp and cheeks red.

“I wasn’t trying to be bad,” he whispered. “I just didn’t want it to end yet.”

Peter reached out, slow and gentle, and Neal didn’t pull away this time. He crawled into Peter’s lap like he’d done a hundred times before, little fists twisting in Peter’s shirt.

“I know,” Peter murmured into his hair. “It’s hard to stop when you’re having fun. I forget that sometimes.”

“You got mad,” Neal said small.

“I got frustrated,” Peter admitted. “I’ll do better next time. Okay?”

Neal nodded, still sniffling.

“You forgive me?”

Neal looked up, eyes shining. “Only if I get an extra bedtime hug.”

Peter smiled. “That’s non-negotiable.”

—

Later – The Real Bedtime

Elizabeth met them at the top of the stairs, eyes knowing. She didn’t ask what happened. Just opened her arms.

Neal went to her instantly.

She held him tight, then helped him brush his teeth and change into pajamas—this time, no argument.

When she tucked him in, Peter sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the blanket up to Neal’s chin.

“Do I have to sleep?” Neal asked softly.

“No,” Peter whispered. “But you can rest.”

Neal curled onto his side, one arm wrapped around Foxie. “Thanks for saying sorry.”

Peter leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Always.”

And as Neal finally drifted to sleep, the house settled too—still, warm, and filled with forgiveness.

—

Chapter Text

It started with a rainy Saturday and a quiet morning that felt like a clean slate. The kind of morning where coffee steamed from favorite mugs, music played low in the background, and the chaos of the week finally gave way to calm.

Elizabeth had an idea.

She’d picked up a little easel on a whim at the craft store—a child-sized one with adjustable legs and a bright red frame. She’d set it up near the sunroom window where the natural light poured in, even through the drizzle.

Neal came downstairs dragging Foxie by the ear, bleary-eyed in his spaceship pajamas.

When he spotted the easel, his eyes lit up like it was Christmas.

“For me?”

Elizabeth smiled. “All yours, artist-in-residence.”

—

The Masterpiece

Neal took his painting very seriously.

He insisted on a smock (one of Peter’s old button-down shirts, tied at the back), selected each brush like a surgeon choosing tools, and made Elizabeth promise not to look until he was finished.

Peter peeked into the sunroom thirty minutes later and whispered, “What’s he painting?”

Elizabeth sipped her tea. “He won’t say. He told me it’s ‘a surprise reveal.’”

Peter chuckled. “So dramatic.”

“Wonder where he gets that from.”

They both turned and looked toward the paint-splattered corner where Neal was singing to himself and muttering things like “No, more glitter here. Queens need glitter.”

Peter raised a brow. “...Queens?”

Elizabeth shrugged, smiling.

—

The Reveal

An hour later, Neal stood proudly beside the easel, hands on his hips, face and arms streaked with red, blue, and gold paint.

“Okay,” he announced. “You may look now.”

Elizabeth approached and gasped.

The painting was vibrant, chaotic in the best way—swirls of pink and purple and yellow behind a tall woman with wavy hair, big earrings, and a shiny gold crown that took up nearly a third of the canvas.

The woman wore a heart on her shirt.

There was glitter. So much glitter.

Underneath, scrawled in Neal’s unmistakable crooked handwriting:
“Queen of Nice”

Elizabeth’s throat caught.

“You painted… me?”

Neal nodded fiercely. “You make everything better. You always hug me when I cry and let me help stir muffins and you smell like happy. So you’re the queen of nice.”

She knelt and wrapped him in a warm, teary hug, smudging a bit of paint onto her sweater in the process.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” she whispered. “That’s the best title I’ve ever had.”

Neal whispered back, “It’s not just pretend. You are.”

—

Later – The Gallery

Peter helped hang the painting in the kitchen where everyone could see it.

“It’s gonna be the centerpiece,” he said, hammering in a nail. “Right between the calendar and the cereal cabinet.”

Neal watched, beaming, still wearing his paint-smeared smock.

“I can paint you next,” he offered. “But you might not get a crown. Maybe just a badge and a tie.”

Peter smiled. “I’ll take it.”

Satchmo barked.

Neal turned to him. “You’ll get a painting too. But yours will be extra drooly.”

Elizabeth looked at the painting one more time.

It wasn’t just colorful.

It was home.

—

Chapter Text

It was a perfect spring afternoon.

The park was alive with children’s laughter, distant dogs barking, and the rhythmic squeak of swings. Peter and Elizabeth sat on a bench beneath a tree, coffee cups in hand, watching Neal dart from sandbox to slide with boundless energy. Satchmo lay at their feet, panting in the sun, tail thumping in contentment.

Neal had declared himself “King of the Jungle Gym,” and no one had challenged his reign. He climbed to the very top, balancing proudly, a paper crown made of napkins flapping in the breeze.

“Watch this!” he called.

Elizabeth looked up just in time to see him attempt a jump from one platform to another—too wide a gap, too little footing.

Peter’s cup hit the ground before Neal did.

The thud of Neal’s small body hitting the mulch-covered earth silenced the entire playground.

Then everything moved too fast.

—

The Fall

Peter was already sprinting. Elizabeth was seconds behind.

Neal lay still.

Too still.

His crown had fluttered down beside him, crumpled.

Peter dropped to his knees and gathered Neal gently into his arms, checking for broken limbs, brushing curls from a pale, unmoving face, on his forehead was big gash.

“Neal? Neal!”

Elizabeth crouched beside them, hands trembling. “Is he—? Is he—?”

Then Neal stirred.

Barely.

His eyelids fluttered, and he let out the softest whimper.

Peter felt the air return to his lungs in a sharp rush. “Hey, hey, you’re okay. We’ve got you.”

But Neal didn’t answer.

His eyes rolled back, and he went limp again.

—

Panic and Sirens

Elizabeth had already called 911.

The dispatcher stayed on the line while Peter held Neal tightly, monitoring his shallow breathing, whispering reassurances no longer meant for Neal—but for himself.

Satchmo barked wildly, trying to push past to lick Neal’s face, but Elizabeth held him back with a firm hand and whispered, “Not now. Please, not now.”

The ambulance arrived minutes later—but it felt like hours.

The paramedics moved fast, gently checking vitals, strapping a tiny oxygen mask to Neal’s face.

Peter tried to climb into the ambulance with Neal in his arms, but they stopped him. “Sir, we need space.”

“I need to be with him.”

One medic looked him over, hesitated, then nodded. “One of you. That’s all we can allow.”

Elizabeth pressed Peter’s hand. “Go.”

He climbed in, white-knuckling Neal’s small fingers the entire ride.

—

The Hospital

Tests. Scans. A soft-spoken nurse adjusting wires and beeping monitors.

Peter sat beside Neal’s bed, holding onto Foxie—rescued from the bottom of the jungle gym by a tearful Elizabeth—and waiting.... 

But eventually, finally—

Neal opened his eyes.

“Peter?” he whispered, voice groggy and thin.

Peter choked on his own breath. “Hey, buddy. I’m here.”

“Did I fly?” Neal asked faintly.

Peter managed a weak laugh. “You tried. Might want to leave the flying to superheroes next time.”

Neal blinked slowly. “My head hurts.”

“I know. You hit it pretty hard.”

“Did it… fall off?”

Peter smiled through the lump in his throat. “No, it's still right where it belongs.”

Neal turned his face into Peter’s arm, already half-asleep again.

Elizabeth joined them moments later, tears still wet on her cheeks. She pressed a kiss to Neal’s forehead and sat down beside Peter, hand in his.

—

Later – The Ride Home

Neal had a minor concussion, gash in his forehead and a few bruises, but the doctors were optimistic. No internal bleeding. No fracture.

Still, Peter drove home at fifteen miles under the speed limit, glancing into the rearview mirror every thirty seconds to watch Neal—now asleep in his car seat, Foxie tucked beside him, bandage on his temple.

Elizabeth’s hand was still wrapped around his.

“Those seconds…” she said softly. “When he didn’t move.”

Peter nodded, eyes on the road. “I stopped breathing.”

“I thought I lost him.”

Peter squeezed her hand. “We didn’t. He’s okay.”

“He’s small,” she whispered. “Even after all this time, I forget.”

Peter blinked back something sharp. “He’s still Neal.”

Elizabeth smiled through her tears. “Yes. And thank God for that.”

—

Chapter Text

It had been three days since the fall.

Neal was bouncing again, chattering nonstop, requesting apple juice with “two straws” and building elaborate pillow forts with a suspicious number of stolen dish towels. The bruise on his temple was yellowing now, the swelling long gone, the gash on his forehead healing. The doctors had cleared him with a warning to “take it easy.”

But Peter hadn’t recovered quite as fast.

He hovered.

Constantly.

If Neal climbed onto the couch, Peter’s hand hovered behind him. If Neal reached for something on a shelf, Peter was there to guide it down. The jungle gym was off-limits. The stepstool in the bathroom had been removed. The front steps? Accompanied at all times.

Neal didn’t seem to notice—he was happy, secure, and too busy trying to turn Foxie into a “crime-solving dog in a tiny cape.”

But Elizabeth noticed.

And she noticed Peter’s growing quietness.

His tension.

His inability to let Neal stray more than a few feet.

—

The Intervention

It came to a head when Peter quietly removed all the chairs from the kitchen after Neal used one to reach a cup from the cabinet.

Elizabeth walked in to find Neal sitting on the floor with his arms crossed. “Peter says I’m a floor person now.”

Peter looked up guiltily. “It’s just temporary.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Can we talk for a second? In the hallway?”

Peter followed her reluctantly.

She waited until the door clicked shut behind them.

“Peter,” she said gently, “I know you're scared.”

“He fell off a jungle gym, El. He hit his head. He was unconscious.” Peter ran a hand through his hair. “That’s not a scraped knee. That’s— that’s seconds away from being the worst moment of my life.”

“I know.” Her voice was calm. “It scared me too.”

“I can’t go through that again.”

She took his hand. “Then we take care of him. We teach him. We prepare him. But we don’t bubble wrap him.”

Peter looked away.

She tugged his hand back. “We can’t wrap him in bubble wrap, Peter. We just love him through it. That’s all we can do.”

He let out a shaky breath. “But what if that’s not enough?”

She smiled softly. “It has to be.”

—

Later – The Couch

That night, Neal was curled up on the couch in Peter’s FBI hoodie, the sleeves swallowing his hands. He was drawing with crayons while Satchmo rested his head in Neal’s lap.

Peter sat beside him, watching quietly.

“Hey, bud,” Peter said after a moment. “You know you’re allowed to climb the couch, right?”

Neal glanced up, suspicious. “Even the back of it?”

Peter sighed. “Let’s not get wild.”

Neal grinned. “Okay. I like it when you’re bossy. But not too bossy.”

Peter chuckled. “I’ll work on that.”

Neal kept coloring, then paused and said softly, “I didn’t fall ‘cause of you, you know.”

Peter looked at him.

“I fell ‘cause I thought I could fly.” He shrugged. “Turns out I’m not a bird.”

Peter smiled, chest tight. “No, but you bounce better than most.”

Neal reached for Peter’s hand with his crayon-stained fingers and held it.

“I still wanna be brave,” he said. “Even if I fall again.”

Peter nodded. “Then I’ll be right there to catch you. Every time.”

Elizabeth watched them from the hallway, her heart full—and just a little sore—in all the right places.

—

Chapter Text

It started with Jones.

Neal had been cleared by his pediatrician to return to “light play,” which meant Peter was still nervously trailing him like a shadow and Elizabeth was packing band-aids in her purse “just in case.” Neal, however, had declared himself “completely healed and ready for action.”

Which is exactly what he told Jones the moment he saw him at the White Collar office.

“I’m ready for missions.”

Jones blinked. “Missions?”

Neal nodded seriously. “Spy stuff. Maybe a heist. Or catching a criminal. But nice criminals.”

Peter looked ready to object, but Jones just grinned. “You’re in luck. The gym is open. Think you can handle a field agent training course?”

Neal’s eyes lit up. “Yes!”

“Then grab your best shoes and your dog partner. You report in five minutes.”

—

The Obstacle Course

Jones roped off a section of the FBI gym with cones and caution tape. Diana brought a stopwatch for show, and someone found an old FBI t-shirt that practically swallowed Neal when Jones helped him into it.

Satchmo trotted along, leash-free, tongue lolling out and tail wagging like he’d been training for this his whole life.

The course was simple but perfect:

• Crawl through a tunnel made of office chairs and pool noodles.

• Balance on a taped line of floor tiles.

• Leap (well, step) over two low hurdles made of broomsticks.

• Toss beanbags into a laundry basket marked “CONFISCATED EVIDENCE.”

• Finish by tagging a cone labeled “MISSION COMPLETE.”

“Agent Neal,” Jones said with full authority, “Your mission is to complete this course with your partner and retrieve the evidence without injury or excessive giggling.”

Neal saluted. “Yes, sir!”

Peter crossed his arms and muttered, “Excessive giggling is inevitable.”

—

The Mission

The gym echoed with encouragement.

“Go, Neal!”

“You’ve got this, buddy!”

Neal dropped to his hands and knees, crawling through the chair tunnel like a tiny commando, with Satchmo bounding beside him. The dog got stuck once—accidentally knocked a chair over—but Neal crawled back to help, whispering, “It’s okay, you’re still the best agent.”

He wobbled on the floor tiles but regained his balance by sticking his arms out like airplane wings.

Peter hovered, ready to rush in—but Elizabeth caught his hand. “Let him finish it,” she whispered. “He’s doing great.”

When Neal reached the beanbags, he tossed one, missed, then giggled and threw another.

It bounced in perfectly.

He grinned like he’d just cracked a safe.

—

The Grand Finish

“Almost there!” Jones called.

Neal charged the final cone, Satchmo racing beside him, and tapped it with a dramatic spin before collapsing into a heap of laughter on the mat.

“Mission complete!” he yelled.

The gym erupted in cheers.

Peter even clapped, reluctantly smiling.

Jones crouched beside him and held out his fist. “You crushed it, Junior Agent.”

Neal bumped fists. “Do I get a badge?”

Jones pulled something from his pocket—an old plastic FBI pin. “You’ve earned it.”

Neal gasped, then clutched it to his chest like it was solid gold.

—

Later – The Ride Home

Peter buckled Neal into the car seat, watching as he dozed off mid-sentence about “future ops” and “training with lasers someday.”

Elizabeth glanced back at him and smiled. “He needed that.”

Peter nodded. “So did I.”

“He’s braver than both of us.”

Peter looked in the mirror and watched as Neal’s little hand patted Satchmo’s head in his sleep.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “He is.”

—

Chapter Text

It started with a crayon drawing and a glittery envelope Neal didn’t receive.

The other kids in his daycare class had been talking all week about Kendra’s birthday party—bouncy castle, cupcakes with surprise centers, a magician who also made balloon animals. The excitement was infectious. Neal had made her a card with a unicorn riding a rocket ship. He practiced saying “Happy Birthday” with extra flair.

But when the invitations were passed out… he didn’t get one.

He waited. And waited.

It didn’t come.

And the next morning, Kendra barely looked at him.

Peter arrived that afternoon to pick Neal up and found him sitting by himself on the bench near the cubbies, legs swinging, Foxie clutched tight in one hand, his usual chatter completely silent.

Peter crouched beside him. “Hey, buddy.”

Neal didn’t look up. “I’m not going.”

Peter tilted his head. “Going where?”

“To the birthday. I wasn’t ‘vited.”

Peter’s heart twinged. “Oh. I see.”

“I made her a rocket-unicorn and everything.” Neal’s lip trembled, but he held it together like he was trying really hard to be a big kid. “Maybe I’m not fun.”

Peter sat beside him, gently pried Foxie from Neal’s grip, and tucked the plush under one arm. “Well, that’s just ridiculous.”

Neal blinked. “What is?”

Peter leaned in, whispering like he was sharing a national secret. “You are the coolest kid I know.”

Neal blinked again, eyes wide.

“You solved a cereal heist last week. You made Diana a superhero portrait. You trained Satchmo to bark when the toast pops up. And you taught Hughes a knock-knock joke he actually laughed at. You’re a legend.”

Neal sniffed. “Then… why didn’t she ‘vite me?”

Peter sighed softly. “Sometimes people forget how awesome someone is. Or maybe they don’t understand yet. That’s on them. Not you.”

Neal rubbed his sleeve across his eyes. “Still feels bad.”

“I know, buddy.”

Peter stood and offered his hand.

“Wanna go do something even cooler than a birthday party?”

Neal looked up. “Like what?”

“Ice cream. With extra toppings. My treat.”

Neal hesitated for half a second—then launched off the bench and grabbed Peter’s hand. “Only if I can get gummy bears.”

“Deal.”

—

At the Diner

Neal sat in the booth with his feet swinging under the table, a towering cup of bubblegum ice cream in front of him, piled high with sprinkles, marshmallows, gummy bears, and something neon-green Peter couldn’t identify.

Peter had coffee. And a very serious expression.

“So,” Peter said, tapping the table like a detective on a case. “You weren’t invited. That stinks. But now you’ve got a private agent-only outing with access to a full dessert menu and no nap requirement.”

Neal grinned, mouth full of blue sugar. “So… it’s better?”

Peter nodded. “Way better.”

Neal paused, then quietly said, “Do you think she doesn’t like me?”

Peter shook his head. “I think some people need a little more time to see what I already know. That you’re funny. And kind. And smarter than most adults I work with.”

Neal smiled shyly. “You mean it?”

Peter raised his spoon. “Scout’s honor.”

Neal lifted his spoon too. “To the coolest kid.”

Peter clinked spoons with him.

“Cheers, Junior Agent.”

—

Later – Back Home

Elizabeth found the birthday card still in Neal’s backpack, bent and forgotten.

She brought it home and taped it to the fridge anyway, right next to the crayon drawing of Satchmo with laser eyes.

“Someone’s gonna be lucky to get that card someday,” she said.

Peter smiled. “They’ll have to earn it.”

Neal, from the couch, licked his sticky fingers and muttered, “The ice cream with you was better than any birthday party.”

Peter chuckled and ruffled his hair.

—

_

Chapter Text

“Nap time,” Elizabeth said brightly, holding out her hand.

“Nope,” Neal declared, arms folded, perched at the top of the couch like a very small, very stubborn gargoyle.

“It’s quiet time,” Peter tried. “Everyone needs quiet time.”

Neal narrowed his eyes. “Then you nap too.”

Peter blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You and El. Both. Or I’m staying up forever.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow at Peter and mouthed, Your move.

—

The Compromise

“Okay,” Peter said at last, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We’ll lie down. Just until you fall asleep.”

Neal considered this, then raised a single finger. “And Foxie gets a pillow.”

“Deal.”

“And no phones. No whisper-talking.”

“Fine.”

“And you can’t sneak away after I close my eyes.”

Peter sighed. “Fine.”

“Also I get middle.”

Peter and Elizabeth exchanged a long look.

Then Peter muttered, “He’s going to run the Bureau one day, isn’t he?”

Elizabeth just smiled and took Neal’s hand.

—

The Nap Situation

Their bed became the battleground.

Neal was nestled squarely between them like a prince holding court, Foxie tucked under one arm, Satchmo curled up at the foot of the bed with his head on Elizabeth’s ankle.

“Okay,” Elizabeth whispered. “Eyes closed.”

Neal peeped one eye open. “Yours too.”

“Yes, boss.”

Peter grumbled but obeyed.

The room settled into stillness. For a few minutes, there was only the sound of soft breathing and a dog sighing contentedly.

Neal gave one final satisfied yawn.

Then…

Silence.

—

Thirty Minutes Later

Peter was out cold.

Flat on his back, mouth slightly open, one arm dangling off the bed.

Elizabeth, half-asleep and cozy, shifted—and felt something stick to her cheek.

Her eyes popped open.

She reached up, touched a star-shaped sticker.

Then another.

She slowly turned her head toward Neal.

He was fast asleep, thumb in his mouth, Foxie tucked under his chin… and a half-empty sticker sheet beside him.

Her face, she discovered with a glance in the mirror, now bore a glittery rainbow, three smiley faces, and a fire truck.

She laughed—quietly, careful not to wake either of her boys.

—

Later – After Nap Debrief

Peter stirred and blinked blearily.

“Did I… fall asleep?”

Elizabeth, still half-covered in stickers, smiled. “Like a rock.”

Neal remained asleep between them, curled into Peter’s side now, tiny hand tucked into his t-shirt like he was holding onto safety itself.

Peter ran a hand through his hair and yawned. “We need to stop underestimating him.”

“We say that every week.”

Peter chuckled. “Still true.”

Elizabeth leaned in and kissed Neal’s forehead. “He just wants to feel surrounded.”

“He is,” Peter said quietly. “Completely.”

—

Chapter Text

It was just a toy.

A cheap little plastic spy gadget—black, with flashing lights and a spinning “laser scope” Neal insisted helped him “spot sneaky bad guys.”

It had come from a dollar bin.

But to Neal?

It was everything.

So when it slipped from his hand, hit the floor, and cracked down the middle, the world stopped.

For him—and for Peter and Elizabeth.

—

Cracks and Cries

At first, there was silence.

Then Neal slowly picked up the broken pieces, staring at them like they’d betrayed him.

Then his face crumpled.

And he screamed.

It was the kind of cry that tore from deep in his chest—a wail that had nothing to do with plastic and everything to do with the tangled storm inside a small boy trying to make sense of big emotions.

Peter was there in seconds, kneeling beside him. “Hey, hey—Neal—”

“No!” Neal sobbed, backing away, clutching the pieces like he could fix them by sheer will. “You can’t fix it! It’s broken! It’s dead!”

Elizabeth tried to reach for him gently. “Sweetheart, it’s okay—”

“No it’s not!” he howled. “I wanted it forever!”

Foxie was flung across the room in frustration. Satchmo whined but didn’t move, instinctively keeping distance.

Neal’s hands shook.

His face was red, wet with tears.

And he couldn’t calm down.

—

Hours

Peter sat on the rug beside him, patient, quiet, offering no fix. Just presence.

Elizabeth fetched a wet cloth, a cup of water, and sat on the other side.

They didn’t tell him to stop crying.

They didn’t scold.

They waited.

When the sobs turned to hiccups, Peter slowly reached out.

This time, Neal didn’t pull away. He crawled into Peter’s lap and buried his face in his chest, still sniffling, clinging like a lifeline.

“I didn’t mean to break it,” he whispered hoarsely. “I was trying to be careful.”

Peter pressed his hand to Neal’s back. “I know, buddy. I know.”

Elizabeth gently wiped his face, then curled around the other side of them.

“It’s just…” Neal’s lip wobbled. “I get so mad sometimes. I don’t know why.”

Elizabeth kissed the top of his head. “Big feelings in a little body. It’s hard.”

“I feel bad.”

Peter tilted his head to meet his eyes. “You’re not bad, Neal. You’re human. And loved. So loved.”

That broke him again.

But this time, the tears were quieter. Softer.

Healing.

—

Sleep and Stillness

It was nearly three hours before Neal finally fell asleep in Peter’s arms, Foxie tucked back under one arm, a damp towel pressed gently to his cheek.

Peter carried him upstairs with reverence.

Elizabeth pulled back the covers and watched as Neal curled instinctively toward the center of the bed.

When they came back downstairs, they didn’t speak.

They just sat on the couch, side by side, holding hands.

Letting the silence wrap around them.

The only sound was Satchmo’s breathing and the soft hum of the dishwasher.

Peter exhaled. “That one hurt.”

Elizabeth nodded. “He’s feeling everything. All at once.”

“He doesn’t even know why.”

Elizabeth rested her head on Peter’s shoulder. “But he let us in. That’s everything.”

Peter squeezed her hand. “He always will.”

—

Chapter Text

Peter was supposed to be early.

That morning, Elizabeth had packed Neal’s lunch with tiny note hearts on the napkin, and Peter had promised: “I’ll be there before the finger painting dries.” Neal had given him a salute and said, “Good. Don’t be late, Captain.”

Peter wasn’t late.

He just didn’t expect the surveillance job across the street to turn into a disaster.

—

The Pickup

He walked into daycare with a smile and a wrapped granola bar, fully prepared to listen to every detail of Neal’s “spy mission” on the playground.

Instead, he was met with a wide-eyed hug and a breathless, “I built a trap and Kendra fell into it and then we were married for like, five minutes!”

Peter blinked. “Wow. That escalated.”

Neal grinned, snagging the granola bar. “She gave me half her fruit snacks. That means something.”

Peter chuckled, picked him up, and carried him to the car.

Neither of them noticed the black sedan idling at the curb until it pulled into traffic behind them.

—

The Tail

Peter noticed first.

A subtle nudge in the mirror. Too close. Too steady. Too intentional.

He turned left.

The sedan turned.

His jaw tightened.

He turned right.

Still there.

“Neal,” he said slowly, voice calm. “You remember what we talked about in emergencies?”

Neal blinked. “The safe word is ‘lasagna.’”

Peter didn’t smile. “Right. I need you to stay buckled and keep Foxie in your lap, okay? Don’t panic.”

Neal looked nervous now. “Why?”

Peter glanced in the mirror again. “Because we’re going to play a very fast game.”

—

The Chase

The moment Peter made the sudden U-turn, the sedan gunned its engine.

Neal squeaked.

“Peter—!”

“I’ve got you,” Peter said sharply, spinning the wheel. Tires screeched as the Taurus cut across traffic, weaving between cars.

Neal clutched Foxie with both arms, eyes wide. “Why are they chasing us?! Did I do something?!”

“No, buddy—this isn’t about you,” Peter said, checking the mirror, then slamming the accelerator. “It’s about bad guys making worse choices.”

They veered through a back alley. Peter’s fingers were white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

Neal was trembling now. “Peter—please don’t let them get us.”

Peter’s voice dropped into steel. “I won’t.”

—

The Escape

Peter hit the Bureau panic code on his dash, alerting field units.

Two turns later, a squad car roared in from the side street, cutting off the sedan.

Peter didn’t stop until they were five blocks away, parked in a grocery store lot, engine still running, his breath coming fast.

He twisted around immediately.

Neal was pale, still curled in his booster seat, Foxie clutched so tight the fabric stretched.

Peter reached back, undoing his own seatbelt, then Neal’s. He climbed into the back seat beside him and pulled him close.

Neal melted into him.

“Are we okay?” he whispered.

“We’re safe,” Peter said, hand smoothing down his curls. “I’m so sorry, kiddo. I didn’t want you to see that.”

Neal was quiet for a moment.

Then: “You drove like Batman.”

Peter gave a shaky laugh. “Not exactly the plan, but… thanks.”

—

Later – Home

Elizabeth opened the door to find Peter carrying Neal—arms around his neck, face buried in his shoulder.

Peter said, simply, “Car chase. He saw too much.”

Elizabeth took them both inside without another word.

Neal was tucked onto the couch under a blanket, Foxie beside him, a warm cup of cocoa with extra marshmallows on the table. Elizabeth kissed his forehead and said, “You’re safe now, sweetheart.”

Peter stayed nearby all night.

He never once looked away.

—

The house was silent.

Long past bedtime, long past the evening’s cocoa and story and extra nightlight checks. Elizabeth had gone to bed hours ago after whispering, “Come when you’re ready,” and pressing a kiss to Peter’s shoulder.

But Peter hadn’t moved.

He was still in Neal’s room.

Sitting in the soft rocking chair by the window. Watching.

Listening to each breath.

Neal was curled up in bed, one hand resting on Foxie’s plush tail, the other splayed open on the pillow like he’d fallen asleep mid-story. His face, peaceful now, still bore traces of the panic from earlier that day—his brows knitted even in dreams, a faint line of tension around his mouth.

Peter hadn’t stopped replaying it.

The chase.

Neal’s terrified voice—“Peter—please don’t let them get us.”

The way his hands had shaken when they’d finally stopped.

The way he hadn’t let go for an hour.

Peter had always been calm in a crisis. He’d handled shootouts, hostage negotiations, violent takedowns. He’d faced con artists and cartel threats and internal investigations without blinking.

But none of it had felt like this.

None of it had made him question everything.

Until tonight.

—

The Weight of What-If

He watched Neal breathe. Rise, fall. Soft, steady. Alive.

And the question clawed at him:

What if I hadn’t been fast enough?

What if they’d caught us?

What if Neal—

He swallowed hard and dropped his head into his hands.

He could still feel Neal’s little fingers gripping his shirt, the tremble in his voice when he asked if they were safe.

Peter hadn’t known how to answer.

Because “safe” felt like a lie.

And now, in the stillness, the reality sat heavy on his shoulders.

Was this job worth it?

Was this life—FBI raids, surveillance vans, arrest warrants, being a moving target—was it worth the risk when there was a small child now tangled into every heartbeat he had?

Could he keep doing this?

—

The Smallest Stir

Neal shifted in bed, whimpering softly in his sleep.

Peter stood immediately, heart pounding—until Neal settled again, sighing out a wordless murmur and hugging Foxie closer.

Peter stayed by the bed this time, crouched low, brushing Neal’s hair off his forehead.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” he whispered. “You didn’t sign up for this.”

He stayed like that for a long time.

Eventually, he sat again—this time closer.

He didn’t fall asleep. Just watched. Guarded.

And slowly, slowly, the question changed.

Not: Is the job worth it?

But: Can I be better for him?

Can I do this smarter? Can I protect him? Can I still be an agent, and be a father too?

The answer, fragile as it was, began to take shape.

I have to be.

—

Morning Light

When dawn touched the sky in pale gold, Peter was still awake.

Elizabeth came to the doorway, wrapped in a robe, eyes gentle.

She said nothing—just looked at him.

Peter looked back at Neal, still sleeping soundly, and said quietly:

“I’m not going in today.”

Elizabeth nodded.

And without another word, she crossed the room and sat on the arm of the chair beside him, her hand slipping into his.

Together, they watched the boy who’d changed everything.

And made it all matter more.

—

Chapter Text

Peter had a plan.

It was a good one. A responsible one. A relaxing one.

He booked a cabin just two hours out of the city—quiet, secluded, equipped with a fireplace, board games, and a view of the woods. No cell reception. No paperwork. Just family time.

Elizabeth was delighted. Neal was ecstatic.

“I’m gonna find rabbits and be a wilderness spy!” he declared, holding up his plastic binoculars and stuffing three juice boxes into his mini backpack.

Peter double-checked everything: snacks, diapers (just in case), two stuffed animals, emergency granola bars, and the extra blanket Neal insisted was “lucky.”

At 9:00 a.m. sharp, they pulled out of the driveway.

At 9:10 a.m., Neal threw up all over the back seat.

—

The U-Turn

The moment it happened, Neal looked horrified.

His bottom lip trembled. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—I was just looking out the window and then my tummy got twisty!”

Peter had the car pulled over in seconds. Elizabeth scrambled to the backseat, soothing him with a calmness only mothers and battlefield medics possessed.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Happens to everyone.”

“Even James Bond?” Neal sniffled.

Elizabeth wiped his face and said, “Especially him.”

They changed his shirt, wrapped him in the lucky blanket, and sat in silence for a moment.

Then Peter sighed. “Okay. Plan B?”

Neal looked up, eyes still watery. “Does Plan B have cartoons?”

Peter smiled. “It does now.”

They turned around.

—

The Staycation Begins

Back home, pajamas replaced hiking boots.

Neal was nestled between them on the couch in clean flannel PJs, Foxie tucked under one arm, a bowl of crackers in his lap. Satchmo snored at their feet.

The fire on the TV crackled courtesy of a digital fireplace loop.

Peter held the remote like a field commander. “Looney Tunes or Wallace and Gromit?”

“Both,” Neal mumbled, already half-asleep.

They watched cartoons for hours, pausing only for grilled cheese and Elizabeth’s surprise banana milkshakes.

Neal didn’t throw up again—but he did demand two blankets, one pillow fort, and exactly seven bedtime stories.

Peter read five.

Elizabeth read two.

Neal was asleep by the end of the second.

—

Later That Night

Peter stood in the doorway, watching Neal snuggled up in the blanket fort, one leg sticking out, drooling slightly on Foxie’s ear.

Elizabeth joined him, handing him tea.

“Not quite the trip you planned,” she said.

Peter shook his head. “It might’ve been better.”

She smiled and leaned against him. “We needed this. All of us.”

He sipped his tea, then whispered, “Next time, I’ll pack ginger chews.”

Elizabeth grinned. “Next time, we let him pick the movie for the drive.”

Peter groaned. “But he’ll pick the one with the singing farm animals again.”

“You survived a car chase. You can survive a duck in overalls.”

They laughed softly together, warm in the knowledge that this, right here, was exactly where they were meant to be.

—

Chapter Text

The house was calm.

Too calm, actually.

Dinner had been a rare success—no spills, no dramatic declarations of injustice over broccoli, and only one juice box explosion. Now, with Neal finally tucked into bed (after three stories and an elaborate debate over which stuffed animal got the top pillow), Elizabeth lit candles around the living room.

Soft, flickering light glowed against the windows. The scent of vanilla and sandalwood drifted through the air. Satchmo snored softly at the edge of the rug. Elizabeth curled into Peter’s side on the couch and handed him a glass of wine.

Peter exhaled, eyes closing. “This,” he murmured, “is perfection.”

Which is, of course, when tiny footsteps padded down the stairs.

—

The Wishmaster Arrives

Neal appeared in the doorway, clutching Foxie and blinking sleepily.

“I heard whispering,” he said accusingly, “and smelled fire.”

Peter opened one eye. “We’re not sacrificing anything, I promise.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Just relaxing, sweetheart. Everything okay?”

Neal crept into the room, eyes wide at the glowing candles. “Whoa… are those wishing flames?”

Elizabeth blinked. “Excuse me?”

Neal pointed solemnly. “You know—like birthday candles. You blow ’em out, you get a wish.”

Peter sat up slowly. “Neal, those are mood candles. For adults. They’re not—”

“MAKE A WISH!” Neal declared, already crawling up onto the ottoman.

Peter watched helplessly as Neal blew out the first candle.

Then the second.

Then the third.

“Don’t forget to wish!” Neal said seriously, bouncing from one flame to the next.

Elizabeth buried her face in Peter’s shoulder, laughing silently.

Neal reached the final candle, blew it out with dramatic flair, and looked expectantly at Peter. “Well?!”

Peter sighed.

“I wished,” he said.

Neal lit up. “What’d you wish for?!”

Peter looked at Elizabeth.

Then at Neal.

Then at the still-warm glass of wine he hadn’t touched.

“I wished for five minutes of quiet.”

Neal blinked. “That’s a terrible wish.”

“Tell me about it,” Peter muttered.

—

The Aftermath

Ten minutes later, Neal had re-tucked himself into the couch between them, demanding to know what Elizabeth had wished for. (“Can’t tell you or it won’t come true!” she sang.)

Foxie was dressed in a paper napkin robe. Satchmo had been declared the “Guardian of Wishes.” Elizabeth had relit exactly one candle, only for Neal to blow it out again with a whisper: “I hope I dream about pancakes.”

Peter gave up.

—

Later

Neal finally, finally fell asleep again—this time on the couch, tucked against Peter’s side, tiny hand wrapped around his tie like an anchor.

Elizabeth tiptoed over and handed Peter the wineglass again.

He raised it silently.

She smiled. “Still want those five minutes?”

He looked down at Neal’s sleeping face, the quiet rise and fall of his chest, the soot smudge on his cheek from candle-blowing.

Peter shook his head. “Nah. Maybe tomorrow.”

—

Chapter Text

The house was silent.

For the first time in what felt like forever, there were no scattered crayons underfoot. No tiny sneakers discarded in the hallway. No juice boxes leaking from the side of the couch. No Foxie left dramatically dangling off a stair railing like he’d fallen in battle.

Peter and Elizabeth were alone.

Mozzie—armed with organic snacks, two emergency walkie-talkies, and a dossier titled “Operation Tiny T-Rex”—had agreed (with dramatic flair) to babysit for the evening.

“I will protect the child with my life,” he’d announced, strapping Foxie into his satchel.

Elizabeth had laughed. Peter had clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Just keep him from breaking anything—or liberating any vending machines.”

And now, the house was theirs.

Empty.

Still.

Peaceful.

Too peaceful.

—

The First Hour

They had plans.

A nice dinner. A bottle of wine. Maybe even a grown-up movie that didn’t feature talking trucks or musical forest creatures.

They lit candles. Played soft jazz. Talked—really talked, in full, uninterrupted sentences.

And for a while, it was nice.

Peter twirled spaghetti. Elizabeth kicked off her shoes. They toasted.

“To adult time,” she said.

“To finally sitting down,” Peter replied.

They sipped. They smiled.

But then…

The quiet began to stretch.

Peter glanced toward the stairs.

Elizabeth eyed the empty living room.

There was no trail of crayon scribbles leading to the ottoman. No high-pitched voice declaring, “Foxie says you’re under arrest!”

Just… silence.

—

The Cracks Begin to Show

“Think Mozzie remembered to cut the grapes in half?” Peter asked, poking at his garlic bread.

Elizabeth smiled. “I gave him a checklist.”

Peter nodded. “Still…”

“He did call your phone five times about ‘ethical snack alternatives’ before we even left.”

“Right.”

Peter checked his phone.

No texts.

No voicemails.

No chaos.

“Huh.”

Elizabeth refilled their wine. “We should be thrilled.”

“Absolutely.”

She took a sip. “But—”

“I know.”

She set the glass down. “I kinda miss the little hurricane.”

Peter looked at the toy bin in the corner, completely undisturbed. “It’s too quiet.”

Elizabeth rose and went to the couch, picking up one of Neal’s drawings—stick figures with wild hair, labeled: Me, Daddy Peter, Queen El, and Foxie the Brave.

Peter joined her and sat down slowly.

“I miss him,” he admitted.

Elizabeth leaned on his shoulder. “Me too.”

—

Meanwhile – At Mozzie’s

Mozzie, wearing safety goggles and wielding a glue stick like a surgical instrument, looked over at Neal—who was happily taping bottle caps to a cardboard helmet.

“This is our best prototype yet,” Mozzie said proudly.

Neal nodded. “It needs wings though. And glitter.”

Mozzie tilted his head. “We’ll call it The Pegasus Protocol.”

Neal beamed. “You’re the best Uncle Moz.”

Mozzie paused.

Then said quietly, “Don’t tell anyone… but I kinda like babysitting.”

Neal grinned. “Wanna play ‘spy dentist’ next?”

Mozzie sighed. “If I must.”

—

Back at Home

Later that night, just as they were settling into bed, Peter’s phone buzzed.

Mozzie: Mission complete. On our way back. No casualties.

Peter smiled. “They’re on their way back.”

Elizabeth leaned her head against his arm.

“You know what I realized?” she murmured.

“What’s that?”

“I love our quiet time. But I love the chaos more.”

Peter kissed the top of her head. “We were always missing something before him. Now we’re just occasionally missing him.”

The front door creaked.

Tiny footsteps shuffled upstairs.

Peter and Elizabeth looked at each other—smiling.

The house was full again.

And it felt exactly right.

—

Chapter Text

The day had been surprisingly calm—no crayon murals on the walls, no dramatic declarations of espionage, and only one minor incident involving cereal in a flower vase.

By evening, Peter and Elizabeth were feeling lucky.

Neal had spent the entire afternoon building an elaborate cardboard “security fortress” in the living room with Satchmo stationed at the entrance. After dinner, he curled up in the center of it with Foxie and a coloring book, humming softly under his breath.

Peter exchanged a glance with Elizabeth.

“He’s quiet,” he murmured. “Almost suspiciously quiet.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Let’s not jinx it.”

They moved to the couch. Satchmo, ever the loyal sentry, thumped his tail once before laying his head back down. Candlelight flickered gently. The room was warm, and—for once—peaceful.

Peter reached out, brushing Elizabeth’s hair behind her ear.

She leaned in close.

Their noses brushed.

Their eyes softened.

Peter tilted forward to kiss her—

And from the cardboard fortress came:

“EWWWW! GROWN-UP SMOOCH!”

—

The Interruption

Elizabeth snorted, head falling against Peter’s shoulder in a fit of laughter.

Peter groaned, laughing too. “He’s not even looking!”

Neal popped his head out from the cardboard fortress like a startled prairie dog, squinting in judgment. “I heard it! Smooches make gross noises!”

Elizabeth covered her mouth, giggling. “We weren’t that loud.”

“You were,” Neal declared solemnly, clutching Foxie to his chest. “You squooshed faces! That’s disgusting!”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said we were your favorite couple.”

Neal scowled. “Not when you're kissing! Kissing is for weirdos and old people and—ew!”

Peter grinned and turned to Elizabeth. “Should we traumatize him further?”

Elizabeth leaned in with a mock-dramatic whisper. “Absolutely.”

They kissed again—slowly, deliberately.

Neal shrieked and dove inside the cardboard. “NOOOO! I CAN STILL HEAR IT!”

Satchmo, clearly amused, barked once and trotted over to join Neal in the fortress. Foxie peeked out with one ear flopped over.

From the cardboard came a muffled, “Let me know when it’s safe.”

—

The Aftermath

Elizabeth laughed so hard she had tears in her eyes. “That might’ve been the most romantic moment we’ve had in weeks.”

Peter draped an arm around her and sighed happily. “And we’ll pay for it at bedtime, guaranteed.”

Neal popped his head out, cautiously. “Are you done?”

Peter nodded. “You’re safe—for now.”

Neal crawled over with Foxie in tow and plopped dramatically between them. “Next time, warn me. I almost died of smooch poisoning.”

Peter pulled him into a hug, smirking. “You’ll appreciate it someday.”

Neal frowned. “When I’m a hundred.”

Elizabeth kissed the top of his head. “Well, we’ll still be kissing then too.”

Neal groaned. “Ugh! I need earplugs!”

Peter whispered, “Grown-up smooch,” just to mess with him.

Neal shrieked, buried himself under the blanket on the couch, and declared a formal No Kissing Zone.

And yet—he didn’t move from between them for the rest of the night.

—

Chapter Text

It started with sushi.

Or, more precisely, a desperate bribe to get Neal to eat “grown-up dinner.”

Peter had picked up takeout from their favorite place, balancing trays of California rolls, dumplings, and spicy tuna with all the confidence of a man who thought maybe this time they could eat as a family without incident.

Elizabeth set the table, lit a candle. Satchmo flopped under the chair like a lazy foot warmer. Neal climbed into his booster seat, eyeing the food with suspicion.

“Where’s the real dinner?” he asked, frowning at the seaweed.

“This is real dinner,” Elizabeth said cheerfully. “You’ll love the dumplings.”

“I want green frosting.”

Peter arched a brow. “No frosting. But you can have a cookie after dinner.”

Neal sulked. “Fine.”

And then it happened.

Peter and Elizabeth turned away for five seconds—Peter pouring soy sauce, Elizabeth grabbing napkins.

That was all it took.

—

The Moment

When they turned back, Neal was chewing.

His eyes were wide.

His little tongue poked out, trembling.

“Neal?” Elizabeth asked slowly. “What did you just eat?”

Neal swallowed—and immediately turned bright red.

Peter’s eyes darted to the table.

To the tiny plastic cup with the green paste.

To the lid now open.

To the fact that the entire tube of wasabi was… gone.

“Oh no—”

Neal let out a squeak.

His body went rigid.

Then he opened his mouth and let out a noise that could only be described as a banshee’s wail.

“WHYYYYY IS THE FROSTING ON FIRE?!”

He shoved his face into his water cup, sloshing it everywhere. “HELP! MY TONGUE’S DYING!”

Elizabeth gasped and scooped him up, rushing to the sink. Peter, in frozen horror, muttered, “Did he eat the whole thing?!”

Neal was crying now, red-faced, tongue stuck out dramatically. “My soul left! I saw it! It waved goodbye!”

—

The Recovery

Elizabeth ran a clean, wet cloth over Neal’s lips while holding him on her hip. “Sweetheart, that wasn’t frosting. That was wasabi.”

Neal blinked, teary-eyed. “What’s wasabi? Poison?!”

Peter knelt down and offered him a spoonful of rice. “Not poison. Just very spicy. Very grown-up. Very not frosting.”

“I thought it was the Shrek kind!” Neal sobbed. “You should label dangerous frosting!”

Elizabeth kissed his temple. “Noted.”

Satchmo barked once, as if agreeing.

Neal took a bite of rice, hiccupped, and dramatically flopped against her chest. “Tell Foxie I fought bravely.”

Peter exhaled, rubbing his forehead. “Well, we were overdue for a dinner disaster.”

Elizabeth handed Peter the water glass. “I think it’s your turn to do bedtime.”

“After what he just survived? I think it’s your turn.”

From Elizabeth’s arms came a groggy voice: “I want ten books and no wasabi ever again.”

—

Bedtime Confession

Later that night, freshly brushed and bandaged (emotionally), Neal curled into bed holding Foxie close.

“Wasabi is not a food,” he whispered solemnly. “It’s a curse.”

Peter tucked the blanket up to his chin. “Lesson learned?”

Neal nodded. “Only eat green things if Mom says they’re safe.”

“And?”

Neal smiled faintly. “I’m still brave, right?”

Elizabeth kissed his forehead. “The bravest.”

“And if my soul floats off again,” Neal whispered sleepily, “tell it to come back with cookies.”

Peter and Elizabeth smiled at each other over his head, laughing softly.

He was fine.

They all were.

Just with a little more respect for condiments.

—