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Peter Burke was in the passenger seat of an NYPD squad car. They were parked on the street outside of a group home in Brooklyn responding to a noise complaint. The complaint was anonymous, but a quick listen to the call would reveal that the woman calling sounded an awful lot like Peter’s wife. (No one could prove that, though.)
It was a sting, but only Peter and Officer Sanchez were in on it. He’d looped her in because she was a trusted friend, an NYPD officer Sanchez, and conveniently, the driver of the squad car he was currently in. The sting was simple—use the noise complaint to conduct an unofficial wellness check. An easy, mostly-legal way for him to lay eyes on the boy, his boy, and make sure he was okay.
“Burke, if we get caught, you’re going to get in some serious trouble for this,” Officer Sanchez said, her eyes on the house. “There’s no reason for an FBI agent to be accompanying me on a routine noise complaint call. If anyone looks closer at this, they’ll know there’s something—”
“I know,” Peter cut her off. “Believe me, I know. But it’s Neal.”
She nodded. “I get it. If it was Mateo, I’d do the same thing. I just wanted to make sure you knew that if someone asks, I’ll admit that I went with it, but I can’t know anything else. I need this job, and Valerie isn’t making enough teaching to support our family without my salary.
“I’ll cover you, Sanchez,” Peter assured. He checked his phone. He had an hour before he needed to return to White Collar without raising any suspicions about the length of his lunch break. Piece of cake. “You have my word.”
“I’m not worried about me.” She brushed some nonexistent flyaways back into her tight bun and stared him down. Sanchez was a hell of an officer, and she had the stern expression that came with one. “You’re risking your career on this. You understand that, right? Is it worth it?”
He was worth it. One hundred and ten percent. “If Mateo was in there and you didn’t know if he was okay, what would you do?”
Sanchez nodded. “I would do the same.” She adjusted her vest. “Alright. Let’s do this.”
They approached the house, Sanchez in the lead. It was Brooklyn, so there wasn’t a front yard, but there were wide concrete planters on either side of the brick stairs; planters full of soil and weeds that had long since choked out the original inhabitants. Peter tried not to take that as an omen.
As Sanchez knocked on the door, a thumb hooked in her belt, her shoulders squared back, Peter tried to take a few moments to ground himself.
When he and El had confirmed that the likelihood of having their own biological kids was low, too low, they’d mourned. He never admitted it to anyone but himself, but Peter had always wanted to be a dad. Ever since he was a kid. Men weren’t supposed to voice those thoughts, weren’t taught to yearn for those sorts of things, so he hadn’t told anyone how deep their infertility had cut. Instead, he’d made space for El’s grief and done his best to bury his own beneath the effort of caring for hers.
Then, a couple from El’s work were licensed to foster. And the germ of an idea was planted.
Within a few months, Peter and El were listed in the directory for NYC emergency foster placements. They smoothed the edges of their guestroom so it was appropriate for a child, removed all the decorative tchotchkes with pointy edges, and painted the walls a brighter blue—the color of the sky instead of the rumbly fashionable grey.
And they waited.
It was over a year before their first placement. A young girl in her early teens named Sofia whose mother had made some questionable friends and let those friends into their home. Sofia was rightfully angry. It wasn’t an easy placement for any of them, and only lasted a few weeks. Sofia snuck out often, and El’s stomach couldn’t handle the worry. (Neither could Peter’s.) After that, there were a few more brief stays. Always older children, always angry. Always temporary.
Then came Neal.
He was ten years old, with a mischievous smile that was endearing on a kid but would spell trouble for him later on. He had a mop of dark hair and matchstick limbs always in motion. Neal’s hyperactivity had to be solar-powered, Peter swore. He woke up and the world was his, whether it bent to his will or not.
Neal’s story behind his need for fostering was suspicious—Peter could smell a WITSEC placement from a mile away. Neal told them his father was dead, his mother couldn’t care for him, and his new mom, Ellen, was needed “somewhere she couldn’t take children.”
Unlike the others, Neal’s temporary wasn’t so temporary. He lived with them for a year. All four seasons, a Christmas, a summer break, and even a brief trip upstate to see Niagara Falls.
Despite his energy, and his clever antics, Neal was all but love at first sight for Peter and El. He wasn’t an easy kid to raise—far from it—but he felt like theirs from the beginning. He was loud, and conniving, and wicked smart. He was also kind, thoughtful, and affectionate. He took El’s hand in the grocery store without prompting, and he always crawled up against Peter’s side on the couch, fingers curling in the fabric of Peter’s shirts.
Unlike the kids they’d taken in before him, Neal was crafty. A gifted artist, and an even more gifted liar. His teachers couldn’t decide if they loved him or loathed him because he was an excellent, bright student and a disruption to any classroom he sat in.
Like the kids they’d taken in before him, Neal was messy and prone to emotional outbursts any time he was scared or stressed. Simple conflict, especially between him and his foster parents, would leave him in hiccuping sobs for hours. Not getting his way could be as easy as redirecting his energy with a distraction or as disastrous as ear-piercing screams until he made himself sick.
Despite it all—or maybe because of it—Peter and El were unsurprised to find they were in total agreement about the most important thing; they wanted to adopt him. They had been happy before. They loved each other and their lives. But Neal brought them a different kind of joy they’d never felt before. Even on his bad days. Neal was a prism. Light, and color, and complexity. And they wanted to make him theirs. Officially. Legally. On white cardstock with stamps and signatures and golden flourishes in the corners.
They agreed, too, on the moment they both knew. When Neal tried out for the school musical that spring— tee ball wasn’t his thing— and Peter and El were there, watching him sing and command the stage with a natural talent that left both of them a bit in awe. More than that, when he smiled at them from the stage, something deep and warm and right unfurled in Peter’s gut. This was something different. This was a different kind of love. One they’d been missing.
They loved him. And they thought he might love them back.
And then out of nowhere, the state called. Just as Peter was building up the nerve to ask Neal’s case worker about how to begin the adoption process, Neal was torn out of their lives overnight and sent to live in a group home.
Neal had always been prone to breakdowns. Big, messy hiccuping sobs that El would need to soothe with soft whispers and a gentle hand in his hair. That night, in sharp contrast, he’d silently packed his things, tears streaming down his cheeks as he packed away all his new clothes and art supplies.
“We’ll do everything we can to bring you back here,” Peter promised, sitting on the edge of Neal’s bed as he watched the kid pack. Neal insisted on doing it himself; he was particular like that. “You have my word.”
“It’s okay,” Neal whispered. His face was so flat, so crestfallen, that Peter could barely look at him. “I knew I was too happy for it to last. This home was my favorite.”
Peter’s stomach curdled. “Hey, look at me.” Peter held out his pinky finger, and reluctantly, Neal’s little finger came up to meet his. “I mean it. You have my word. We’ll get you back. Bring you home. I promise you, Neal. Pinky swear.”
Neal nodded. Sniffed. And finally gave up trying to be brave and dove into Peter’s arms.
They sat like that until the case worker came, all but tearing Neal out of Peter’s hold. Peter felt Neal’s fingers scrabbling at his skin, drawing blood. Ready to do anything, say anything, to stay there with the Burkes, where he belonged. And Peter fought with every ounce of his willpower not to pull the kid back into his arms.
Instead, he looked to the floor so he wouldn’t have to face Neal’s grief.
Peter cried that night. He hadn’t cried, truly cried, since he was a boy. That night he cried on El’s shoulder without shame. Sobbed the way he never let himself cry when they’d found out they couldn’t have kids..
“What can we do?” she asked. Tears ran down her face, too.
Peter didn’t know, but he would find out.
Now, it had been a few weeks since Neal was taken from them with no explanation and Peter was growing impatient. The case worker wouldn’t tell them anything, and he couldn’t figure out why Neal had been taken from them in the first place. They’d done everything right. They were a model foster home. Neal hadn’t even been returned to Ellen, just put in a group home for boys with no reason.
(One that Peter discovered was notorious for violence between the kids that often escalated to police involvement. Hence, the sting operation on a random weekday during his lunch break.)
Peter just needed to lay eyes on Neal. To make sure he was okay. A happy kid with a slick mouth and art supplies… Peter could only imagine all the ways the group home could go wrong.
Suddenly, the door opened to reveal a burly man in a sweat stained white tank top and faded jeans. His expression made Officer Sanchez’s look warm. “Yeah?”
“Good afternoon, sir,” said Sanchez. “I’m Officer Sanchez of the NYPD and this is Burke.” Peter caught the absence of his title. And his first name. Vanessa Sanchez was good. He’d owe her an expensive bottle of wine if they pulled this off. “We’re responding to a noise complaint. Since this is a state-sanctioned foster home, we’re required to investigate, but we should only take a few moments of your time. Are you Bradley Tenet?”
“That’s me.” The man nodded, held the door open. “We get noise complaints often—I know the drill. A house with a dozen boys tends to be loud. Jeremy and William were playing with lightsabers in the backyard earlier. I told them to watch the noise, but they never listen.”
“I have two boys,” Sanchez said, smiling fondly. “I understand. Burke, I’ll take the main level. You want to check upstairs?”
The man pointed up the stairs with a thumb. “The kids’ bedrooms are all up there but most of the boys are outside. I think the little one might be up there, though. He’s quiet. Likes to keep to himself. Just be careful you don’t spook him.”
Peter’s heart sunk. He knew Bradley was talking about Neal. His rambunctious, social butterfly reduced to someone who got ‘spooked.’ Peter schooled his expression. “I’ll be careful.”
Bradley waved for Vanessa to follow him into the kitchen and Peter all but ran up the stairs.
The hall was littered with bedrooms, all the doorknobs without locks. Only one door was open.
Right there, sitting crosslegged on the faded carpet, coloring with his left hand despite being right-handed, was Neal. His hair was longer and shaggier, and his clothes looked more worn, but it was him. He was right there, alive and breathing and right there.
“Neal!” Peter whisper-yelled.
His head jerked up, he saw Peter, and he broke into a heartbreakingly wide smile. “Peter?”
Peter motioned for Neal to be quiet, checked over his shoulder, and the moment he confirmed they were alone, he dropped to one knee and held his arms open.
Neal didn’t hesitate. He crashed into Peter’s chest and grabbed his neck tight enough to leave Peter winded.
“Hey, hey.” Peter hugged him back as tight as he dared. He couldn’t tell whose heart was racing faster— his or the boy’s. “I missed you, kiddo. I missed you so much. I’m not supposed to be here, but I had to make sure you were alright.”
“Wait,” Neal detached and looked Peter in the eyes. His big, pleading baby blues were all it took to cleave Peter in two. “You’re not here to take me home?”
“Not yet—” Peter’s voice faltered at Neal’s instant tears— “but we’re trying as hard as we can.” Peter reached up and ran his thumb under the corner of Neal’s eye before any could spill. “Honey, I promise. We want you back. We’re doing everything we can.”
“Please, can’t you just—-can’t you just take me with you?” Neal twisted his hands behind his back and grimaced. Peter had never seen him so nervous, so anxious. “Please. I don’t want to stay here anymore. I want to go home.”
Two thoughts warred for dominance in Peter’s mind. First, Neal had called the Burkes home. He wanted to go home. Second, he didn’t want to stay here. A cold front moved through Peter’s chest as he muddled over what that could mean. “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”
Neal was a gifted liar, but he couldn’t keep his face straight. “The other boys… they’re mean. They pick on me and I don’t—I don’t like it here.”
“What do you mean they pick on you?” Peter brushed Neal’s hair back. No purple that he could see. No blood. But wait—now that he was looking— “Neal, what happened to your tooth?”
Neal pressed his lips together but Peter had already spotted it. A chip in one of Neal’s bottom teeth. One that wasn’t there a few weeks ago.
“I fell.”
But Peter could tell that wasn’t the whole story. Neal could lie with the best of them, but Peter could read the boy like a book. “Did someone push you?”
Neal shook his head but Peter knew he was lying.
“Listen to me. Remember when I told you there were things you should never lie to me about?”
“Yes.” But he was shaking like a leaf.
Peter reached out and rubbed his skinny arms, and thankfully, it seemed to be at least a little bit comforting. “Neal, I need you to tell me the truth.”
Instead of speaking, Neal drew a shaky hand from behind his back and held it between them.
It was a typical little boy's hand. Dirty nails, fingertips stained by markers. A sticky patch on his arm that could be toothpaste or powdered sugar, dealer’s choice. But like those old Highlights: Spot the Difference magazine spreads, Peter picked out the problem right away.
Neal’s pinky finger was green and mottled. Broken even to the untrained eye. The whole digit was swollen and distorted. Knuckles too big. A bend where a bend shouldn’t be. The fingernail was missing, too. It looked like it had fallen off at the root of the nail bed, which was hot, red, and angry. Peter wanted to throw up and punch someone all at once.
Careful in a way he’d never been in his life, Peter took Neal’s trembling hand in his palm. “Who did this to you?”
“The other boys here like to hurt me,” Neal whispered before losing his tentative control. He lifted his shirt, and his stomach was covered in bruises in various states of healing— purple and green and yellow decorating his skin like the impressionist art El taught him about. “Please, please let me go home with you! I—”
Peter didn’t even think. He took his suit jacket off, wrapped it around Neal’s shoulders, and picked the boy up in arms, careful of his broken finger and bruised torso. “I’m not leaving you here.”
“I just want to go home.” Neal warbled, his words morphing into sobs as his arms cinched around Peter’s neck. Hot tears and snort dribbled down into the collar of Peter’s work shirt, but he barely noticed. All he could hear around the rush of hot blood in his ears was the discordant echoes of hurt, Neal, he’s hurt, someone hurt him, someone hurt his boy.
Peter knew this wasn’t the way to do it. He should wait, leave the house, place an anonymous tip, get the case worker back here so Neal could be placed back with him, with El, without the snag of an illegal wellness check performed by a foster parent without jurisdiction. He could come back for Neal in half an hour, and save himself the headache (or potential suspension) of explaining himself.
But Neal was in his arms, his legs wrapped around Peter’s waist and locked at the ankles behind his back, and Peter knew he wouldn’t be able to put him down. To let him cry alone and self-soothe, even if it was for less time than it took to watch an episode of Law & Order.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Peter whispered, rubbing Neal’s trembling back and hoisting his other arm under Neal’s thighs.
Neal pushed his face tighter to Peter’s neck, hiccuped.
Peter kissed his hair and pulled out his phone.
“Hey, El.” He sighed. Took a deep breath. “Yeah, I found him… you’ll want to come over here. Yes, now. I’m not leaving him here. I need you to help me so we can bring him home.” Neal’s arms tightened and Peter could barely breathe but he didn’t ask Neal to loosen up. Just pressed his cheek to the boy’s feverish forehead. “Just come and I’ll explain everything.”
—-
Peter calmly walked down the stairs and out the front door, Neal caressed protectively in his arms. Neither of them were ready to let go, so they didn’t.
Sanchez found them on the steps, took one look at Neal’s finger, and called it in.
There would be questions to answer, and people to answer to. Peter knew it wouldn’t be pretty. But he didn’t care.
He ran his palm up and down Neal’s spine, offering gentle platitudes for his own sake as much as the boy’s, and waited for El.
Neal held on like his life depended on it.
Peter did, too.
—-
The case worker was on their side. She left some things out of her report, and confirmed Neal would go home with the Burkes.
El came, kissed them both on the cheek, and rushed upstairs to pack up Neal’s things.
The cops spoke to Bradley, who swore he knew nothing of the abuse (Peter believed him), and some of the older boys. Peter told them what he found, and with Neal’s permission, lifted the back of his shirt so the cops could see the bruises leaking up and down his sides.
The paramedics wanted to take Neal to the hospital. Considering he wouldn’t lift his face from Peter’s shoulder, and howled like a wild animal when Peter tried to put him on the gurney in the ambulance, Peter didn’t think that was going to happen.
Instead, Peter sat on the edge of the ambulance bumper, and turned his back to the paramedic so she could disinfect and bandage Neal’s broken finger.
“You’re doing great, kiddo,” Peter said, his hand ruffling the hair at the back of Neal’s head. He could feel Neal’s body clench up every time something burned or stung, but he kept quiet. His tears silently trickled down Peter’s very damp, definitely-snotty collar. “It’s almost over.”
“I want to go home,” Neal rasped.
“As soon as you’re bandaged up, we can go. I promise.”
Neal nodded and whimpered as his finger was taped up.
Peter tucked the suit jacket more securely around Neal’s shoulders and distracted him with a story about a squirrel they’d found in the FBI building.
—
No one was arrested, no charges were pressed. But they were all sitting on Neal’s bed in their pajamas as El leafed through one of Neal’s favorite illustrated books. So Peter would chalk today up as a win.
Neal was bundled up on Peter’s lap, his cold toes curling against Peter’s thigh and his injured hand tucked into the warm fabric resting over Peter’s stomach. One of Peter’s arms was slung across Neal’s thin shoulders, the other across El’s. Neal’s damp hair was cold and ticklish against the underside of Peter’s chin.
El noticed Neal’s heavy eyelids and gently stroked his cheek with her knuckles. “Ready for bed, sweetheart? You’d had a long day.”
Neal’s eyes shot open. “No, I’m fine. Let’s keep reading.”
Peter and El shared a knowing look.
“Neal, it’s getting late, bud,” Peter reasoned.
Neal shook his head and clasped his uninjured hand around Peter’s side. The beginning of panicky shivers began to thrum up Neal’s spine. “I don’t want you to go. What if the case worker comes back and she—“
“Oh, honey, no.” El reached over and pushed Neal’s hair back, pressing her hand to his cheek. “That’s not going to happen. You’re not going anywhere tonight.”
“But I did before,” he murmured. “It happened.”
Peter tightened his arms around the kid and rubbed his back, careful of the healing bruises. “Not on my watch. Never again.” A tear arched down the slope of Neal’s lightly freckled nose and Peter dashed it away with the pad of his thumb. “Tell you what. Why don’t you sleep with El and I tonight? The case worker will never find you there.”
Neal didn’t say anything, just gave a jerky nod and let Peter pick him up like he was littler than ten.
Peter didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. He would face consequences from entering the house with Sanchez. For taking Neal without permission. Maybe even for whatever backroom deals the case worker made to get Neal back with the Burkes for now.
But as Peter lay Neal down in the middle of their bed, El a protective barrier on one side and Peter on the other, he knew that he would figure it out. Peter Burke had always been a fighter. A “the fight isn’t lost until you stay down” kind of guy. And he would fight for Neal to stay with them; God save anything or anyone who stood in his way.
After all, this kid, his kid, would never be taken from him again.
Neal was laying on his side at the center of the bed, facing Peter, El’s hand protective on his shaky bicep as she kissed his cheek one last time before turning out the lights. Peter pulled the blankets up to their shoulders.
Even in the dark, Peter could feel Neal’s gaze. Hear his labored breathing. Feel him inching closer. “You alright, Neal?”
There was a pause. Long enough that Peter could hear El’s breath even out and could feel his own mind slipping down toward sleep.
Finally, Neal asked, his voice so low Peter barely heard him, “What if I go to sleep and when I wake up, I’m back at the group home?”
“You’re here now.” Peter reached out and took his uninjured hand. Squeezed it. “This is your home. I won’t let them take you away. Not again.”
Neal’s eyes found his. Even in the dark, Peter could see their bright hue. Smart, and kind, and so, so scared. “Are you sure?”
Peter adjusted his grip on Neal’s hand. Looped their pinkies together. Felt Neal’s other hand against his chest, the medical tape scratchy against his sleep shirt. “I promise. Pinky swear.”
Neal’s pinky squeezed his.
Peter carefully pulled Neal up against his chest, relishing the soft heat of a sleepy-warm child and the relief of knowing this kid, his kid, was here. He was safe. He was his.
They fell asleep like that, knotted up under the blanket. Neal, unafraid. Peter, unconcerned.
They had everything they needed.
(They had each other.)