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Neal was nervous. Peter and El, along with their little baby that was now almost two years old, were coming to the Louvre, to see him. They were in France already; they had got in at a terrible hour of the night – the morning, really – and were headed to the Louvre that morning. To see him. For the first time since he'd made them believe he was dead. He was going to take them around the Louvre himself; he'd taken the whole day off to do it, sort of. In the morning, El and the baby would be with them, and they'd look at whatever they wanted to see. Probably Peter wouldn't care, so whatever El wanted to see. Then they'd go to lunch at Neal's favorite place, and no expense would be spared. El and the baby would go back to the hotel afterwards, and then he and Peter would return to the Louvre for the real tour, the one that really mattered, because that was when he'd show Peter what he did at work and introduce him to all his people and show him how good he was at what he was doing. Peter had never given any indication that he was angry about the faked death, but Neal knew, based on reports from Mozzie, that Peter had felt it for a long time, and he hadn't seen his old handler in person yet, so he just didn't know where Peter was about it.
He did know that everything had to be perfect. He'd let his people know it too. Even the ones that didn't work for him directly, like the girls at the ticket counter and at Guest Services, had been told to be at their best and to keep a lookout for the Burkes. He himself came in early, even though he wasn't technically working that day, in order to go around and check up on everything. He was in his office discussing plans with his secretary when he go the call from Guest Services that they were there.
“Well,” he said to the secretary, with a bright grin to cover his pounding heart, “here goes.” He picked up the VIP welcome packet he was bringing down and headed out the door, followed by his more-than-curious secretary.
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Peter was nervous. He was also really tired and already overloaded on French, which didn't make waiting at Guest Services any easier. He wanted so badly for this first meeting with Neal as Neal Benet to go well. He wasn't sure it was a great idea to bring his Neal along, but as El pointed out, what was she going to do, sit in a hotel with a cooped-up baby while Peter went and met their friend at an art museum?
This whole thing didn't happen in real life. People didn't come back from the dead; people didn't fake their deaths and then make clues to it appear out of thin air. Peter could hardly believe he'd just flown half-way across the world to see someone who'd been dead the last time he saw him. Yes, he'd talked to him on the phone. But that could be faked – so much easier than death could be. He knew that it was Neal he'd been talking to – but he wouldn't be completely surprised if it was actually a terrible, elaborate prank. It was because he wanted it so badly that he believed enough to come. That and the storage container. If that had been faked, whoever'd done it had done a darn good job. Mozzie was capable, but Peter didn't think he was that sadistic. So there he was, waiting nervously at the Guest Services counter at the Louvre in Paris, holding his baby son and waiting for his dead one-time CI to appear.
“El, what if...”
“It's him, Peter, you know it is,” El replied calmly. She was looking around in all directions too.
“Oh, ****, El,” Peter suddenly said breathlessly.
“Is it him?” El asked, reaching for the baby he handed her.
He just started walking, and El looked ahead in the direction he was going. There was Neal, coming toward them, apparently having a cheerful, animated conversation with a gorgeous woman who was walking with him. A co-worker? A secretary? But then he stopped suddenly, handed what he was carrying to the woman, and hurried on, looking equal parts elated and terrified.
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Peter saw Neal hurry towards him, and picked up his own pace, and suddenly Neal was right there in front of him.
“Peter,” Neal said.
Peter found that he was trying to smile and cry at the same time. Probably because this was not supposed to happen in real life. Whatever. He went with it, grabbing Neal in a bear hug, just beating Neal to it. “I thought you were dead. I thought you were dead,” he said, holding Neal as tightly as he could.
“I know, Peter, I'm sorry,” Neal said, his voice buried somewhere in Peter's shoulder.
Peter held him back a little. “No,” he said. “Don't be sorry. You're alive.” Peter hugged Neal again. “You're alive, kiddo, you're alive.”
“I missed you, Peter,” Neal said, his voice buried again. “It's good to see you.”
El and the secretary both caught up to them then, and they let each other go.
“Neal!” El exclaimed, handing the baby off to Peter and throwing her arms around Neal.
“El,” Neal said. “it's so good to see you.”
She stepped back. “I could slap you for making us think... how could you do that to us? But I won't... I'm too glad to see you.”
“I didn't want to do it, El; please believe me that I had to,” Neal said.
“I do,” she said. “Oh, Neal, I can hardly believe it's you,” she said, hugging him again.
“And this,” Peter said when El let Neal go, “is someone else you need to meet.” He helped the baby wave. “Say hello to your Uncle Neal, Neal.”
“Neal?” Neal said. “Hi, there, Neal.”
The baby buried his face in Peter's neck.
Peter grinned at the elder Neal's disappointed expression. “You still do magic tricks, don't you?” he asked. At Neal's nod, he turned to the baby. “Hey, Neal, your Uncle Neal can do a magic trick – do you want to see? It's pretty cool...”
Little Neal looked at the elder one, who grinned, pulled a Euro out of his pocket, and made it disappear.
The baby was intrigued. “Where goed it?” he asked.
“I don't know,” Peter replied, grinning. “Maybe your Uncle Neal knows,” he suggested conspiratorily.
“Where goed money?” Little Neal asked again, this time directing the question to the elder Neal.
“Well, let's see...” the elder Neal pretended to search. “Oh, I think it's behind your daddy's ear,” he said reaching up to the side of Peter's face and then pulling his hand back to reveal the coin in his fingers.
“Wow,” Peter said. “That is so cool.”
Little Neal took Peter by the nose and chin and turned his head, searching for more coins.
“It's magic, Neal,” Peter said. “There aren't any more.”
While Little Neal continued to search his father's face for additional coins, the elder Neal introduced his secretary Celeste, whom El was disappointed to learn was not his girlfriend. Celeste shook both El's and Peter's hands warmly. Peter couldn't help imagining what all she'd been told about them. He wondered, among other things, how much of it was accurate.
“So, what would you like to see first?” Neal asked.
Peter was looking at what he came to see, so he was glad El could supply ideas.
“The Mona Lisa?” she asked. “Is that too touristy?”
“Not if you haven't seen it before,” Neal said. “The Italians it is then.” He pointed across the atrium to the gallery on the Seine side of the museum.
Neal dismissed his assistant, who gave them all one last smile, and then led them across and they up to Level 1 of the museum, where he took them to the edge of a big crowd.
“Here, this is the line,” he said. “It's easily our biggest attraction. Come on, I'll get you through most of the wait.”
“El, give me the baby,” Peter said. “We'll wait for you out here.”
“Don't you want to see it?” she asked.
“I've seen it before,” Peter said, “when I was chasing... you know who.” He nodded at their host with a grin.
“If you're sure,” El wondered.
“Sure, I'll just let Neal wander wherever he likes for a bit,” Peter said.
El and Neal disappear into the crowd, and Peter spoke to the baby in his arms.
“Come on, Tiger,” he said, “let's go look at something that doesn't have quite as much of a line.” He set Neal on his feet, and, holding one of his hands firmly, let him go wherever he wanted.
Fifteen minutes later, Neal was tired and wanted up. They hadn't got very far; they were still in the Italians, and Peter could still see the edge of the Mona Lisa crowd. He lifted Little Neal, who plopped his head down on Peter's shoulder.
“Oh, you're tired, huh?” Peter asked. “I know it's been an exciting morning, but I didn't think you'd notice. Is it time for a nap?” he teased.
“Nooooo!” Neal exclaimed, popping straight up just as suddenly as he'd plopped down.
“Alright, then, that's more like it,” Peter said, grinning. “Let's look at this painting here, shall we?”
“Paintin,” Neal attempted the new word.
“Yeah, painting,” Peter repeated. “Let's look at it.”
“Wook it paintin.”
“Yeah, look at the painting. The real question is, though: is it art?”
“Ut.”
“You think so? Well, let's have a look.”
“Wook it ut.”
“That's right, look at art.” Peter, still holding Neal, moved towards the nearest painting, which had only a dozen or so people standing in front of it. “Now,” he said to the baby, “this is your Uncle Neal's museum, and I know he knows art. But, on the other hand, sometimes I've seen big piles of laundry, or just ordinary bananas, called art, and sometimes he goes with it. So, like most things about Uncle Neal, you never know for certain. But you can hardly go wrong with old Italian paintings. What do you think? That's a painting, huh?”
“Paintin!” Neal called out.
“Right,” Peter said.
They had made it through the line, and the painting was in view. It was a large painting of an old man reaching for a young black-haired one, the old man throwing a large piece of red fabric around the younger one's shoulders.
“Huh,” Peter said thoughtfully.
“Paintin,” Neal observed, reaching for it even though it was far outside his reach.
“No touching,” Peter said absently.
“No tuttin?”
Peter grinned. “Yeah, no touching. It's not yours. The sooner you learn that the better.” He turned back to the painting. “Regreso del hijo prodigal by Leonello Spada, circa 1608-1611,” he read. He looked at the painting for several long moments, while Neal started to squirm.
“Tut paintin,” Neal said.
“No, Bud, let's just look,” Peter said.
“May I?” the elder Neal said, suddenly beside Peter. He held out his hands for the baby, who leaned out towards him, at which the elder Neal grinned widely. Neal settled into the elder Neal's arms, and immediately started trying to pull off and take apart his lanyard and ID.
“Where's El?” Peter asked.
“Still looking at Mona Lisa,” Neal said. “I told her to stay as long as she wanted.”
Peter nodded.
Neal turned back to the painting Peter had been looking at. Neal had been surprised to find Peter absorbed in a painting, and felt a little trepidation on realizing which one it was. “This is an interesting one,” Neal said carefully, indicating the Regreso, keeping an eye on Peter as he spoke. “The subject has been painted by several masters, but this is the one I like the best. In most of them the son is already completely the father's arms – this one shows much more motion. And this is the only one that gives us a good look at the son's face.”
Peter was studying the painting thoughtfully – and seriously. “They told us this story in Sunday school,” Peter said finally. “I didn't have much patience for it then. The father didn't make much sense to me. Want your son back? Go hunt him down.”
Since Peter wasn't looking at him, Neal allowed himself a grin.
“The father seemed melodramatic – I would have used the word 'hyperbolic' if I'd known it then. Let's see, it went something like, 'this son of mine was dead and has come back to life.' I used to think, no he wasn't. He was never dead.” Peter sniffed, and Neal saw that his jaw was clenched.
Neal took off his lanyard and gave it to little Neal, and, still holding the baby, stepped closer to Peter. “But the father was right, though... if the son had kept on the way he'd been going, he would have been irrevocably lost to him.”
“Yeah.” Peter swallowed and took a shaky breath.
“Look at the son's face,” Neal continued. “You can see that he knows – he knows how much he hurt his father when he left – making him think that he'd be gone forever. And that, Peter, he's really, really sorry for that.”
Peter glanced at Neal quickly. “But look at the father,” he said, a little catch in his voice. “He's got his son back – his son that he would have done anything for, to keep him safe and well. It doesn't matter what he felt like when his son was gone; he's back, and there's no room for any feelings but gladness and gratitude. So the son shouldn't keep saying sorry. The only thing is that he should never, ever do anything that stupid again.”
“He won't, Peter. Look at him. He missed his father when he was gone. And there were some things about being gone that were fun – maybe even... necessary... but in some ways it was pretty miserable. I mean, look at his clothes. He was feeding pigs.”
Peter turned to Neal quickly. “Really?” he asked, face full of concern.
Neal made an exasperated face at him.
“Mommy!” Little Neal called, seeing El approaching.
“Hi, fellas,” El said, as Little Neal squirmed down out of Neal's grasp and ran to her. “What are you looking at?”
“Wook it paintin!” Little Neal explained. “No tuttin,” he added seriously.
El laughed. “That's right!” she said. “We look at paintings and don't touch.”
“It's about lunchtime for me,” Neal said, looking at his watch “Are you guys ready to eat now?”
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On Peter's next birthday, about a year later, he and El celebrated by getting a babysitter and going out to eat. Neal was still a toddler, of course, so Peter and El were still mostly just tired, but they had a fantastic time, having a quiet, companionable conversation and meal, child-free.
When they got back home, they found a large, shallow crate propped up just inside the door. They were informed by the teenager that had been taking care of Neal that it had been delivered about a half-an-hour after they had left. El had brought Peter's hammer up from the basement and had it waiting when he returned from taking the babysitter home.
Inside the crate was a painted copy of the Regreso, distinctly smaller than the real one, just the right size for a certain spot in the house. There was also a note:
Peter,
No one would mistake this for the real one; it's way too small. But I signed it myself
anyway, so there'd be no chance of a misunderstanding.
Happy birthday.
XOXO NB