AN: I got an anonymous comment on the last story asking why all these were separated, so I guess if that's bothering people I should address it. The answer is this: I started this series with no intention of it going beyond the first story, then no intention beyond the second, and so on, but they keep coming because they make me happy. I'm not going to bother consolidating them all into one fic and losing all the reviews that have accumulated over the months. I don't think I'm too annoying being present a few times on the front page, and I think readers are capable enough to figure out the order of fics by going by the summaries. So, sorry if it annoys, it just turned out that way.

That said, thank you for reading and for all your kind reviews. I hope you enjoy this. :)

Satchmo raises his head and lifts his ears attentively. A soft growl rumbles from the back of the dog's throat, a warning of things to come. That's how Peter knows that someone's at the door.

"Neal?" El says. She puts the glass to her lips and tilts it back, finishes off the last drop of her wine. "Why isn't he knocking?"

"I don't know," Peter murmurs, his eyes aimed back at the foyer, because he doesn't. He doesn't know why Neal isn't knocking. He doesn't know if it's Neal at all, and the hesitation on the other side of that door is making him nervous, has his fingers itching for his gun. He pushes his chair back and gets to his feet, takes steps in the door's direction as El starts clearing the table. He can feel the wary glances she shoots at his back, is almost overcome by the awareness that his nerves are her nerves, and he swallows the guilt down. If what is his is hers, then everything he feels should be equal parts calm and passionate, good and beautiful. None of these negative emotions. No anxiety related to the dangerous nature of his work, or the irresolute visitations of a conman turned partner turned surrogate kid.

He peeks outside through the glass, heaves a sigh, and yanks the door open.

"Neal." Peter's voice is deep and firm, not raised in volume or ire. Neal comes to a halt two steps from the sidewalk, his back tight underneath his shirt, his shoulders tense. He turns around with an effervescent smile in place, his hand pulling the hat off his head. There isn't a hint of sheepishness about this boy, having just been caught at coming then going with no notice of either. "Get in here," is all Peter says, and opens the door wider. He stands to the side at the threshold as Neal slinks past, like a guard overseeing a prisoner.

Peter steps inside and locks up the door behind him. He turns around to find Neal already helping to clear the dishes despite El's protestations.

"Neal, sweetie, you didn't even eat."

"That's okay, Elizabeth," Neal says, stacking two plates, tangling the stems of their glasses into clever fingers. "I fully plan on raiding your freezer for dessert, or, in the case that I come up empty, your wine cabinet."

Peter allows this, even though he knows what the kid is doing. He's delaying the inevitable. The interrogation. The why are you here? The why were you running away?

He lets it go for the duration of cleanup, doesn't aid his wife or his partner, but sits in front of the TV, silently thanks the universe that spring has come when a bat hits a ball and men start running.

They can all use the reprieve from Peter's stern line of questioning, anyway. Neal's been shaping up as of late, hasn't pulled any stunts or told any bold-faced lies. He's taken Peter's constant vigilance in stride, simply smiling and doing as he's told whenever targeted with a particularly immoveable look, and ceasing any ridiculous argumentation when confronted by the hard parental note of his name leaving Peter's mouth.

And El's had to listen to many a one-ended telephone conversation, lectures about the law and staying in its bounds and God help Neal if he didn't…

So, yes, ten minutes is a welcome reprieve, but then there are going to be questions, because Neal's attempt at an unnoticed appearance is extremely suspect. The kid's done something, or knows something. There's some sort of information in that head that wants to be transferred to Peter's, but that silver tongue lives in a slippery boy who's afraid of being caught yet again. Peter knows this, and he feels sympathy, oozy and gushing in his chest. He doesn't like catching Neal anymore than Neal likes being caught but there's right and there's wrong and there's the balance that needs to be maintained.

Regardless, he allows himself to get lost in the game, gives Neal another half-an-hour to eat his pistachio gelato and chit-chat with Elizabeth about an art exhibit at the Met.

It's when he shifts on the couch and realizes he's made a sufficient indentation, realizes that the night is wearing on that he sighs quietly to himself and says, "Neal" in that same way he always says 'Neal' these days.

And he hears a chair scoot back, but he doesn't look up until Neal's at his side, standing at his feet, looking down at him expectantly.

Peter doesn't get up, just asks succinctly, "Why are you here, kid?"

And Neal shrugs and says, "Came for the gelato and/or wine."

And again: "Neal."

"I did. It was delicious."

"Neal."

"You can say my name as much as you want, Peter. It doesn't change fact."

Peter grunts, doesn't even think about what he's doing as his hand shoots out and grabs Neal's wrist. He squeezes it in gentle warning. "You wouldn't have been leaving if you'd come for things you always know you can have. What did you do?"

Neal stares, petulance in his eyes, willfulness in the set of his mouth.

Peter wasn't expecting such an expression, but he'll take it. He tugs on the wrist, asks, "Do you want a spanking?"

Blue eyes go wide and pink spreads slowly through Neal's cheeks as Elizabeth clears her throat and gets up from the table, announcing, "That's our cue to leave. C'mon, Satch, bedtime."

And Neal moans, pleads, "Don't leave me alone with him, Elizabeth, please." But it falls on deaf ears.

"Tell me," Peter says, his wife and dog out of earshot. "Now, please, or you're going straight over my knee."

Petulance to embarrassment to pain, the emotions strike the conman's eyes like lightning - fleeting as ephemeral things tend to be - as he fights to put his mask in place. But Peter has grown to be an emotionally observant individual when it comes to Neal. This is his boy, and he's seen him raw and open.

"Neal," he says, this time quietly, gently. "Tell me."

And Neal looks at the ground, shifts on his feet, says in a voice barely above a whisper, "Was alone. Wanted you."

Huh.

Peter swallows, feeling uncomfortably breathless in the affection that's flooding his chest, his throat, thinking that if this is a con, it's a damn good one. He releases Neal's wrist, leans over and pats the kid's hip, says, "Go get some wine if you want some. You want to watch the game?"

Neal doesn't need to be told twice. About the wine, that is. He seems to vanish and reappear within seconds, glass in hand filled the appropriate three-quarters amount full, the brim already in his mouth as he drops next to Peter on the couch. He doesn't talk, has nothing to say about men throwing, hitting, catching a ball, but he's there and Peter knows it, can feel the kid present and close, leaning against him as the night carries on.