Entry tags:
White Collar fic: Cat People, Dog People
Title: Cat People, Dog People
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing: Gen
Word Count: 2600
Summary: Neal's kitten seems to have entirely the wrong idea about Peter, but how can you tell a cat anything?
Notes: This is a sort of sequel/tag to![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
frith_in_thorns's Cat and a Hat, with her permission. (Although this could easily tie into any one of the several Neal-finds-a-kitten fics floating around out there, it was the cat's interaction with Peter in Frith's story that specifically made me want to write this.)
Cross-posted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/411397
Peter was pretty sure Neal's kitten had to be part dog. His neighbors' cats had always given an impression of cold aloofness; they were clearly the aristocratic snobs of the animal world, and Peter had never gotten along with the human variety either. This cat, however, turned out to be soft and warm and clingy -- and prone to crawling into visitors' laps and curling up into a tiny, purring ball when they weren't looking. Peter might not be a cat person, per se, but he wasn't allergic and the kitten made sad meeping sounds when he tried to move it, so he just continued going over case files with Neal as if it wasn't there. (Okay, there may have been a little petting, too, because making it produce its tiny purring sound was cuter than he would have believed possible. Not that he'd admit it out loud.)
Mozzie walked in on this scene and reacted with predictable horror. "Neal, aren't you raising that cat properly? Haven't you taught it about feds? There's no telling what it might catch."
"Hey, I can hear you," Peter snapped. The small furry ball in his lap purred louder. It liked Mozzie too. It liked everybody, which seemed like a very unfeline trait in Peter's opinion.
"You've been leading Neal's cat astray, haven't you?" Mozzie said, with an accusing look at both of them. Neal rolled his eyes.
"Okay, first of all, that's completely ridiculous on every level," Peter said. "And second, I don't even like cats. I don't know why it's doing this."
"You're a dog person, aren't you?" Mozzie gestured with a wine bottle. "I'm sure you prefer pets which are nothing but slobbering sycophants who don't even jump without the Man telling them to."
"Pets are supposed to do what they're told. That's what makes them pets rather than wild animals."
"Case closed," Mozzie said loftily.
"What case? You haven't made a case!"
Mozzie leaned over to Neal and whispered loudly, "Let me know if your cat needs some remedial training in the facts of life."
#
"I don't know why it likes me so much," Peter said. Neal was still clearly the kitten's favorite person in the world, but after she'd gotten over her initial shyness, she had developed a marked fondness for Peter -- or at least an irritating tendency to crawl into his lap and shed on him.
"Probably because she knows that you let me keep her."
"She's a cat; she doesn't know anything at all. And I didn't let you keep her, Neal, you're an adult. If anyone let you keep her, June did, since it's her house."
"Vivien likes June too," Neal said, as if that proved something.
Peter ignored him. "I never was a cat person," he said, trying to ignore the fact that the contented, purring ball in his lap undermined this claim somewhat.
Neal leaned over to cover the kitten's tiny ears with his fingertips. "Don't listen to him, Vivien."
"Give me a dog any day. You know where you stand with a dog."
"You can buy a dog's affection with a pat on the head and a bowl of kibble," Neal said. "Cats have far too much self-respect for that. When a cat likes you, it really means something."
"I can't believe we're actually having this argument." He gave Neal a wary glance, which Neal returned with guileless innocence. "We are talking about the cat, aren't we?"
"Of course we are; what else would we be talking about?"
#
Seeing Neal's number on the caller ID at 2 a.m. was enough to clear the cobwebs out of Peter's sleep-fogged brain. "Neal?" he said, rolling out of bed and swinging his legs over the side as El made a sleepy, inquisitive noise.
"It's Vivien," Neal said, and Peter was still running slow enough that he had to flip through his mental Rolodex of Neal's underworld friends and acquaintances before he realized, oh, the kitten.
Peter and El had gone through enough late-night health emergencies with Satchmo that Peter recognized Neal's tone of sleep-deprived panic. "What happened?" he asked in the most authoritative, someone is taking charge voice that he could muster while fumbling around the bedroom trying to find his pants without waking El.
"She's sick," Neal said. "Really sick. She was throwing up tonight, and I figured it'd be okay, pets do that sometimes just like people do, but now she can't even keep water down, and Peter, she's so tiny and so weak. She's floppy, and the vet's closed, and I thought about taking her to the emergency room but I don't think that would work --"
"Hang on, I'll find the number for the emergency vet clinic where we take Satchmo." He closed the door to the bedroom; El had either managed to sleep through all of this, or had heard the word "Neal" and tuned out everything else. "Or, wait, better -- I'll pick you up and drive you over. If she's that sick, they'll want to see her."
"I can take a cab," Neal said. He sounded a little less distraught now that there was a plan.
"I know where the place is," Peter said. "Pick you up outside June's," and he hung up before Neal could talk him out of it, which wouldn't be hard considering that his nice warm bed was upstairs and he had to be at work in a few hours.
Instead he went looking for his car keys.
Neal was waiting for him, wearing mismatched socks and a silk pajama top that was buttoned crooked. He looked so frantic that Peter wasn't even tempted to tease him about it. As he slid into the passenger seat, Peter saw that he'd bundled up Vivien in what looked like a cashmere scarf. The kitten was nothing but a tiny, limp scrap of fur. It looked dead.
"She's still breathing," Neal said as if reading his mind, and Peter looked away guiltily. "You didn't have to come all this way. I could've taken a cab."
"Yeah, like I would have been able to get back to sleep."
While they were stopped at a traffic light, Peter slipped a hand into the scarf to touch Vivien's soft little body. She was normally like a furry hot-water bottle, but tonight she felt cool to the touch. However, she bumped his thumb with her dry nose and gave a soft little sigh.
Cats really were a lot more like dogs than he'd ever realized.
"So this place we're going -- they're pretty good, right?" Neal said hopefully.
"Couple of years ago, Satchmo ate rat poison in the neighbors' backyard. El was frantic. There were tears." Not just from El, either, but no point in giving Neal too much ammo. "But the clinic took great care of him. Really great. Vivien will be fine."
True to his word, a friendly ponytailed vet took charge of Vivien at the clinic. She explained to Neal everything she was doing, while she administered a rehydration solution and an anti-emetic shot to an unexpectedly energetic Vivien. Peter stayed in the background and tried to look supportive and not yawn too obviously.
"I think she's already feeling a little better," the vet said, after giving Vivien a bit of water from an eyedropper. "Take her home and see if you can get her to drink. Water is fine, but Pedialyte is even better -- you can buy it in a drugstore, or we can give you a package of the rehydration solution we keep on hand."
Neal looked flustered and helpless again when the vet put the scarf-wrapped bundle of Vivien back in his arms. The kitten tried to climb his pajama top and then burrowed into the crook of his arm until nothing showed but the tabby-striped hump of her back. "Wait, aren't you keeping her? What if she gets worse again?"
The vet patted his arm. "She'll be less stressed at home, and there's nothing she needs that you can't give her. I'm not sure what made her sick, but baby animals are like kids -- they can go downhill very quickly because they're so small, but they rally quickly, too. If she stops drinking or won't use the litterbox, that could indicate kidney damage" -- Neal's eyes went wide again -- "so bring her back immediately."
She showed him how to check for dehydration by taking a pinch of Vivien's skin -- the kitten warbled unhappily and scrabbled deeper into Neal's arm -- and then they were back on the curb with a small bag of medical items and one increasingly annoyed kitten. While Neal juggled his bag, wallet and receipt, Vivien made a break for freedom over his shoulder. Peter caught her securely by the scruff of the neck and then, feeling guilty about that, tucked her into a pocket of his jacket and put a hand on top of her to hold her there. "Stay," he ordered, and Vivien, after an experimental squirm and a sad meeping sound, settled down. Once Neal had his hands free, Peter scooped her gently out of his pocket and handed her back.
"She's very slippery," Neal remarked, wrapping her carefully in the scarf. "I guess the vet's right; she's feeling better."
"I ought to talk to Hughes and see if they make tracking anklets in her size."
Neal opened his mouth -- Peter could see the automatic argument starting to form -- and then shut it again. "Huh," he said. "That would be ... useful, actually."
"See?" Peter said triumphantly, nodding towards Neal's anklet. "I keep telling you it comes in handy."
"For you, maybe," Neal retorted, cradling Vivien against his chest as he opened the passenger's side door. "But you can get microchips for pets, right? Maybe I should have one put in her. She's always trying to slip out the door whenever it's open. Yesterday I had to hunt all over June's for her."
"Really," Peter said with carefully studied blankness. "How frustrating that must be; I can't even imagine."
Neal scowled. "I think that's why she's sick -- she got into something she shouldn't have."
"Well, if you figure out how to keep her from ducking out whenever she feels like it, do let me know."
"You're enjoying this too much."
"What's the word I'm looking for? There's a word for this. Something German."
"Schadenfreude?" Neal said, slouching down in his seat with the kitten on his chest.
"Yes. That's the word."
Neal settled into sulky silence until Peter pulled up outside June's. The sky was lightening towards the east. "Well," Peter said, "I guess I'll go home and grab a shower. Sleep is probably out of the question at this point."
"Can I --" Neal began, and paused. "I don't want to leave her alone all day, since she's so sick --"
"Yes," Peter sighed, "you can bring her to work with you. It's that or you'll stay home sick, I imagine." Neal perked up. "No," Peter said flatly. "No sick days to babysit a kitten. I'm not explaining that to Hughes."
"Because a kitten in the office is so much easier to explain."
Peter resisted the urge to cover his face with his hands. "Just ... get a carrier for her or something, okay? I don't want her running all over the office distracting everyone from doing their jobs. Again." Not that there was much hope the kitten wouldn't be a source of constant distraction and cooing anyway.
"June has an airline carrier for Bugsy. That would probably work." Neal hesitated with the door open. "Peter --"
"Don't thank me," Peter said quickly. "Just remember the gratitude that you're feeling now the next time you're tempted to bring down a ton of paperwork on my head by stealing something for a good cause." He reached over and poked a finger into the cashmere bundle until he found the little ball of kitten. Vivien meeped and swiped his fingertip with her rough little tongue. "No more escaping," Peter said sternly. "Stay where you belong."
"Are you talking to the kitten or me?"
"Whichever of you will listen."
#
Peter really wished Neal would stop making a big deal out of what had just happened. Okay, so Peter had been shot. But he hadn't been shot in a dangerous place -- it was just the arm, and he was pretty sure the bullet had gone right through.
True, the gun had been pointed at Neal, but pushing Neal down in situations like that was what having backup meant. It was the definition of backup. Not to mention that getting shot at was in Peter's job description -- it was what he'd been trained for -- but Neal was a civilian, and not supposed to ...
He passed out from shock and blood loss in the middle of trying to explain this to Neal, so apparently even flesh wounds could bleed a lot.
The gunshot wound bought him a few days of medical leave and a lot of pampering from El. The meds made him too groggy to do much more than stare at the TV, which meant that Neal's arrival at the door was a welcome distraction. Peter braced himself for more unwanted gratitude, but apparently they were both on the same page as far as pretending that nothing had ever happened. Instead Neal flourished a pack of cards. "I figured I'd entertain you."
"By doing card tricks?" Peter said. "I know better than to play any card game with you."
"Spoilsport." Neal opened his jacket. A tiny tabby head peeped out. "Also, I brought a friend. She was concerned."
Peter thought that he really might have known. It wasn't enough to have the kitten all over Neal's apartment; now she was in his house too. "Neal, she's a cat. She doesn't even know anything happened."
Neal ignored him and set down Vivien on the couch. The kitten picked her way over to Peter and sniffed him all over, especially the bandage on his arm -- it probably smelled funny to her. Then she meeped and curled up in his lap.
El appeared in the doorway with a tray of coffee cups and muffins. The look on her face when she took in the sight of her husband and the kitten seemed to indicate that an "awwww" was imminent. Peter could tell no help would be coming from that direction.
"It did this all by itself," Peter felt compelled to point out. "Neal's kitten likes me for some reason. I think it has the wrong idea about me."
Now El looked like she was struggling not to laugh. "What wrong idea would that be?" she asked, setting the tray on the end table.
"It seems to think I'm some kind of kitten-rescuing hero. I tried to explain," Peter added with all due sincerity, "that I'm an FBI agent, and saving kittens is not in my job description at all."
"Well, you know what cats are like," Neal said, his face blank and innocent. "They never listen."
"No," Peter agreed emphatically. "They never do."
El stroked Vivien, and then kissed Peter on the forehead. "I'd say she has exactly the right idea."
~
Fandom: White Collar
Pairing: Gen
Word Count: 2600
Summary: Neal's kitten seems to have entirely the wrong idea about Peter, but how can you tell a cat anything?
Notes: This is a sort of sequel/tag to
frith_in_thorns's Cat and a Hat, with her permission. (Although this could easily tie into any one of the several Neal-finds-a-kitten fics floating around out there, it was the cat's interaction with Peter in Frith's story that specifically made me want to write this.)Cross-posted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/411397
Peter was pretty sure Neal's kitten had to be part dog. His neighbors' cats had always given an impression of cold aloofness; they were clearly the aristocratic snobs of the animal world, and Peter had never gotten along with the human variety either. This cat, however, turned out to be soft and warm and clingy -- and prone to crawling into visitors' laps and curling up into a tiny, purring ball when they weren't looking. Peter might not be a cat person, per se, but he wasn't allergic and the kitten made sad meeping sounds when he tried to move it, so he just continued going over case files with Neal as if it wasn't there. (Okay, there may have been a little petting, too, because making it produce its tiny purring sound was cuter than he would have believed possible. Not that he'd admit it out loud.)
Mozzie walked in on this scene and reacted with predictable horror. "Neal, aren't you raising that cat properly? Haven't you taught it about feds? There's no telling what it might catch."
"Hey, I can hear you," Peter snapped. The small furry ball in his lap purred louder. It liked Mozzie too. It liked everybody, which seemed like a very unfeline trait in Peter's opinion.
"You've been leading Neal's cat astray, haven't you?" Mozzie said, with an accusing look at both of them. Neal rolled his eyes.
"Okay, first of all, that's completely ridiculous on every level," Peter said. "And second, I don't even like cats. I don't know why it's doing this."
"You're a dog person, aren't you?" Mozzie gestured with a wine bottle. "I'm sure you prefer pets which are nothing but slobbering sycophants who don't even jump without the Man telling them to."
"Pets are supposed to do what they're told. That's what makes them pets rather than wild animals."
"Case closed," Mozzie said loftily.
"What case? You haven't made a case!"
Mozzie leaned over to Neal and whispered loudly, "Let me know if your cat needs some remedial training in the facts of life."
#
"I don't know why it likes me so much," Peter said. Neal was still clearly the kitten's favorite person in the world, but after she'd gotten over her initial shyness, she had developed a marked fondness for Peter -- or at least an irritating tendency to crawl into his lap and shed on him.
"Probably because she knows that you let me keep her."
"She's a cat; she doesn't know anything at all. And I didn't let you keep her, Neal, you're an adult. If anyone let you keep her, June did, since it's her house."
"Vivien likes June too," Neal said, as if that proved something.
Peter ignored him. "I never was a cat person," he said, trying to ignore the fact that the contented, purring ball in his lap undermined this claim somewhat.
Neal leaned over to cover the kitten's tiny ears with his fingertips. "Don't listen to him, Vivien."
"Give me a dog any day. You know where you stand with a dog."
"You can buy a dog's affection with a pat on the head and a bowl of kibble," Neal said. "Cats have far too much self-respect for that. When a cat likes you, it really means something."
"I can't believe we're actually having this argument." He gave Neal a wary glance, which Neal returned with guileless innocence. "We are talking about the cat, aren't we?"
"Of course we are; what else would we be talking about?"
#
Seeing Neal's number on the caller ID at 2 a.m. was enough to clear the cobwebs out of Peter's sleep-fogged brain. "Neal?" he said, rolling out of bed and swinging his legs over the side as El made a sleepy, inquisitive noise.
"It's Vivien," Neal said, and Peter was still running slow enough that he had to flip through his mental Rolodex of Neal's underworld friends and acquaintances before he realized, oh, the kitten.
Peter and El had gone through enough late-night health emergencies with Satchmo that Peter recognized Neal's tone of sleep-deprived panic. "What happened?" he asked in the most authoritative, someone is taking charge voice that he could muster while fumbling around the bedroom trying to find his pants without waking El.
"She's sick," Neal said. "Really sick. She was throwing up tonight, and I figured it'd be okay, pets do that sometimes just like people do, but now she can't even keep water down, and Peter, she's so tiny and so weak. She's floppy, and the vet's closed, and I thought about taking her to the emergency room but I don't think that would work --"
"Hang on, I'll find the number for the emergency vet clinic where we take Satchmo." He closed the door to the bedroom; El had either managed to sleep through all of this, or had heard the word "Neal" and tuned out everything else. "Or, wait, better -- I'll pick you up and drive you over. If she's that sick, they'll want to see her."
"I can take a cab," Neal said. He sounded a little less distraught now that there was a plan.
"I know where the place is," Peter said. "Pick you up outside June's," and he hung up before Neal could talk him out of it, which wouldn't be hard considering that his nice warm bed was upstairs and he had to be at work in a few hours.
Instead he went looking for his car keys.
Neal was waiting for him, wearing mismatched socks and a silk pajama top that was buttoned crooked. He looked so frantic that Peter wasn't even tempted to tease him about it. As he slid into the passenger seat, Peter saw that he'd bundled up Vivien in what looked like a cashmere scarf. The kitten was nothing but a tiny, limp scrap of fur. It looked dead.
"She's still breathing," Neal said as if reading his mind, and Peter looked away guiltily. "You didn't have to come all this way. I could've taken a cab."
"Yeah, like I would have been able to get back to sleep."
While they were stopped at a traffic light, Peter slipped a hand into the scarf to touch Vivien's soft little body. She was normally like a furry hot-water bottle, but tonight she felt cool to the touch. However, she bumped his thumb with her dry nose and gave a soft little sigh.
Cats really were a lot more like dogs than he'd ever realized.
"So this place we're going -- they're pretty good, right?" Neal said hopefully.
"Couple of years ago, Satchmo ate rat poison in the neighbors' backyard. El was frantic. There were tears." Not just from El, either, but no point in giving Neal too much ammo. "But the clinic took great care of him. Really great. Vivien will be fine."
True to his word, a friendly ponytailed vet took charge of Vivien at the clinic. She explained to Neal everything she was doing, while she administered a rehydration solution and an anti-emetic shot to an unexpectedly energetic Vivien. Peter stayed in the background and tried to look supportive and not yawn too obviously.
"I think she's already feeling a little better," the vet said, after giving Vivien a bit of water from an eyedropper. "Take her home and see if you can get her to drink. Water is fine, but Pedialyte is even better -- you can buy it in a drugstore, or we can give you a package of the rehydration solution we keep on hand."
Neal looked flustered and helpless again when the vet put the scarf-wrapped bundle of Vivien back in his arms. The kitten tried to climb his pajama top and then burrowed into the crook of his arm until nothing showed but the tabby-striped hump of her back. "Wait, aren't you keeping her? What if she gets worse again?"
The vet patted his arm. "She'll be less stressed at home, and there's nothing she needs that you can't give her. I'm not sure what made her sick, but baby animals are like kids -- they can go downhill very quickly because they're so small, but they rally quickly, too. If she stops drinking or won't use the litterbox, that could indicate kidney damage" -- Neal's eyes went wide again -- "so bring her back immediately."
She showed him how to check for dehydration by taking a pinch of Vivien's skin -- the kitten warbled unhappily and scrabbled deeper into Neal's arm -- and then they were back on the curb with a small bag of medical items and one increasingly annoyed kitten. While Neal juggled his bag, wallet and receipt, Vivien made a break for freedom over his shoulder. Peter caught her securely by the scruff of the neck and then, feeling guilty about that, tucked her into a pocket of his jacket and put a hand on top of her to hold her there. "Stay," he ordered, and Vivien, after an experimental squirm and a sad meeping sound, settled down. Once Neal had his hands free, Peter scooped her gently out of his pocket and handed her back.
"She's very slippery," Neal remarked, wrapping her carefully in the scarf. "I guess the vet's right; she's feeling better."
"I ought to talk to Hughes and see if they make tracking anklets in her size."
Neal opened his mouth -- Peter could see the automatic argument starting to form -- and then shut it again. "Huh," he said. "That would be ... useful, actually."
"See?" Peter said triumphantly, nodding towards Neal's anklet. "I keep telling you it comes in handy."
"For you, maybe," Neal retorted, cradling Vivien against his chest as he opened the passenger's side door. "But you can get microchips for pets, right? Maybe I should have one put in her. She's always trying to slip out the door whenever it's open. Yesterday I had to hunt all over June's for her."
"Really," Peter said with carefully studied blankness. "How frustrating that must be; I can't even imagine."
Neal scowled. "I think that's why she's sick -- she got into something she shouldn't have."
"Well, if you figure out how to keep her from ducking out whenever she feels like it, do let me know."
"You're enjoying this too much."
"What's the word I'm looking for? There's a word for this. Something German."
"Schadenfreude?" Neal said, slouching down in his seat with the kitten on his chest.
"Yes. That's the word."
Neal settled into sulky silence until Peter pulled up outside June's. The sky was lightening towards the east. "Well," Peter said, "I guess I'll go home and grab a shower. Sleep is probably out of the question at this point."
"Can I --" Neal began, and paused. "I don't want to leave her alone all day, since she's so sick --"
"Yes," Peter sighed, "you can bring her to work with you. It's that or you'll stay home sick, I imagine." Neal perked up. "No," Peter said flatly. "No sick days to babysit a kitten. I'm not explaining that to Hughes."
"Because a kitten in the office is so much easier to explain."
Peter resisted the urge to cover his face with his hands. "Just ... get a carrier for her or something, okay? I don't want her running all over the office distracting everyone from doing their jobs. Again." Not that there was much hope the kitten wouldn't be a source of constant distraction and cooing anyway.
"June has an airline carrier for Bugsy. That would probably work." Neal hesitated with the door open. "Peter --"
"Don't thank me," Peter said quickly. "Just remember the gratitude that you're feeling now the next time you're tempted to bring down a ton of paperwork on my head by stealing something for a good cause." He reached over and poked a finger into the cashmere bundle until he found the little ball of kitten. Vivien meeped and swiped his fingertip with her rough little tongue. "No more escaping," Peter said sternly. "Stay where you belong."
"Are you talking to the kitten or me?"
"Whichever of you will listen."
#
Peter really wished Neal would stop making a big deal out of what had just happened. Okay, so Peter had been shot. But he hadn't been shot in a dangerous place -- it was just the arm, and he was pretty sure the bullet had gone right through.
True, the gun had been pointed at Neal, but pushing Neal down in situations like that was what having backup meant. It was the definition of backup. Not to mention that getting shot at was in Peter's job description -- it was what he'd been trained for -- but Neal was a civilian, and not supposed to ...
He passed out from shock and blood loss in the middle of trying to explain this to Neal, so apparently even flesh wounds could bleed a lot.
The gunshot wound bought him a few days of medical leave and a lot of pampering from El. The meds made him too groggy to do much more than stare at the TV, which meant that Neal's arrival at the door was a welcome distraction. Peter braced himself for more unwanted gratitude, but apparently they were both on the same page as far as pretending that nothing had ever happened. Instead Neal flourished a pack of cards. "I figured I'd entertain you."
"By doing card tricks?" Peter said. "I know better than to play any card game with you."
"Spoilsport." Neal opened his jacket. A tiny tabby head peeped out. "Also, I brought a friend. She was concerned."
Peter thought that he really might have known. It wasn't enough to have the kitten all over Neal's apartment; now she was in his house too. "Neal, she's a cat. She doesn't even know anything happened."
Neal ignored him and set down Vivien on the couch. The kitten picked her way over to Peter and sniffed him all over, especially the bandage on his arm -- it probably smelled funny to her. Then she meeped and curled up in his lap.
El appeared in the doorway with a tray of coffee cups and muffins. The look on her face when she took in the sight of her husband and the kitten seemed to indicate that an "awwww" was imminent. Peter could tell no help would be coming from that direction.
"It did this all by itself," Peter felt compelled to point out. "Neal's kitten likes me for some reason. I think it has the wrong idea about me."
Now El looked like she was struggling not to laugh. "What wrong idea would that be?" she asked, setting the tray on the end table.
"It seems to think I'm some kind of kitten-rescuing hero. I tried to explain," Peter added with all due sincerity, "that I'm an FBI agent, and saving kittens is not in my job description at all."
"Well, you know what cats are like," Neal said, his face blank and innocent. "They never listen."
"No," Peter agreed emphatically. "They never do."
El stroked Vivien, and then kissed Peter on the forehead. "I'd say she has exactly the right idea."
~
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Mozzie walked in on this scene and reacted with predictable horror. "Neal, aren't you raising that cat properly? Haven't you taught it about feds? There's no telling what it might catch."
"Really," Peter said with carefully studied blankness. "How frustrating that must be; I can't even imagine."
"It seems to think I'm some kind of kitten-rescuing hero. I tried to explain," Peter added with all due sincerity, "that I'm an FBI agent, and saving kittens is not in my job description at all."
SO CUTE.
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