Where You Lead: Cinnamon Toast
Inspired by Rory's Dance. Takes place not long after Friday night dinners began.
Neal hadn’t had a kid free weekend since before Henry was born. Sure, his son would go on the occasional sleepover or Emma would keep him out late when she visited, but he had never been gone for longer than a night.
That was until Arendelle decided to take the kids on a weekend long trip to Washington D.C. Neal was hesitant about sending Henry, but he was so excited to go with all of his friends. Robin convinced him that Henry would be just fine, all of his friends were going and he had to let go at some point.
So, reluctantly, Neal had signed the permission slip and sent in the check. Henry left Friday morning, promising to call and let him know how he was doing. As Neal looked around the parking lot, he realized that he was the only parent to show up. The rest of them had sent their nannies. Letting out a deep breath, he reminded himself that every family was different.
He had every intention of going to Friday night dinner in his son’s place, after all, the deal was more so between him and Wren than anything else. Halfway through his day at the inn, though, he started to feel sick. His throat was itchy, then hurt. He couldn’t stop coughing and his nose was starting to get clogged.
“You’re sick,” Granny said when he stopped in her office to grab his check.
“Bull. A year after you and Henry got here, you had laryngitis.”
“Yeah, well…can you pay me please?”
Granny shook her head and passed the check over to him. “Relax this weekend. I’ll send Ruby by with some soup for you.”
“You don’t have to, Granny.”
He couldn’t help but smile a bit as he walked out. Granny was stubborn and a bit of a pain, but he couldn’t have asked for a better grandmother figure for himself and Henry. Deep down, he knew that she was right. He was sick and it came at the worst time ever. Robin had mapped out a fun weekend for the two of them, getting Regina to watch Roland for him. There was no way that he was going to be in the mood for any of that. At the very least, it’d get him out of dinner with his father.
Once he got home, Neal plopped down on the couch and dialed a number on his phone. After a few rings, his father’s accented voice rang through his hear.
“Gee thanks. Looks, that’s why I’m calling. I’m not up for driving to Greenwich tonight, but I’ll make up for it. We’ll have two dinners.”
“Pop, really, I could barely make it home from work. I need to relax. I’ll see you next weekend.”
Hanging up the phone, Neal rolled over on the couch, shutting his eyes. He took a nap until Ruby dropped by about 15 minutes later, dropping off soup and some other food. He didn’t feel much like eating, so he dropped it off in the kitchen and started to head back to the couch, when there was a knock at the door.
He walked over, chuckling as he opened it. “Forget something?” He asked, expecting it to be Ruby. He paused when he saw his father standing there. “Pop. What are you doing here?”
“You’re sick and Henry is out of town, you’re not married.”
“Did you drive all this way to rub it in that I’m a spinster?”
“You need someone to take care of you.”
“Take care of me? Dad, I’m…” He leaned into his arm, letting out a shallow, mucus filled cough. He wiped his mouth and blinked the water out of his eyes. “I’m 26, I don’t need to be taken care of.”
“You’re sick,” Wren repeated, before pushing his way past his son. Neal looked at the empty doorway, to behind him, unsure of what had happened.
“Pop, really, I’m fine.” Neal shut the door and followed him. “My friend Ruby dropped off some food, I have cold medicine, I’ll live.”
“You need to be taken care of.”
“So, are you going to take me out back and shoot me?”
Wren gave him a look. “Go lay down.”
Neal groaned, tilting his head back and heading over to the couch. He flopped down and covered his face with his hands. Why hadn’t he just texted with another excuse?
“I’ll heat up some of this soup,” Wren called out.
“Pop, really, I don’t think I can stomach anything right now.”
There was some silence and Neal let out a deep breath, wondering if he had actually won. 10 minutes later, Wren walked into the living room, balancing a tray with his cane. There were a few slices of toast and a cup of tea sitting on it.
“I told you, I can’t eat.”
Neal watched as his father set it down on top of him, flipping up the legs. “Where’s Belle? Don’t you need to have dinner with her?”
“Belle has dinner with me every night. Frankly, I think she’s sick of me.”
“Really? Hasn’t she only known you a couple of years?”
Wren rolled his eyes. “You’re hilarious. Eat your toast, drink your tea.”
Neal made a face before looking down at the toast, seeing the applesauce and cinnamon on top. He remembered his father making it for him when he was little, whenever he got sick. The tea was Earl Grey, perhaps the only kind he could stand. He ate about half the food and sipped his hot beverage. It was clear that Wren wasn’t going anywhere, so he had to adjust to it.
Wren stayed by his side, getting him anything he needed. He managed to get him to eat some soup later on and even put on a movie that both of them would enjoy. Neal couldn’t remember the last time they had gotten along so well.
Eventually, he started drifting off to sleep. Wren pulled a quilt up over him and started collecting the dishes and tray.
Neal wasn’t sure if it was the fever or the cold medicine, but he found himself mumbling, “Thank you, Papa.”
