"Pacing the ceiling again, darling?"

You ask your husband with a soft smile, resting your hands on your hips as you look up at him.

It's not just a wacky 30s expression, either.

He really is pacing the ceiling.

He's got a real tough nut to crack; a case that's gotten him scratching at his head and mumbling to himself.

"You know the upstairs neighbors complain."

And you have to clean footprints off the plaster.

Peter swings down from the ceiling, landing in front of you with a quiet thud.

His eyes soften as he looks at you—he can never quite hide his affection when you call him 'darling.'

He's got a soft spot for it.

"Sorry 'bout that,"

He says, a little sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"But I got this real prickly case on my mind. A real brain tickler."