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“You good Caffrey?” Jones asked as a peculiar look came over the CI’s face in the middle of a mid-morning impromptu ‘hypothetical-story-time-with-Neal’ break. Neal nodded,
“Fine, I just have to...” he trailed off holding up a finger, sniffed slightly, and finally sneezed— only it wasn’t exactly a sneeze. It had all the build-up, but instead of a satisfying “Aaa- CHOO ” Neal blocked the actual sneeze so it came out more as a “Aaa- ngh ”. Quieter, more refined, and much less likely to spread germs. Neal had perfected the art of sneezing a long time ago, but since the intent was usually to bring less unwanted attention to the lapse in perfection, it failed rather epically in this case. Half the bullpen was looking over.
Neal frowned, “What?”
“What the hell, Neal?” Diana asked from over at her desk, loudly enough that anyone in the bullpen who hadn’t been looking now was looking over.
“What’s ‘what the hell’, I just sneezed. Please tell me big brother still allows that.”
“That’s ‘what the hell’ Neal, that was not a sneeze . That was like, a weird, sissy sneeze- block that I’m pretty sure I read somewhere can blow out your trachea.” Neal looked simultaneously offended and skeptical,
“That sounds like an urban myth.”
“No, I’m pretty sure it’s true.”
Jones, who wasn’t about to let Diana dominate the prime teasing material, picked up his desk phone and looked over,
“Hey Caffrey, the man club called and said they’re revoking your man card.”
“Ha ha.” Neal said sarcastically and looked beseechingly over at Peter who had just come from the kitchen with a mug of coffee, his twitching lips evidence that he had been listening in, “Peter, will you please tell these schoolyard bullies that you hired as FBI agents that I do not sneeze strangely?”
Having been appealed to, Peter decided that it would be appropriate to step in as the parent,
“Jones and Diana, you should know better than to tease your sick coworker. Neal, to be fair, you sneeze like a wuss. Now all of you get back to work.” Neal’s face was an entertaining mixture of displeased and sulky as Peter’s ‘rescue’ clearly didn’t live up to what he’d hoped for.
“For the record, I’m not sick, and even if I was we all know whose fault it would be.” Neal announced loudly.
The first half of the statement was false and the second half was true. Neal had developed a rather miserable cold and it was Peter’s fault. Peter had the decency to look apologetic,
“Sorry about that, Caffrey.”
Neal accepted the apology but not all that magnanimously before coughing into his elbow. Peter directed his agents back to work and climbed the steps to his office, still grinning over the unexpectedly entertaining coffee break.
***
Neal’s cold did not seem to have improved any as the team met after lunch for a briefing on an op that would be taking place late that afternoon. Peter found himself wincing a few times in sympathy as Neal tried to covertly stifle his coughing, remembering the chesty ache and heavy sinuses he’d experienced just the week before. He felt slightly guilty about not taking some time off to recover before spreading his illness, clearly Neal was now suffering from that decision.
Despite the now somewhat infamous ‘sneezing incident’ that was already making its way out of White Collar (with a probie providing impressions to a few entertained agents from Cyber Crime, much to Neal’s chagrin) the illness was striking Neal with more respiratory discomfort than sinus issues, Peter noticed as Neal coughed again into his elbow. As the agents were dismissed from the briefing, Jones and Diana getting ready for their undercover roles, Peter steered Neal toward his office and handed him a handful of leftover cough drops.
“I was gonna have you with me in the van on this one Neal, but I could pull in Blake if you want to go home early.” Neal slipped a cough drop in his mouth, grimacing at the taste but sucking on it all the same.
“Thanks Peter, but I’ll be fine. Besides, you’ll need my expertise if Richards asks a question that we haven’t prepped Diana on.”
It was true and Peter conceded the point. It wouldn’t be great fun for Neal but Peter had survived all of last week and knew it wasn’t likely to kill his partner. Still, he resolved to keep an eye out.
***
The op was going better than they had hoped, with Richards openly discussing multiple arrest-able offenses that were caught on tape. Peter was leaning back contentedly, happy to be in the van on this one as the heater kept the space nicely warm—a contrast to the freezing rain that was falling hard outside. With the way the op was going, they would have the perp arrested and processed in time for Peter to get back to his warm home and have dinner with his lovely wife.
Of course, that train of thought was altogether too tempting for fate to pass up and about three minutes later the operation went to hell. Somehow something tipped off Richards that not all was quite right and he took off running—literally.
“Damn.” Peter cursed and Neal sat up, alert, from his lounging position as Diana made known the situation,
“—I think he’s running west, you might be able to grab him—“
It was a split second moment of decision as Peter heard a clatter and felt a chilly wind sweep the car, looking over to find Neal’s chair empty and a blur of his consultant dashing down the street through the rain.
“Caffrey!”
The yell was more to release frustration than out of any real expectation that Neal would hear it, let alone obey. Peter scrambled out after him, resisting the urge to yell again and took off down the block, hunching against the driving rain.
It was four blocks away from the van that Peter caught up with Neal who had fully tackled Richards to the ground with an impressive move and was holding him down with some difficulty. The consultant seemed more than happy to hand the perp over to the agent to be handcuffed and they made a very bedraggled picture as they walked back to the van where Jones and Diana waited.
For his part, Peter was wet and triumphant though all too happy to let Jones put Richards into the car as he climbed back into the warmth of the van, holding out a hand to help Neal in. Neal’s hand was ice cold in Peter’s and Peter sucked in a breath,
“Geez, Neal you’re an icicle!”
Neal was too busy shivering to respond with his usual witty retort and Peter quickly handed him two emergency blankets.
He turned to shut down the equipment but turned back a moment later to see Neal struggling with bags that they were sealed in, hands clumsy from cold. Taking pity he took them and opened them, doubling them up and wrapping them around his consultant’s shivering shoulders.
The ride back to the FBI wasn’t long but the ensuing organized chaos of paperwork that went into finishing even the most successful operations dragged Peter away for a full forty-five minutes. Finally having finished the most pressing things and pushing the rest off for the morning, Peter looked up and, not seeing Neal within his line of sight, got up to look for him.
Neal was sitting in the corner of the small kitchen, hands wrapped around a steaming cup that someone had given him, still shivering. He was very quiet and wasn’t making any effort to draw anyone’s attention. This was actually more concerning to Peter than if Neal had been complaining. A lot more concerning. Neal enjoyed basking in attention if he didn’t actually need help and if he were simply chilled he would be non-stop whining, but if he was actually not feeling well he’d try to stay under the radar.
Peter rubbed a hand down his face and sighed, but made his way over to Neal who looked very disheveled, his slacks about half dried and very wrinkled, his suit jacket replaced with someone’s (probably Jones’) Harvard college hoodie, his hair still somewhat damp, falling messily over his forehead. The whole picture was completed with the blanket that was still wrapped around his shoulders, and it triggered Peter’s protective instinct hard .
“Hey.”
“Hey.” Neal glowered in response to Peter’s twitching lips at his appearance, which only made Peter grin.
“We’ll be out of here soon, I promise.”
“About time.” Neal said, without much heat. He sniffed and then coughed and Peter winced at how much worse he sounded than earlier that day.
“Would you put your hood up for heavens sakes? You’re not on the runway, Neal.” Peter reached over and pulled the hood up onto Neal’s head, unable to resist a smirk at how much it completed the picture of a brooding teen. Neal pushed it back down,
“I feel like a kid—“ he was cut off by a coughing fit, violent enough that Peter reached to help him. Neal batted his hands away, sitting up and rubbing at his chest and wincing. “Ow.”
Peter touched the backs of his fingers to Neal’s forehead, then braced the back of his head with the other hand, pressing a full palm against Neal’s head. He frowned at the warmth but just pulled the hood back over Neal’s head,
“Leave the hood up, it’ll keep you warmer.”
Neal shivered and let the hood stay up.
***
Peter had been planning, really planning, on dropping Neal off at June’s, his mind ciricling with phrases like “you want your own space when you’re sick” and “adult CI who can take care of himself”. But as the ride progressed, the radio (playing somewhat premature Christmas music), was interrupted more and more frequently by Neal’s coughing fits and as Peter glanced over, he could see the streetlights highlighting the glow of crimson that had risen to Neal’s face as they briefly illuminated him. Peter’s original thoughts began to be drowned out by one that said there was absolutely no way he was leaving Neal alone, looking and sounding this pathetic.
“El’s making soup.” He finally said, taking the turn that put them firmly on the way to the Burke’s home, “You look like you could use some.” Neal huffed a quiet and somewhat congested laugh,
“I guess I won’t say no to soup.”
Peter had had the heat on its highest setting as they drove home, and by the time they pulled in he was sweating under his jacket, but Neal had only stopped shivering a few minutes before and Peter really couldn’t mind.
He pulled off his coat as Neal reached for his door and pushed it over to him,
“Use this to go inside.”
“I’m okay.”
“Do it anyway.”
Neal pulled on the coat over the sweatshirt and stepped out onto the driveway, hunching into his hood against the rain. They both dashed to the door, but despite the layers Neal’s teeth were chattering again as Elizabeth opened the door.
“Hey boys.” She looked completely unsurprised to see Neal, but frowned as she looked over at him after giving Peter a kiss.
“Oh Neal, honey, you look awful.”
“Thanks.” Neal said with sarcasm that she ignored.
“What happened to him?” She addressed the question to Peter and Neal rolled his eyes.
“I’m right here—“ He cut off with a deep cough.
“He decided it would be a good idea to get absolutely soaked in the freezing rain while already sick with a bad cold.” Peter said with some exasperation but more gently than he might have. Elizabeth had a hand gently rubbing Neal’s shoulder and was dividing her reproachful look between the two of them, finally deciding to focus it on Peter,
“Is this the same bug you had?”
Neal also glared balefully at him,
“Yeah, it is.” His voice was gravely.
“I told you to stay home hon—“ She cut off again as she felt a more violent chill run through Neal, and decided Peter was the less important issue to address, “Go run upstairs and get him some dry clothes for heavens sake.” She peeled Peter’s jacket off of Neal as the CI let it go reluctantly, toeing off his shoes to reveal his soaking wet socks. Elizabeth noticed them and pounced,
“Oh sweetie, your feet have been wet this whole time?” She glared at Peter as if it was Peter’s fault that his CI didn’t have basic common sense, “Make sure to get him some socks too.”
“Wet feet don’t make you sick, El.” Neal chattered, letting himself be dragged to the couch but drawing the line at letting Elizabeth take off his socks, working them off himself with uncharacteristically clumsy fingers.
“Hm.” Elizabeth was unconvinced.
Within ten minutes he was dressed in a slightly large pair of Peter’s pajama pants, a better fitting t-shirt that was too small on the agent, and Peter’s hoodie that slipped over his hands worse than Jones’s had. His hands were cold though, and he wouldn’t have minded as much if he hadn’t had the sneaking suspicion that it made him look all of nineteen years old and that Elizabeth’s grin every time she looked at him had something to do with that.
The dining room was warm and homey, especially compared to the harsh weather outside, and the whole atmosphere would have been perfect if his chest and head hadn’t been aching quite so badly. Even so, the soup was warm and slid easily down his throat and, while he never liked anyone to see him sick, if someone had to it might as well be the Burkes. He couldn’t deny the warm feeling that bubbled up as Peter rested a hand briefly on his shoulder, setting the bowl in front of him, or as Elizabeth sweetly asked if he wanted more of anything.
So the meal went smoothly, the Burkes chatting together and including Neal while keeping a close eye on him, Neal pretending he didn’t notice the worried glances the Burkes were subtly exchanging every time he coughed. But he didn’t have to work all too hard to pretend, as he was nearly drowsing into his soup by the end of the meal.
Finally he felt a strong hand on his bicep, the other on his shoulder as Peter hauled him up,
“Come on partner, let’s get you to bed.” He nodded and coughed heavily, feeling far too unwell to argue or pretend to himself or the Burkes that he really wanted to go back to his cold, lonely apartment.
Within fifteen minutes he found himself settled into a warm bed as Peter wished him goodnight and Elizabeth told him to sleep well before they both quietly left him to sleep.
But despite his exhaustion, sleep proved to be elusive.
Falling quickly into a drowse he was shaken out of it just as quickly by the painful need to cough. He sat up, coughing hard and spitting mucus into a tissue before falling back against the pillows. But a few minutes later he was forced upright again. After about five or six failed attempts to sleep he finally just miserably sat up, drawing his knees to his chest and resting his head on them, too exhausted to really sit up but unable to really lie down.
The numbers on the digital clock glowed harshly as it grew later, exhaustion and fever muddying his thoughts as the time trickled by. There was nothing he wanted more than just to sleep, but even a light doze was interrupted as his chest tightened over and over again and the coughing only grew more painful.
Finally he found himself curled up on the pillows, the numbers on the clock showing the time at good hour past when he’d last remembered, only now he felt even worse, shivering violently, his head aching badly, his lungs full of mucus, and his chest tightening as a violent coughing jag hit with force.
Harsh and loud, each spasm left him gasping for breath in the short moments before he was forced to cough roughly again. It was a horrible cycle as the coughing caused more coughing until he had no idea how long he’d been struggling to breathe but it felt like he was nearly choking and the coughing wouldn’t stop and he couldn’t stop and it hurt and he was going to wake up the Burkes and—
“Geez Neal...” Peter breathed, padding over to the bed, his tone sleepily full of warm concern, “Take it easy, just try to relax.”
Neal wanted to tell Peter that he was trying to relax and he couldn’t and everything hurt and he couldn’t breathe— but instead of words he could only cough harder, whimpering slightly and hating himself for it.
The bed dipped with Peter’s weight as he sat down at the edge, his shadowy shape leaning over Neal, his fingers like ice as they pressed against Neal’s cheek, his palm cupping Neal’s forehead, but Neal only barely noticed it, too wrapped up in his struggle for air.
His chest felt tight and thick and full of illness and it was just so hard to breathe . Every breath caused shattering coughs that seemed to send shards of glass through his ribs and throat. It brought the sickly sweet taste of mucus into his mouth, choking him, his stomach rebelling against the slime.
In the moment it felt like there was nothing left in the world except a horrible struggle for breath between painful, jagged coughing, the freezing chill of fever that ran down his spine, and the steady, pounding ache in his head.
But then there was a warm hand that slid under his head, clasping the back of his neck and pulling him upright, letting him lean against its solid, steadiness. The warm hand stayed on the back of his neck and another one pressed against his aching chest, rubbing slow circles as someone murmured.
“Easy there, come on partner, relax and breathe with me, you got this Neal....”
Neal choked out a half-sob at the touch, his hand seeking until it found a cotton t-shirt that he clutched at desperately.
It did seem a bit easier to breath as the hand rubbed gently across his chest, the warm fingers seeming to pull away a bit of the pain, the steady voice along with the warm touch reaching through like a ray of light in the hazy fog of illness. Slowly, slowly, the coughing slowed and became less desperate, a little less painful.
Finally able to breathe a little bit Neal fell forward against Peter in relieved exhaustion, his forehead pressed against Peter’s collarbone.
“Peter?” He managed between a quiet cough, still clutching at the soft cotton of Peter’s t-shirt. Peter’s hand was still around his neck, the other having switched to his back, rubbing gently down the sweat-soaked fabric of his pajamas.
“Right here Neal.” Peter’s voice was as solid and warm as his touch and Neal relaxed slightly at the steady reassurance. “You’re pretty ill, you know that?” He asked gently, not really looking for a response. Neal didn’t say anything, just nestled his head further against Peter’s shoulder, feeling the agent’s arms tighten around him as if in reply to the wordless quest for comfort.
His breathing rattled and he still coughed every few breaths or so, but it was far better than hardly being able to breathe at all.
He heard the floor creak as someone else made their way across the floor and a slender hand stroked gently through his hair while the other cupped his forehead. Elizabeth (because who else would it be?) tsked sympathetically.
“He sounded like he was having a pretty rough time of it.”
“He was having trouble breathing when I came in, he’s pretty sick hon. Should we be considering the hospital?”
“Maybe, I think there’s a few things we can try first. He’s calmed down a bit so why don’t you get him some water and I’ll take his temperature. We’ll take things from there.”
Water sounded amazing but Peter was moving to lower him back to the pillows and some panicked instinct had Neal clutching at him desperately, his fingers twisting into Peter’s shirt, pressing himself nearer. He felt Peter respond to the silent plea, settling back into his seat on the bed and letting him pull closer.
“He’s clingy when he’s sick, apparently.” Peter huffed and Neal couldn’t tell whether it was amused or frustrated but the words seemed to snap him to attention.
He pulled away from Peter’s arms, dropping back to the pillows and turning his face away toward the far side of the bed. But Peter was immediately pulling him back up and against him, fitting his hand to the back of Neal’s neck, smoothing the other one over his shoulders,
“No, no—Neal, I don’t mind.” He sounded somewhat distressed, “Gosh kid, I don’t mind . Heaven knows you’re sick enough to need...” he trailed off and didn’t finish but Neal did in his mind,
Help...comfort...care... Peter.
For the moment it was too much effort to pull away again and pretend that he didn’t want this, that everything didn’t feel better with Peter caring like no one had ever cared for Neal Caffrey or Nick Halden or Danny Brooks or, or him — before.
“Alright.” there was a trace of a smile in Elizabeth’s voice, “ I’ll get the water and you take his temperature.” The floor creaked again as she padded out of the room, coming back quickly and handing something to Peter before padding back out again.
“Hold still for me for a minute Neal, this one goes in your ear.” Peter murmured. Neal obediently held still but didn’t mind as Peter held his head down against his shoulder in a gentle vice before pressing the tip of the tympanic thermometer into his ear. Neal coughed softly in the silence as he waited, and felt Peter’s thumb stroke slightly at his temple before the thermometer beeped and he released his grasp. “103.2” Peter sighed and patted Neal’s shoulder with a low noise of sympathy, “I’m sorry you’re feeling so bad, partner.”
“Not your fault.” Neal murmured and coughed.
“No,” Peter admitted, “but it’s not fun for me to watch you hurting.” Neal blinked at the directness of the words, wishing he was lucid enough to fully appreciate the uncharacteristic confession, but huffed a bit of a laugh,
“Knew you cared.” He teased softly.
“Yeahhh,” Peter sounded wry as he pulled away slightly and brushed the hair off Neal’s forehead, pressing his palm against it, leaving Neal to vaguely wonder how Peter’s hands could feel so cool against his face and so warm rubbing his back, “I’m pretty sure that’s news to no one at this point.”
The floorboards creaked as Elizabeth’s footsteps approached the room and Peter reached to take something from her as she sat down next to him.
“What was his temperature?”
“103.2.”
“Poor guy.” Elizabeth’s hand rubbed across Neal’s shoulders as Peter sat him up a bit more,
“Just a few sips, Neal.” The cool rim of a glass was pressing against Neal’s lips and he reached up both hands shakily to hold it, a chill trembling through him violently for a moment at the shock of his feverish skin touching the cool glass. Peter didn’t let go of the glass, which was probably a good idea considering how unsteady Neal’s hands were, but carefully tipped it up to allow him a sip of water. “Take it slowly.”
The water felt harshly cold against his throat, but as soon as it touched his tongue Neal realized how thirsty he was and lost all caution, swallowing it eagerly.
That was a mistake.
As soon as he released the glass his chest and throat tightened ominously and a spasm of coughing took over again, this one almost worse than the one that had woken Peter.
It hurt. It hurt badly, the pain becoming the priority even above the lack of air as the rough coughing tore at his lungs.
Neal couldn’t help the tears that watered in his eyes from the effort, lack of air, and pain , and couldn’t hold back the sobbing, bleating breaths that he gasped out in the moments between coughs.
“El, he’s crying.” Peter was about as near desperation as he ever got which testified to how much he hated watching his partner suffer. Neal didn’t catch much more of the conversation—Elizabeth murmuring a response and Peter replying—wrapped up as he was in his own fight, his hands twisting into the blankets as he moaned for relief from the harsh pain.
Finally Peter’s hand came up, pressing and stroking across his chest again, his hand warm and big as Neal leaned into it.
“Hey bud,” Peter’s voice was urgent but steady, “you wanna come into the bathroom with me?”
Neal’s thoughts moved like molasses trying to figure out what Peter was taking about and he couldn’t managed much more than a breathy,
“What?”
“Steam might help you breath a bit better—“ Peter cut off and sighed, realizing that Neal was definitely not tracking, “Just— help me out as much as you can okay?”
He felt Peter’s arm tightened around his shoulders and heard Peter talk softly over his head, catching bits of the low conversation.
“...help me get him there? He’s so weak...”
El’s voice responded quietly,
“...carry him?”
“...cross that bridge if we get there...”
Peter’s arms tightened further, pulling at him again, another pair of hands moving his legs until he was sitting at the edge of the bed, entirely supported against Peter.
“Come on bud, it’s just across the hall.”
The next few moments were a hazy soup of sensations, stumbling while supported on either side, a soft hand rubbing down his back as he coughed and stifled a noise of pain, a sturdier one wrapped supportively around his forearm as he listed to the side, until he felt cool tile under his feet.
A light flicked on and he recoiled from it, screwing up his eyes and turning away with a moan as the light seeped through his eyelids and ached through his head, impelling him to bury his face in the closest object which felt suspiciously like Peter’s shoulder.
“Neal, sweetie, it’s okay, we’ll turn it off when we get settled.”
He felt Elizabeth’s hand run sympathetically through his hair.
At this point Neal’s legs were shaking with the effort of walking, even with most of his weight supported by Peter and Elizabeth, and he felt dizzy and unbalanced. He could feel the coolness of porcelain seeping through his pajama pants as they lowered him down onto the closed toilet seat, but nearly fell off as the floor seemed to tilt.
Peter knelt down and caught him, pulling him back against his chest and trapping his head gently between his chest and hand to keep him from slipping to the floor. Neal slumped against him with no protest, too tired to move or care about the vulnerability of the gesture, relaxing ever so slightly at the steady thumping of the agent’s heart as Peter became the only thing that wasn’t sliding and tilting around him.
“You’re gonna have to sit with him hun. He’s too sick to be left alone.” Elizabeth murmured.
“I was going to anyway. Where should we sit?”
“The floor, I suppose? There’s not really anywhere else but it won’t be comfortable, he clearly wants to lay down.”
“He can lean against me. Maybe put some towels down to make the floor a little more comfortable?”
“Alright.”
Neal hadn’t paid much attention to this conversation, his head still buried in Peter’s chest, his eyes closed against the light, resting against the agent in the few moments that he wasn’t convulsed by heavy coughing.
At this point Peter wasn’t even bothering to ask him to help, simply wrapping an arm around his shoulders and supporting him, nearly lifting him, to the floor.
Elizabeth made her way over to the shower, opening it and turning it on hot before carefully stepping over Peter and Neal on the floor.
“I’m a little worried about his fever getting worse with the heat.”
“Do we have to choose between fever and coughing?” Peter sounded distressed. Elizabeth sighed,
“Why don’t we try putting a few cold cloths on his pulse points.”
She wet a few wash clothes in the sink and knelt down, sliding her hand between Neal’s cheek and Peter’s chest, gently cupping his face and pulling him around, her lips thinning as her palm warmed quickly touching his burning face. Neal tried to open his eyes but just closed them tighter against the light as it crept in, hurting his head. Elizabeth quickly laid the wet cloth on his forehead, smoothing it down over his eyes and feeling some of the tension drain from him at the contact with the cool cloth. She let him fall back against Peter’s chest, putting another wash cloth on the back of his neck.
“Alright,” She finally whispered to Peter, “I’m going to close the door behind me so that the steam can fill up the room, you’ll be okay with him?” Peter nodded,
“Thanks El.”
The light turned off and the darkness enveloped them as Neal relaxed slightly in relief, slumping a bit more heavily against the agent. But even against Peter’s shoulder Neal’s head felt heavy as lead and he soon found himself desperately trying to find a more comfortable position, moving his head this way and that until finally Peter stopped him.
“Here.” He gently pulled Neal down until Neal’s head was resting in his lap and then took the cloth from his forehead, refolding it and laying it back on his face with a cooler side touching his skin. Neal lay stiffly for a moment, startled with the intimacy of the position and not sure what to do through the haze of fever, but Peter just began quietly rubbing a hand across his shoulders and slowly he relaxed.
He did feel a lot better laying down, curling up on the towels El had laid down, his head supported in Peter’s lap, still coughing painfully, but focusing on the gentle hand that rubbed down his back.
They sat quietly, the only noise beyond Neal’s frequent coughing and congested breathing was the shower.
The air grew thicker with humidity, and Neal found himself dreaming of a rainforest. The fever must have helped with the dream as it grew more real, the shower turning into a steady rain, the humidity thick between the trees as he began to hear distant clicking and chirping that filled out the picture. On one level he knew he was still in the Burkes bathroom, curled up on the floor and laying in his handler’s lap , but the rain forest seemed far too real to be entirely imaginary. Real or not, it was fairly relaxing and he found himself drowsing, not quite asleep but not awake really, half aware of the jungle noises and Peter’s hand still rubbing across his shoulders.
He started awake suddenly with the sensation of a giant... something crawling up his leg, some horrible jungle insect that felt far too large, horrifying with way too many legs— he gave a harsh gasp, jerking away. But the spider or centipede or something moved from his leg to his spine, crawling chillingly down his back, and suddenly he was barely aware of anything beyond his heart pounding in his chest and his lungs gasping for air before an arm tightened around his shoulders and he found himself clinging tightly to Peter Burke.
Peter had begun to doze slightly too, relaxed by the sound of the shower, but he startled awake as he felt Neal gasp and jerk and suddenly found himself with an armful of a clinging and trembling consultant. He immediately pulled him close, unsure what terror the fever had conjured up for his friend, but automatically responding to Neal’s panicked appeal for safety. He smoothed a hand over Neal’s back in an attempt to sooth his sick friend.
“Neal! Neal.” He tried to call him out of the fevered dream.
Neal could feel Peter’s ministrations, the agent running a comforting hand down Neal’s spine and it must have knocked the creature away because he couldn’t feel it anymore.
“Peter.” He gasped out as his heart began to slow, “ Peter .”
“I’m right here Neal.”
“Is it gone?”
“Is what gone?”
“The—“ Neal didn’t finish, still gasping for breath, and by the time he caught it he began to have a sneaking suspicion that the insect might not have been entirely real. A moment later he grew more aware of the fact that he was basically in Peter’s lap and weakly disentangled himself from Peter’s arms with as much dignity as he could muster, his cheeks flaming and the vague awareness that this would be much more embarrassing when the fever was no longer clouding his thoughts.
He fought the brain fog, trying to think of something, some sarcastic comment or light joke, the kind that he’d usually throw out without thought to dissipate the tension but his mind was refusing to work. He coughed, instinctively whimpering at the pain and startled as he felt some mucus pulled from his lungs and up his throat.
Peter’s mouth thinned into a tight line of concern as he heard Neal’s breathing grow worse, the humidity loosening some of the mucus in his lungs. Peter knew it needed to get worse before it got better, but he found himself desperately wishing it wouldn’t anyway.
Neal was too ill to consciously wish for anything except relief. He was coughing harder now, forcing up the wretched slime, choking, gagging on the mucus that was pulled from his lungs. Then Peter was helping him up, leaning him over the toilet,
“Spit it out Neal, come on, it’s alright, just get it out.”
He gagged and spat and choked it up, but there was always more seeping from his lungs, clogging his throat, it was hard to breathe and he felt utterly miserable—
His hand was unconsciously seeking for something to grasp onto and Peter took it gently, squeezing it as Neal latched on and clung to his hand like a drowning man. Peter’s other hand smoothed over his back, rubbing steadily over his shoulders, down his spine, grounding him with the touch.
Finally, finally, most of the mucus seemed to have come up and Neal was left breathing with shaky, heaving breaths as if he’d been crying, still coughing but less intensely, and completely drained, nearly laying his head down on the toilet seat before Peter caught him and pulled him back. Shaking with a chill that swept down his spine and then continuing to shake from the ordeal, Neal curled up on the towels that covered the floor, his head sliding down Peter until he was once again laying in the agent’s lap.
Peter could feel the tension slowly seep out of his partner, his weight growing a bit more heavy, slumping onto Peter, until a few minutes later he was asleep. Peter sat quietly, his heart still beating hard from the ordeal he’d just witnessed. It had scared him— he could admit that. Seeing Neal so sick, so helpless, so desperate for relief was downright terrifying.
He let his fingers run through Neal’s hair, damp with sweat and humidity, his skin still too warm with fever, and reached out a searching hand until he found the cool rag that had fallen to the floor, gently placing it back across Neal’s forehead and eyes.
He sat quietly, just listening to the shower and Neal’s breathing, still audibly congested, but comforting in it’s steadiness and not nearly as worrying.
A few minutes later the door creaked open and Elizabeth came in, stepping carefully over them to shut off the shower before kneeling down next to Peter.
“How is he?” She asked in a low voice.
“Better now. It was pretty rough for a while.” Elizabeth’s face creased in sympathy.
“I could hear that. Poor Neal.”
“Yeah.” Peter agreed, letting his hand rest where it was on Neal’s head, his thumb stroking gently at his ear.
“Are you going to wake him up and get him into bed?” Elizabeth asked.
“No.” Peter shook his head, “I can’t do that El, he just fell asleep.” It hurt Peter’s heart to think of shaking Neal from the first real rest he’d gotten in who-knew-how-long, feeling the misery and tension coil back into the finally relaxed body, forcing him to stumble dizzily back to bed. Who knew if he’d be able to get back to sleep again?
“Are you just going to stay here all night?” She asked incredulously, “You’re both going to be very sore in the morning.”
“I don’t know El.” Peter sighed, “I can’t wake him up, I can’t do that to him.” Elizabeth nodded and bit her lip hesitantly,
“Could you carry him?” She finally asked. “ Can you carry him?”
“Well,” Peter looked reluctant, though less affronted by the idea than she had expected, “ yeah . Probably. He weighs less than some of the stuff I had to do for my Quantico training.”
Elizabeth looked expectant and Peter sighed.
“You don’t think it’s a little weird to carry my thirty-three year old CI to bed?”
“Except he’s not thirty-three, you told me he’s actually at most twenty-seven, probably twenty-six, and he’s sick . Really sick. And he’s your partner.” She smiled slightly, leaning over to kiss him on the lips before looking down at Neal, “It’s not like he’s going to remember it.”
It wasn’t like it was really that much of a decision in the end.
As gently as he could Peter slid a hand under Neal’s legs and back, drawing him up and pulling one of Neal’s arms around his neck and adjusting the position to drape him a bit more over his shoulder. Neal instinctively held on as Peter scooped him up with a soft grunt from the effort and stood, while Elizabeth hovered nearby.
Yes, Neal was as heavy as Peter was expecting, but somehow it was still less difficult to carry him than Peter had thought. He was so uncharacteristically limp he felt delicate which wasn’t a word one would usually associated with Neal Caffrey. Peter tried to quash the word ‘fragile’ from running through his mind. After everything Neal had been through that night, it didn’t seem as far off a description as usual and Peter was having trouble forgetting the small moments of vulnerability as Neal clutched at him for help and comfort in a way he never had before.
He was thankful for the fact that the guest bedroom was only a few steps away and sighed with relief as he lowered Neal onto the bed. Elizabeth had changed the sweat soaked sheets, leaving the bedding fresh and cool as she pulled back the comforter and Peter placed him carefully onto the bed. Neal curled up with a bereft murmured as he lost contact with Peter’s body heat and Elizabeth quickly pulled the blankets back over him as he began to shiver. Peter leaned over to help, hoping she wouldn’t comment as he tucked the blanket more firmly around Neal’s shoulders. She didn’t, but perhaps he didn’t see the small smile that warmed her face as he finally ended up looking down thoughtfully on the unconscious con artist, his hand resting on Neal’s tousled hair.
They were quiet for several moments before Peter broke the silence.
“It’s almost like he’s trying.”
“Trying what?” Elizabeth asked, though she had an idea of what he was thinking. She’d been thinking much the same thing.
“Trying to make up for the fact that we can’t—“ Peter cut off, his heart twisting as it did every time he thought of their inability to have children. Sometimes it really did feel like God might be trying to make up for that with having him all but raise Neal Caffrey. As stressful as Peter had heard having a toddler could be, surely having a fully grown man with the impulsivity of one while also possessing the skills of the most prolific thief of the last fifty years was more so.
Elizabeth rested her hand on her husband’s shoulder, rubbing slightly and humming agreement,
“You’re telling me you’ve never thought about how serendipitous this all is?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean him,” she nodded toward the young man on the bed, “who never really had parents and you and I who never had kids...” Peter huffed a laugh,
“Well someone upstairs is certainly enjoying this.”
“And so are you.” Elizabeth pointed out with a grin, her smile softening as she looked over at Neal. “And so is he.”
“You really think so?” Peter asked softly. He looked at her with a rare insecurity, “He’s so hard to read sometimes and I don’t know—“
“After tonight you’re really going to ask that? I don’t think so Peter, I know so. You don’t have to be a psychiatrists daughter to see the way he looks and acts around you. He’d rather die than admit it but you’re the person he goes to for comfort.” She looked at him pointedly, “Tell me I’m wrong.” She smiled fondly as Peter sputtered for a response. “I’m going back to bed.”
“Alright, I’ll be right there.”
“No,” Elizabeth smiled, “you won’t.” Peter looked guilty.
“You don’t mind honey?”
“Which one of us needs you more right now?”
“The kid.” Peter sighed a bit sarcastically with a tired, teasing, half-smile.
“The kid.” Elizabeth winked and Peter huffed a laugh, looked down fondly at his sleeping CI and shaking his head with a bit of disbelief over the nature of their relationship.
“How do you think he’d react if he heard this conversation?” He said, more to himself than anyone else. Elizabeth laughed,
“He’d be very embarrassed in front of us and smile to himself every time he thought about it.”
Her smile softened as her gaze dropped down to Neal before she gave a small sigh and turned toward the door. “Night, honey.”
“Night hon.”
Peter had meant to settle down in the armchair, make sure he was nearby if Neal woke up having trouble breathing again, but somehow he found himself settling down on the edge of the bed. Sitting upright against the backboard, not quite ready to go to sleep, smoothing a hand absently over Neal’s back and feeling the congestion of his breathing.
In a vivid flash Peter thought back to the moment outside the bank, being handed a sucker by the brazen James Bonds that truly began that long chase, and wondered what on earth that Peter Burke would think had he been able to look forward and see this moment.
There was one thing he was sure of though— he wouldn’t change a thing.