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It was all Peter’s fault.
It was because he had insisted on going to work and spreading his germs around the office, despite everyone telling him to just “please, go home”. But Peter was stubborn and a little cold wasn’t going to keep him from doing his civil duty. However, that “little cold” turned into the flu, which had been going around the city with cases rising every day. It was quite embarrassing that it took Peter nearly hurling all over the conference table to convince him to bunker down at home and get better far away from the White Collar offices.
The damage had already been done; unfortunately, and one by one agents came down with the prevalent virus. No one was safe, not even Neal, who prided himself on keeping healthy and fit, determined not to break his record of days since he had gotten sick. (It was 730 days to be precise.) And so there he was lying in the Burkes’ guest room, trying and failing, to take a nap. The events of the day before were vague at best. He distinctly remembered Diana and Jones tag-teaming him when they caught him slumped over his desk, asleep with a cup of coffee held precariously close to some important files. Neal had attempted to charm them and power through his supposed illness. The effect was lost due to his inability to think straight and form coherent thoughts. He tried to pull the “Peter’s not here to ground me” card as a last ditch effort, but they quickly and sufficiently reminded him that they were in charge here and sent him packing. Everything after that was a hazy picture, running together as one like in an impressionistic painting.
He didn’t remember how he got here; the fever cooked his brain. Something about June being away, visiting family out of state. He couldn't be left alone in the state he was. He did; however, remember strong hands supporting him as he leaned over the toilet, his stomach expelling its contents until there was nothing left and then some. He remembered someone holding his hand, whispering to him, wiping away sweat and vomit with a wet rag. Cold lips on his burning skin. A bed so soft like clouds. The feeling that everything was going to be ok, and then the blissfulness of sleep.
But where was that blissfulness now? Today, he struggled in that miserable state, half between wakefulness and slumber. Thankfully, he was past the gross vomiting stage, and all that was left was the sinus, respiratory issues. He slept in interrupted fits. No sooner did he close his eyes than he was coughing up junk and wheezing, each breath catching in his chest. His nose ran incessantly, causing him to sneeze every five seconds. What bothered him the most was his sore throat. It burned and ached from just breathing. And like a child with a loose tooth, he felt compelled to keep swallowing, wincing every time a sharp pain was inflicted upon him. His chest ached, his throat ached, his eyes ached; there wasn’t a part of him that wasn’t hurting in some way. He was one giant bruise.
Since sleeping wasn’t an option, he opted to read the books El had given him; but it was much too difficult to focus on the fine print, his eyes squinting with the effort. So he tried to amuse himself by planning out hypothetical heists. The problem was he kept losing his train of thought, his mind drifting elsewhere and forgetting it’s original intention. He had a serious case of brain fog; he had no concept of time as the hours flew past.
He’d go downstairs to watch TV but that meant descending all those stairs; and Neal really wasn’t up for that kind of physical exertion. Just existing was hard enough for him.
Neal shifted for the umpteenth time, exhaling heavily with frustration. He just couldn’t seem to get comfortable. He was bored, miserable, and lonely, if he were humble enough to admit. Peter was just in the next room over, holed up in his own bed. The distance from the guest bedroom to the master bedroom was significantly shorter than it was to the living room; and he figured he had enough strength to make the journey.
Taking it slowly, he rose on shaky legs and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. Then, he hobbled forward to his destination.
Peter was deeply engrossed in a case file and didn’t notice Neal at first. It wasn’t until he happened to glance upwards that he caught sight of Neal loitering in the doorway.
“Oh! It’s you. I thought it was El. She’d lose her head if she knew I was working. Although, I don’t see the problem,” he grumbled, cutting off a throaty cough.
Peter was mostly healed thanks to Mozzie’s elixir, except for the lingering cough that never seemed to go away. He was fit for duty in his mind, but the weather had been dreary when he woke up and El insisted that one more day at home would be wise. “You don’t want to catch something else, do you, Peter?” However, Peter was going stir crazy from being cooped inside and had had Jones stop by while El was at work to drop off some case files to flip through. He’d take anything at this point, even mortgage fraud, as long as his brain could get a much needed mental exercise. There was only so many hours you could spend lying around until your brain cells begin to atrophy.
“Can’t sleep?”
Neal shook his head and sniffled. He made for a pathetic sight, his skin a sickly, pale color, cheeks flushed, hair matted to his forehead. He stood there in the doorway, eyes flitting from Peter to the ground and back again. It reminded Peter of how Satchmo begged, sitting in one spot and choosing to side-eye you in the hopes that you would notice him and give him a treat. Neal was asking for something and was hoping that Peter would come to the conclusion himself in deference to speaking.
“Get over here.” Peter sighed and pulled down the covers. Neal shuffled forward and crawled into bed, curling on his side.
“Shall I read you a bedtime story?” Peter quipped, pulling open the file he had been reading. “Stop me if you’ve heard this one.” He cleared his throat. “Local wise guy thinks he can pull a fast one with his insurance claim. How much do you want to bet he stole the diamonds himself?”
Neal made a face. “Boring...” he croaked. He could have solved that in his sleep if he wanted to.
Peter chuckled. “Alright. How about this one? Looks like your classic ponzi scheme.”
Neal pretended to contemplate. “Well, I do love the classics.”
Peter regaled Neal with the details of the case—the who, the what, the how—while Neal faded in and out of consciousness, offering suggestions when they came to him. The soft timbre of Peter’s voice was soothing in a way; and he found himself drifting more often than not. His grasp on reality was shaky at best, but he was determined to be useful, even if his only job at the moment was to be a sounding board.
He had only dozed off for a few minutes when he was quickly sitting up, reaching for the tissue box on the nightstand, and coughing aggressively into one. He threw the used tissue away and settled back down for all of two seconds, before springing up again, this time sneezing in rapid succession. At this rate, he would never get any sleep. He wondered how long someone could go without sleeping? Two days? Five?
“Eleven days is the record, but I don’t think you’ll make it that far,” Peter said, answering Neal’s muddy ramblings.
“...feels like it...” he mumbled, throat burning from all that sickly activity.
Peter glanced at the clock. “It’s probably time for another dose of that weird concoction. I’ll be back.”
Neal blinked and suddenly Peter was standing before him, elixir in one hand and a glass of water in the other. He hadn’t even registered Peter’s movements; it was almost as if he teleported. Did Peter have teleportation powers? Neal figured he would know if he did. Then again, he had an eerie way of popping up at the most inopportune times, so maybe there was some truth to that. Oh god, he was starting to sound like Mozzie. Was he dying?
Neal wordlessly downed the elixir, shuddering as the sludgy mixture crawled down his throat. Peter opened his hand fully and revealed two pills of Tylenol, which he handed him along with the glass of water.
“Here. For your throat and the fever.”
Neal took both and then laid back down, tucking his head underneath a pillow to block out the light. He felt the bed dip next to him.
“You should probably sit up. It’s better for the draining.” Peter’s voice sounded distant through the fabric.
Neal moaned. “...don’t feel like moving...”
“Do you want to get some sleep or not?”
Neal sighed and slithered out from his position. He haphazardly flopped next to Peter who was sitting up against the headboard once more. Gravity caused his head to slide onto Peter’s shoulder, and Neal was far too tired to move it. Peter huffed in amusement and repositioned Neal slightly so that he was reclining in a more comfortable position, and then returned to his abandoned file.
Neal was asleep within minutes.
Peter continued to peruse his files, making mental notes to double check some facts and follow up on potential leads, all while Neal slept on, a comforting weight on his body. He’d altered his orientation and was now full-on cuddling Peter, an arm thrown over his torso and his face pressed into Peter’s neck. Peter was caught off guard at first, but he made no effort to move Neal. His C.I. wasn’t one to seek out comfort in the waking world, so why not let him now when his defenses were down and no one else was around to witness his momentary lapse in decorum?
Not too soon after, Peter heard the distant sound of the front door opening and a flash of fear shot through him. El was home, no doubt already on her way to check on her two patients. He quickly shoved all evidence of crime solving underneath his pillow and closed his eyes, feigning sleep.
El appeared in the doorway seconds later, hand on her hip, a displeased look on her face.
“Really, Peter? It wasn’t enough to work yourself up, you had to drag Neal into your tomfoolery too?” If she thought it was odd that her husband and his criminal informant were cuddling in bed, she didn’t show it.
Peter sighed, dropping the charade. “Hey, he came to me looking for something to do. Poor kid was bored out of his mind. Anyway, what gave me away?”
El crossed the distance between them and placed a kiss on his temple. “I know my husband. The meaning of “resting” is lost on you.”
“I don’t know why you bother mother henning me. I feel fine,” Peter griped, only to be interrupted by a coughing fit.
“And I don’t know why you bother overworking yourself and stretching yourself thin when your body needs time to heal,” she countered back, an eyebrow raised. She switched topics, giving Neal a once over. “How is he?”
“Bored, uncomfortable, with a general malaise. But his fever hasn’t gone up so I suppose that’s an improvement.”
They shared an affectionate look at the younger man and watched as Neal’s brow furrowed, wrinkling his forehead. He fidgeted in place, scrunching his facial features. Peter wasn’t sure if his discomfort was from a dream or from pain or something else. In either case, he ran a hand down Neal’s back and scratched between his shoulder blades. Neal settled after that, his body going lax once more.
“He looks so much younger asleep,” mused El. “So innocent.”
“Yeah, he’s an angel all right. If only he was like this all the time.”
El playfully whacked Peter’s arm. “Oh stop. He’s much more fun awake.”
“More fun or more trouble?” he shot back, dodging another blow.
“You behave.” El fussed over Neal, smoothing over imaginary creases in the covers and stray strands of hair until she was satisfied. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’m going to whip up some chicken soup. Try not to disturb the baby,” she called over her shoulder.
Peter scoffed but didn’t correct her.
He retrieved his files but found that he no longer had the energy or brain power left to focus on them. Deciding that maybe listening to his wife was actually a good idea, he set them aside and hunkered down next to Neal. He picked up his phone and scrolled through it aimlessly, catching up on the latest news to idly pass the time.
Some time later, Neal shifted, slowly coming to. He felt marginally better after his brief nap. At least the ache behind his eyes had disappeared as well as the fogginess in his brain. He found that he could think clearly again, enough to realize that his pillow was much harder than he remembered it to be. He opened his eyes only to slam them shut hastily.
This wasn’t his bed; and furthermore, this wasn’t his pillow. Instead, he was curled around Peter using him as a makeshift body pillow. He was fairly confused for a moment; and then, he recalled how he got into this predicament and groaned internally. This couldn’t be happening.
“I know you’re awake, Neal.”
Neal twitched and reluctantly lifted his head. He met Peter’s gaze, the older man wearing a bemused expression, a relaxed smile stretching his lips. Neal tucked his head back down, his cheeks tinged pink. He was outright mortified. Maybe if he closed his eyes tightly and wished really hard, this would all go away.
It didn’t.
Peter smirked at the sudden reaction. Personally, he was finding the whole situation rather humorous, if only for the pure enjoyment of watching Neal squirm, a rare sight to behold. “Are you hiding now?” he teased, fingering the nape of Neal’s neck in an attempt to make him show his face again.
Neal involuntarily scrunched his shoulders at the irritating gesture. “...no..” His voice came out muffled from where he had his face pressed into Peter’s shirt. “’m not hiding, Peter.”
“Hmm...Kinda seems like you are.” He proceeded to trace patterns on the bare skin until Neal pulled back with an annoyed huff.
“Stop it.”
“It’s ok, you know. You don’t have to be embarrassed,” Peter said, reading Neal’s mind as easily as if it were a book made for children.
Neal rolled his shoulders nonchalantly. “Why would I be embarrassed? Two grown men can cuddle up in bed and it doesn’t have to mean anything.”
“Of course.” Peter pursed his lips and nodded in faux seriousness.
“Yeah, so anyway. Feeling much better now, thank you. I’ll just be leaving,” Neal said, half rising.
Peter held him back with the tone in his voice. “Neal.”
“Peter,” Neal replied, playing along. But there was uncertainty in his eyes, like he was standing on a see-saw, unsure of which way it would tip.
“Neal.” Peter regarded him, countenance open and warm. “It’s ok.” It’s ok to ask for help. It’s ok to be looked after. It’s ok to let yourself be vulnerable around others. It’s ok.
“Ok,” came Neal’s hoarse reply, the word catching in his throat and aggravating his swollen lymph nodes. He coughed, and Peter wordlessly handed him the leftover water in his glass. He busied himself with drinking while he pondered Peter’s unspoken meaning.
He wasn’t used to people caring about him in a personal way beyond the expected niceties, caring whether he was hurting or not. He’d had nobody to kiss his wounds or bandage his knees, nobody to wipe his tears away and dote on him, to comfort him when he was upset. That was something he had learned to do himself from the get go. Ellen was nice enough; but she could never replace what he was really missing. Besides, she had a life of her own and was often busy. So he became self-sufficient; relying on others was a weakness and a hindrance.
That was until he met Peter, who had taken an unusual interest in him from the start and completely threw Neal for a loop. Sure, he was the one who had initiated the contact, starting from the green lollipop he had offered him in a cheeky attempt to get a first impression of his new found advisory. And everything else, well, Neal pretended that was all for research purposes; at least, that’s what he had told Mozzie. But truth be told, he had grown fond of his rival and genuinely looked forward to their interactions. He hadn’t expected; however, for Peter to reciprocate his advances with equal enjoyment and engagement, matching Neal’s indulgence and responding in kind. And even after Peter arrested him, he still continued to correspond with him through letters and phone calls when all reason said not to. And then their partnership, a dynamic that on paper shouldn’t work, but miraculously it did.
Now, based on past experience, Neal knew Peter concerned himself with the sizable stuff. He was there for him when Kate died, with Keller and the treasure, his commutation and subsequently Cape Verde. It’s what you’re expected to do when something major happens to someone you know. You offered your condolences and help, and then moved on, satisfied that you did your part. But it was never that way with Peter. He seemed to really care; and Neal, for once, believed that he did. However, it was the little stuff, his day to day life, that was tripping him up. The phone calls and text messages just to “catch up” (even though they saw each other a couple days ago), the dinner invites, sharing a drink after work, the promise of a field trip to the art museum if he promised to be on his best behavior. And now coddling him when he was sick, him and El both? Intellectually, he knew that’s just what families did for one another—cared. But it was still something he was learning. He wondered if it would ever feel natural, this flowing love emitting from the Burkes that wrapped him up in its easy warmth. When would he trust it to always be there?
Peter examined Neal out of the corner of his eyes, watching that brilliant mind of his struggle over something as simple as his love for him; but he ultimately decided to say nothing. Instead, he ruffled his hair, forcing Neal back to the present, and changed topics.
“Is your stomach ready for El’s famous chicken soup?”
Before Neal could reply, his stomach gurgled a response. “I guess so.”
“Come on.” Peter rose from the bed and offered his hand to Neal.
Neal took it; and Peter hauled him up with more force than he was expecting, causing him to stumble into Peter. Neal pushed off with a self-conscious chuckle, but Peter only squeezed his shoulder, keeping him close.
“So I was thinking about our case...” Peter said, as they descended the stairs.
Neal rolled his eyes. “Of course you were.”
“Hush it. As I was saying...”
With Peter droning on about various tactics and the smell of El’s cooking wafting from the kitchen, Neal had the distinct impression that this was what home was supposed to feel like.