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“El?” Peter croaked.
Even the shortened name of his wife burned his inflamed throat as soundwaves scraped tender flesh.
Peter peered, bleary eyed, out from under four blankets, wrapped tightly on the living room couch, his body shivering yet sweating at the same time. He had tried to grab the remote a few minutes earlier to turn on the Yankees game, but just taking his arm out from under the warmth of the blankets had made his teeth chatter and his achy limbs moan.
“El…” Peter groaned and closed his eyes, leaning his head back on one of the couch pillows.
He hadn’t been this sick in years.
Am I dying? Peter thought, his mind beginning to melt.
He was unable to get into a comfortable position on the couch, his skin burning and freezing at the same time, his stomach churning, legs throbbing painfully. As his mind slowly slipped into the depths of high fever, he began whimpering softly, visions of Elizabeth being kidnapped, Neal running away, and his badge being taken all swimming before him as his world spun and body burned.
Then, out of the flaming darkness, a coolness spread over Peter’s forehead. The visions stopped, his breathing slowed.
“Hey there,” a gentle voice soothed.
“Neal?” Peter murmured, eyes reluctantly opening and registering his handsome CI hovering over him.
“Elizabeth had to go to work and asked me to come by to make sure you had taken your medicine,” Neal said, that sparkling charm dancing in his voice.
“Hmmpphh,” Peter grumped and sank deeper in the covers, “I took it, I just need the remote…the Yankees…”
Neal laughed brightly, Peter’s head panging in response.
“Come on,” Neal urged, wrapping an arm around the blanketed Peter and helping him to a seated position, “Now you just gotta take these and you’re going to feel a lot better.”
Neal held out two pills in the palm of his hand and a glass of water in the other.
Peter scowled, “I took it already.”
Neals fought the urge to smirk at the stubborn FBI agent, “Peter, they were sitting on the coffee table.”
A shiver rippled through Peter and his face winced in pain.
“Come on, Peter, just take the medicine,” Neal pressed.
Peter drew a shaky hand out from under the covers and muttered a reluctant, “Fine,” before swallowing the pills with a few gulps of water.
“There we go,” Neal said, patting Peter’s shoulder and smiled, his heart growing tender at the sight of his strong handler, his pursuer of justice, his…well, his best friend, weakened and pouty.
Peter shot his red-rimmed eyes to Neal, uttering a nasally accusation: “Did you break in my house?”
Neal grinned, “I just saved you from a fever-induced seizure. How I entered is of no concern to you.”
“I wasn’t that feverish—”
“Peter, you were tossing and turning and almost crying out to Elizabeth and—”
Neal paused, realization dawned on him.
Me.
Even in delirium, Neal’s name was on Peter’s lips, right there with Elizabeth, Peter's wife.
Never had Neal felt so important. Sure, they were just a few murmurs of Neal’s name during a fevered state but it was proof of something, right? Peter cared about him. Neal was a constant in Peter’s mind.
“And what?” Peter asked, eyebrows raising humorously.
Neal smiled softly, feeling quite smug with his little secret.
“Nevermind.”
A constant in your mind.
Neal liked that.
In fact, Neal liked that alot.
He grabbed the remote and turned on the Yankees game, Peter getting uncharacteristically snuggly the sleepier he got as his fever died down. He finally fell into a deep un-fevered sleep, his head resting on Neal’s shoulder. Neal leaned his head against Peter’s, enjoying the closeness just for a moment before slipping out the back door to June’s.
You’re a constant on my mind, too.