elrhiarhodan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
elrhiarhodan) wrote2010-12-06 04:11 pm
elrhiarhodan) wrote2010-12-06 04:11 pm
White Collar Fic - Taking Half a Sick Day (Is Better Than Needing a Whole One) (Paladin 'Verse)
Title: Taking Half a Sick Day (Is Better Than Needing a Whole One)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Rating: PG
Fandom: White Collar
Characters/PairingsPeter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Diana Berrigan (Peter/Elizabeth/Neal)
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~3000
Summary: Neal gets sick…it happens.
A/N: For the lovelyusakeh, who properly and very quickly identified five opening lines on the Song Lyrics meme I have running at my Journal. Fills Kiss Bingo Square "Face: Lips".
This is the sequel to Love Will Not Break Your Heart (it will dismiss your fears) where Peter, Neal and Elizabeth exchange vows.
__________________
Neal hates going to the doctor, he has since he was a child. They ask all sorts of questions that Neal doesn’t like to answer - questions like where did he get that bruise, or when was the last time he had a good meal? And then there was prison, and the clinical efficiency of an outsourced medical system that treated him as nothing more than a damaged piece of meat.
As a relatively free man, he knows really shouldn’t have these issues anymore. It’s not even a matter of a lack of insurance. The bakery is good for more than cake and brownies. It’s just that Neal has never quite gotten over his anxiety. He supposes that this is a weakness, and one that he should work on conquering, but right now, he doesn’t want to. All he wants to do is pull the covers over his head and stay in bed. But he doesn’t. It’s Monday morning, and after a low-key weekend spent trying to fight off a sore throat and a bunch of aches and pains, he knows he should call in sick, but that would mean explanations and Peter would undoubtedly bully him into going to see a doctor. And beyond that, he is uncomfortable and uncertain about being anything less than perfect for Peter, for Peter and Elizabeth. They didn’t want kids, and being sick in front of them would be an exercise in humiliation.
Neal gets up, showers and dresses in high style, hoping that if he looks really good, he’ll feel a whole lot better, yet somehow it doesn’t quite work that way. Despite his favorite Devore, with the Italian silk tie and vintage trilby, he still feels – well, like crap. So Neal splurges, and calls for a car service to take him all the way down town since the thought of climbing in and out of the subway, and the eight-block walk to the office is just too much to bear. He's lucky, Monday morning traffic is light and he gets in well before starting time. While the coffee in the office is disgusting, the tea isn’t half bad, particularly when it has plenty of honey and lemon to soothe his aching throat.
There is always a pile of files on his desk, cold cases that Peter hopes that Neal will be able to find an angle on. When the pile gets low, Peter adds to it and Neal takes a great deal of pride in that. Some of these cases are years old, and have passed through several agents’ hands before getting labeled as "unsolvable." Perhaps the easiest one, the one that gives Neal a perverse sense of pride (one completely different from when he actually has to work to solve a closed case) is the file that containes the accumulated data on one of his own jobs. He casually brings that file into Peter’s office and drops it on his desk. He smiles and says just two words: “Nicholas Halden.” Peter scowls, but doesn’t say anything else. They had made a bargain - the FBI gets to use Halden on a regular basis and Halden gets total immunity on all prior crimes. Besides, the activities documented in that file aren’t the worst things that Neal had done, nor are the victims undeserving (“Nick” had fleeced a pair of mid-level wiseguys, both of whom were currently serving ten to fifteen at Dannemora).
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
This morning, this cold and windy Monday morning, Peter comes in to the office full of good health, good cheer and too much energy. He finds Neal at his desk, nursing a cup of hot something or other, and the cold case files scattered all over the place. He’s frantically taking notes, flipping back and forth between files and completely oblivious to Peter. It’s only when Neal starts to sneeze – a chain of increasingly violent exhalations that Peter’s presence seems to register.
“Morning, Neal.”
Neal waves back at him and blows his nose. He says something that sounds like “Morning, Peter” but Peter isn’t quite sure. His voice is muffled by the wad of tissues he’s holding in front of his face.
“You okay?”
Neal nods. “It’s the dust…these files are full of it.”
Peter struggles to contain a small smile. Someone’s full of something, all right. He sees the tea, takes note of the used tissues in the trashcan, Neal’s sweaty pallor and slightly frenetic activity. This is not unfamiliar behavior for his favorite consultant, best friend and lover. Neal hates being sick – he’ll do anything to cover it up, as if pretending that he’s in perfect health will fool anyone. Denial is not just a river in Egypt. The last time he was sick, Neal had nearly ended up in the hospital with pneumonia.
“You got anything for me?” Peter plays it cool for the moment. He decides he’ll give Neal until lunch time, and if his partner isn’t willing to pack it in by then, Peter is going to simple take charge. Had he and Elizabeth not had family obligations at her parents’ house on Saturday until early Sunday afternoon, and Elizabeth then had to fly out to San Francisco last night, they would have spent the weekend together. He would have noticed Neal’s ill health two days ago.
Neal looks up at Peter, perhaps startled by his nonchalance. He wipes his nose, tries to clear his throat and starts to lay out the connections between two of the cold cases – a fake college student credit card scheme from 2000 and an identity theft operation that bilked dozens of senior citizens in 2005.
Peter was impressed, but not surprised. The last time Neal got sick (and almost ended up in the hospital), he cleared a half-dozen cold cases. There must be something about cold germs that makes Neal concentrate on paperwork. Peter thinks that there should be a way to harness that, but without the concomitant side effects.
“There are probably others with the same hallmarks.”
“Let’s take this up at the morning staff meeting.”
Neal sniffles and mostly suppresses a sneeze. “You know, if I had access to ViCAP, I could probably find connections to cases in other jurisdictions.”
Peter dons a very stern look, although he wants to smile. “We’ve had this discussion before. I can’t give you unrestricted access to that database. It would be like handing…”
“…Me the keys to the candy store.” This is an old argument. Neal knows the regulations are there for a reason, and Peter knows that if it were anyone else, he would be justified in keeping him away from that gold mine of criminal data. But he also knows that Neal has little interest now in mining ViCAP for information about his own past crimes, associates and aliases (and he suspects that Mozzie’s hacked the database on more than one occasion). Besides, they neatly sidestep that rule. Peter logs in and goes for a cup of coffee. He comes back and checks the search history. Everyone is happy, work gets done, cases are solved.
A quick succession of sneezes, followed by a round of hacking coughs brings Peter’s attention back to Neal. But he still doesn’t say anything, other than to direct Neal to prepare the appropriate overview of the cases and the required research for the rest of the staff.
Perhaps the only thing of note (other than the new case) at the morning staff meeting is Neal’s ass in a chair. Since the beginning of his tenure as a consultant, Neal rarely sits in a chair during a staff-wide session – preferring to stand against a wall, lean on a window or occasionally sit on a credenza. Today, he is parked in a seat closest to the door to Peter’s office. Peter thinks it is almost adorable how he tries to hide a rather large box of Kleenex under copies of the current case files. He glances at his watch – it is 10:30 now, the meeting will take a half hour and if Neal keeps progressing they way he is heading now, it is going to be an early “lunch” for both of them.
The meeting goes smoothly, as Peter expects that it should. Neal introduces the cases, explains the links that he sees, lays out the pattern that the others should be looking for and starts to cough. He keeps coughing until he’s blue in the face.
“That’s a very unattractive color for you. It clashes with your tie.” Peter disguises his concern with a little ironic humor.
“Sorry, swallowed wrong.” Neal gets up and goes to retreat into Peter’s office to catch his breath. The agents on his right and left give him a wide berth. Neal glares at them. “Since when is choking contagious?”
Blake mutters something about rivers in Egypt and Peter smiles.
Peter picks up the rest of the briefing, hands out the research assignments and dismisses the team. Diana gives him The Look.
“Yeah, yeah – Neal’s sick as a dog.” He cuts her off before she could start in on him. Despite everything, she has a soft spot for Neal, or at least Neal when he’s heading towards martyrdom.
“Do you want me to take him home? Or at least get him into a cab?”
Now it’s Peter’s turn to give her The Look. She’s known about the rather unusual relationship he and El are having with Neal for about a year. It makes life a lot easier.
He keeps his voice low, so Neal – still hacking and blowing in Peter’s office – can’t hear them. “No, I’ll be taking a half day. Do me a favor, take the Hammerfield case files down to my car – I’ll work on them at home.” He hands Diana the keys to the Taurus. “Neal will be tucked safely into bed, dosed with the appropriate OTC cold remedies unless his condition worsens. Then we go to DEFCON-4 and I take him to the doctor.”
“That sounds about as much fun and just about as hazardous as bathing a cat.”
Neal chooses that moment to walk back into the conference room. “What’s this about a cat?”
Diana covers herself rather neatly. “Christy’s thinking about getting one. I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”
Peter shrugs. “Don’t look at me. I prefer dogs. I know nothing about cats.”
Neal seems to realize that the conversation is really not about cats, but he doesn’t want to make the effort to decode it. “I’m heading back to my desk. I still say, it would be a lot easier if I had access to ViCAP…” Neal punctuates the thought with a sneeze.
Peter ignores it, or pretends to. “You can give search parameters to Blake, and maybe he’ll find he needs to go for a cup of coffee.”
Neal nods and slowly, painfully makes his way down to the bullpen. He starts sneezing on the second step and Peter realizes that Neal’s left his tissue box on the conference table. He goes and takes the box to Neal, who is caught helplessly between hacking coughs and gale force sneezes. The whole office is staring at him in horror. Peter gently guides Neal back up the stairs and into his office, seating him in his own desk chair. He doesn’t say anything as the tide of misery continues to wash over Neal.
As it finally recedes, Peter stands over Neal, hands on his hips. He decides to continue to play stupid, from prior experience he knows that the sicker Neal is, the harder he’s going to fight.
“Allergy attack?”
Neal looks up at him, both grateful and incredulous. “Yeah, those files are pretty dusty.”
“What do you say we take an early lunch, get some fresh air.”
Neal looks up at him, eyes full of crust and suspicion. “It’s barely 11:15 – since when do you take lunch that early?”
“Since I got tired of hearing you sneeze and cough from all the dust you’ve inhaled. Come on.”
Neal gets up and moved like an old man. Peter helps him down the stairs, a hand at the small of his back. He helps Neal on with his coat, and retrieves his hat. Thankfully, Diana is quick and there isn’t too much elevator traffic. She walks out of the car they are just about to get into, and she slips the keys back into Peter’s hand. The pass isn’t as smooth as something Caffrey could manage, and Peter hopes that Neal, in his misery, doesn't notice the exchange.
The elevator doors open up on the Garage level before Neal realizes anything.
“Peter, where are we going?” Neal’s tone is suspicious, as well as phlegm-clogged.
“I thought we’d head over the Bridge, to Grimaldi’s for pizza.
Neal doesn’t say anything. Grimaldi’s, considered the best pizza in New York, is not something he’s really in the mood for – but he’ll take the peace and quite of a twenty-minute car ride, and maybe convince Peter to allow him to wait in the Taurus while he gets his lunch.
Peter takes the long way to the Brooklyn Bridge, deliberately going a dozen blocks in the wrong direction, then circling another three blocks until he’s certain that Neal is sound asleep. He makes it home without any sudden breaking or swerving, and thankfully his parking spot is still vacant. He looks at the sleeping, sniffling Neal for a few minutes, and sighs. Why does this wonderful, brilliant and talented man have to be so damn crazy? And for the hundredth, no maybe the thousandth time, Peter wonders how much more deeply he could love Neal Caffrey – every crazy, brilliant inch of him.
Peter gets out of the car, walks around and opens the passenger side door. “Neal? Neal? Come on, wake up.” He rubs his hand up and down Neal’s arm, to gently wake him.
Neal opens his eyes, they are bleary and bloodshot. “I wasn't sleeping. Just resting my eyes for a moment.” He looks around. “This isn’t Grimaldi’s.” He glares at Peter. “You said we don’t take nooners.”
“No, we don’t take nooners. Especially when you are sick.”
“Peter – it’s just an…”
“…Allergy attack. No matter how many times you repeat a lie, it doesn’t magically become the truth.” Peter’s tone is stern, and brooks no nonsense. “Neal – you’re sick. You may even have the flu. I know how you feel about going to the doctor, and I’m not going to insist on that…not just yet. But you’ve got to take care of yourself. And if you won't take care of yourself, I'm going to take care of you.” Peter carefully helps Neal out of the car and up the front steps. He was beginning to shake with the onset of a fever.
Neal resists for just a moment, then leans into Peter. It feels so good. Peter, who is so warm and so solid, so there, feels so damn good. “I’m gonna make you sick too.”
“No, you won’t. I’m big, bad Peter Burke, remember? Germs don’t dare infect me.”
Neal begins to laugh, but it turns into a coughing fit and they both struggle to get into the house. Once inside, Peter leads Neal up to the bedroom. Not the guest bedroom, but the master. Neal tries to protest.
“Caffrey – you are part of us now. Remember - in sickness and in health.” Peter reminds Neal of the vows the three of them made last year. He efficiently divests him of his hat and coat and then his suit, stripping him bare of everything – even his underwear and socks, and as Neal stands there, naked and shivering, Peter dresses him in a set of warm flannel pajamas.
He pulls back the covers of the big bed and manhandles Neal into it. As if he is a small, helpless child, Peter pulls the covers up and tucks them under Neal’s chin. He’s still shivering, so Peter turns up the heat and fetches a down comforter.
“Don’t even think about getting out of this bed.”
“What if I have to go to the bathroom?” Neal’s voice is soft and scratchy, but there’s a definite undertone of warmth and happiness.
“Stop being a wiseass, Caffrey.” Peter growls and smiles. Neal’s sick, but it’s not so bad that he can’t joke. He goes to the bathroom and gets a bottle of Tylenol and a glass of water. Back in the bedroom, Neal’s huddled under the mound of blankets and pillows; the only part of him that’s visible is his face, flushed with the onset of a fever. His eyes are closed and his lashes are like ridiculous black wings against his cheeks. Peter doesn’t want to wake him, but he does need the medicine.
Peter sits down on the bed next to Neal, and brushes that floppy lock of hair off of his forehead, and he's troubled by the heat pouring off his skin.
Neal opens his eyes. “Sorry – I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” He stifles a cough.
“No, I’m sorry I woke you, but you need to take these to get your fever down.” Peter helps Neal sit up to take the medication.
“Thanks.” Neal takes the pills and manages to swallow with out coughing. He slides back down, deep under the blankets.
“Neal – you need to understand something.” Peter leans over him and brushes a kiss against his forehead, and cups his cheek.
Neal turns his face into Peter's hand and lets his head rest into Peter’s large, warm palm. Just like before, when Peter helped him up and into the house, it feels so good, almost too good to be cherished like this. “What – what do I need to understand?”
“You can rely on me, Neal. You can let me take care of you – and I’ll never make you do anything you don’t want. I love you – and you are as important to me as Elizabeth. I don’t know what I’d do without you anymore.”
Neal’s eyes are huge blue pools and maybe just a little tear filled. “Peter…”
“Shhhh, just rest now.”
“Peter - I love you too.” Neal’s voice is barely above a whisper.
Peter always treasures those words when Neal speaks them, because he so rarely does. Neal may articulate his emotions in a hundred other ways, but “I love you” is difficult. Peter understands why – he’s lost or been betrayed by too many people to whom he’s given his love.
“You don’t have to prove anything to me. Not anymore. He presses another kiss against Neal’s forehead, and then a soft one on his lips. Neal sighs, his eyes close and he falls into a restful, healing sleep.
Peter sits there, watching Neal as he sleeps, listening to him breathe. He’ll stay there, until Neal wakes, until he’s certain that Neal will be all right.
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanRating: PG
Fandom: White Collar
Characters/PairingsPeter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Diana Berrigan (Peter/Elizabeth/Neal)
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~3000
Summary: Neal gets sick…it happens.
A/N: For the lovely
usakeh, who properly and very quickly identified five opening lines on the Song Lyrics meme I have running at my Journal. Fills Kiss Bingo Square "Face: Lips". This is the sequel to Love Will Not Break Your Heart (it will dismiss your fears) where Peter, Neal and Elizabeth exchange vows.
Neal hates going to the doctor, he has since he was a child. They ask all sorts of questions that Neal doesn’t like to answer - questions like where did he get that bruise, or when was the last time he had a good meal? And then there was prison, and the clinical efficiency of an outsourced medical system that treated him as nothing more than a damaged piece of meat.
As a relatively free man, he knows really shouldn’t have these issues anymore. It’s not even a matter of a lack of insurance. The bakery is good for more than cake and brownies. It’s just that Neal has never quite gotten over his anxiety. He supposes that this is a weakness, and one that he should work on conquering, but right now, he doesn’t want to. All he wants to do is pull the covers over his head and stay in bed. But he doesn’t. It’s Monday morning, and after a low-key weekend spent trying to fight off a sore throat and a bunch of aches and pains, he knows he should call in sick, but that would mean explanations and Peter would undoubtedly bully him into going to see a doctor. And beyond that, he is uncomfortable and uncertain about being anything less than perfect for Peter, for Peter and Elizabeth. They didn’t want kids, and being sick in front of them would be an exercise in humiliation.
Neal gets up, showers and dresses in high style, hoping that if he looks really good, he’ll feel a whole lot better, yet somehow it doesn’t quite work that way. Despite his favorite Devore, with the Italian silk tie and vintage trilby, he still feels – well, like crap. So Neal splurges, and calls for a car service to take him all the way down town since the thought of climbing in and out of the subway, and the eight-block walk to the office is just too much to bear. He's lucky, Monday morning traffic is light and he gets in well before starting time. While the coffee in the office is disgusting, the tea isn’t half bad, particularly when it has plenty of honey and lemon to soothe his aching throat.
There is always a pile of files on his desk, cold cases that Peter hopes that Neal will be able to find an angle on. When the pile gets low, Peter adds to it and Neal takes a great deal of pride in that. Some of these cases are years old, and have passed through several agents’ hands before getting labeled as "unsolvable." Perhaps the easiest one, the one that gives Neal a perverse sense of pride (one completely different from when he actually has to work to solve a closed case) is the file that containes the accumulated data on one of his own jobs. He casually brings that file into Peter’s office and drops it on his desk. He smiles and says just two words: “Nicholas Halden.” Peter scowls, but doesn’t say anything else. They had made a bargain - the FBI gets to use Halden on a regular basis and Halden gets total immunity on all prior crimes. Besides, the activities documented in that file aren’t the worst things that Neal had done, nor are the victims undeserving (“Nick” had fleeced a pair of mid-level wiseguys, both of whom were currently serving ten to fifteen at Dannemora).
This morning, this cold and windy Monday morning, Peter comes in to the office full of good health, good cheer and too much energy. He finds Neal at his desk, nursing a cup of hot something or other, and the cold case files scattered all over the place. He’s frantically taking notes, flipping back and forth between files and completely oblivious to Peter. It’s only when Neal starts to sneeze – a chain of increasingly violent exhalations that Peter’s presence seems to register.
“Morning, Neal.”
Neal waves back at him and blows his nose. He says something that sounds like “Morning, Peter” but Peter isn’t quite sure. His voice is muffled by the wad of tissues he’s holding in front of his face.
“You okay?”
Neal nods. “It’s the dust…these files are full of it.”
Peter struggles to contain a small smile. Someone’s full of something, all right. He sees the tea, takes note of the used tissues in the trashcan, Neal’s sweaty pallor and slightly frenetic activity. This is not unfamiliar behavior for his favorite consultant, best friend and lover. Neal hates being sick – he’ll do anything to cover it up, as if pretending that he’s in perfect health will fool anyone. Denial is not just a river in Egypt. The last time he was sick, Neal had nearly ended up in the hospital with pneumonia.
“You got anything for me?” Peter plays it cool for the moment. He decides he’ll give Neal until lunch time, and if his partner isn’t willing to pack it in by then, Peter is going to simple take charge. Had he and Elizabeth not had family obligations at her parents’ house on Saturday until early Sunday afternoon, and Elizabeth then had to fly out to San Francisco last night, they would have spent the weekend together. He would have noticed Neal’s ill health two days ago.
Neal looks up at Peter, perhaps startled by his nonchalance. He wipes his nose, tries to clear his throat and starts to lay out the connections between two of the cold cases – a fake college student credit card scheme from 2000 and an identity theft operation that bilked dozens of senior citizens in 2005.
Peter was impressed, but not surprised. The last time Neal got sick (and almost ended up in the hospital), he cleared a half-dozen cold cases. There must be something about cold germs that makes Neal concentrate on paperwork. Peter thinks that there should be a way to harness that, but without the concomitant side effects.
“There are probably others with the same hallmarks.”
“Let’s take this up at the morning staff meeting.”
Neal sniffles and mostly suppresses a sneeze. “You know, if I had access to ViCAP, I could probably find connections to cases in other jurisdictions.”
Peter dons a very stern look, although he wants to smile. “We’ve had this discussion before. I can’t give you unrestricted access to that database. It would be like handing…”
“…Me the keys to the candy store.” This is an old argument. Neal knows the regulations are there for a reason, and Peter knows that if it were anyone else, he would be justified in keeping him away from that gold mine of criminal data. But he also knows that Neal has little interest now in mining ViCAP for information about his own past crimes, associates and aliases (and he suspects that Mozzie’s hacked the database on more than one occasion). Besides, they neatly sidestep that rule. Peter logs in and goes for a cup of coffee. He comes back and checks the search history. Everyone is happy, work gets done, cases are solved.
A quick succession of sneezes, followed by a round of hacking coughs brings Peter’s attention back to Neal. But he still doesn’t say anything, other than to direct Neal to prepare the appropriate overview of the cases and the required research for the rest of the staff.
Perhaps the only thing of note (other than the new case) at the morning staff meeting is Neal’s ass in a chair. Since the beginning of his tenure as a consultant, Neal rarely sits in a chair during a staff-wide session – preferring to stand against a wall, lean on a window or occasionally sit on a credenza. Today, he is parked in a seat closest to the door to Peter’s office. Peter thinks it is almost adorable how he tries to hide a rather large box of Kleenex under copies of the current case files. He glances at his watch – it is 10:30 now, the meeting will take a half hour and if Neal keeps progressing they way he is heading now, it is going to be an early “lunch” for both of them.
The meeting goes smoothly, as Peter expects that it should. Neal introduces the cases, explains the links that he sees, lays out the pattern that the others should be looking for and starts to cough. He keeps coughing until he’s blue in the face.
“That’s a very unattractive color for you. It clashes with your tie.” Peter disguises his concern with a little ironic humor.
“Sorry, swallowed wrong.” Neal gets up and goes to retreat into Peter’s office to catch his breath. The agents on his right and left give him a wide berth. Neal glares at them. “Since when is choking contagious?”
Blake mutters something about rivers in Egypt and Peter smiles.
Peter picks up the rest of the briefing, hands out the research assignments and dismisses the team. Diana gives him The Look.
“Yeah, yeah – Neal’s sick as a dog.” He cuts her off before she could start in on him. Despite everything, she has a soft spot for Neal, or at least Neal when he’s heading towards martyrdom.
“Do you want me to take him home? Or at least get him into a cab?”
Now it’s Peter’s turn to give her The Look. She’s known about the rather unusual relationship he and El are having with Neal for about a year. It makes life a lot easier.
He keeps his voice low, so Neal – still hacking and blowing in Peter’s office – can’t hear them. “No, I’ll be taking a half day. Do me a favor, take the Hammerfield case files down to my car – I’ll work on them at home.” He hands Diana the keys to the Taurus. “Neal will be tucked safely into bed, dosed with the appropriate OTC cold remedies unless his condition worsens. Then we go to DEFCON-4 and I take him to the doctor.”
“That sounds about as much fun and just about as hazardous as bathing a cat.”
Neal chooses that moment to walk back into the conference room. “What’s this about a cat?”
Diana covers herself rather neatly. “Christy’s thinking about getting one. I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”
Peter shrugs. “Don’t look at me. I prefer dogs. I know nothing about cats.”
Neal seems to realize that the conversation is really not about cats, but he doesn’t want to make the effort to decode it. “I’m heading back to my desk. I still say, it would be a lot easier if I had access to ViCAP…” Neal punctuates the thought with a sneeze.
Peter ignores it, or pretends to. “You can give search parameters to Blake, and maybe he’ll find he needs to go for a cup of coffee.”
Neal nods and slowly, painfully makes his way down to the bullpen. He starts sneezing on the second step and Peter realizes that Neal’s left his tissue box on the conference table. He goes and takes the box to Neal, who is caught helplessly between hacking coughs and gale force sneezes. The whole office is staring at him in horror. Peter gently guides Neal back up the stairs and into his office, seating him in his own desk chair. He doesn’t say anything as the tide of misery continues to wash over Neal.
As it finally recedes, Peter stands over Neal, hands on his hips. He decides to continue to play stupid, from prior experience he knows that the sicker Neal is, the harder he’s going to fight.
“Allergy attack?”
Neal looks up at him, both grateful and incredulous. “Yeah, those files are pretty dusty.”
“What do you say we take an early lunch, get some fresh air.”
Neal looks up at him, eyes full of crust and suspicion. “It’s barely 11:15 – since when do you take lunch that early?”
“Since I got tired of hearing you sneeze and cough from all the dust you’ve inhaled. Come on.”
Neal gets up and moved like an old man. Peter helps him down the stairs, a hand at the small of his back. He helps Neal on with his coat, and retrieves his hat. Thankfully, Diana is quick and there isn’t too much elevator traffic. She walks out of the car they are just about to get into, and she slips the keys back into Peter’s hand. The pass isn’t as smooth as something Caffrey could manage, and Peter hopes that Neal, in his misery, doesn't notice the exchange.
The elevator doors open up on the Garage level before Neal realizes anything.
“Peter, where are we going?” Neal’s tone is suspicious, as well as phlegm-clogged.
“I thought we’d head over the Bridge, to Grimaldi’s for pizza.
Neal doesn’t say anything. Grimaldi’s, considered the best pizza in New York, is not something he’s really in the mood for – but he’ll take the peace and quite of a twenty-minute car ride, and maybe convince Peter to allow him to wait in the Taurus while he gets his lunch.
Peter takes the long way to the Brooklyn Bridge, deliberately going a dozen blocks in the wrong direction, then circling another three blocks until he’s certain that Neal is sound asleep. He makes it home without any sudden breaking or swerving, and thankfully his parking spot is still vacant. He looks at the sleeping, sniffling Neal for a few minutes, and sighs. Why does this wonderful, brilliant and talented man have to be so damn crazy? And for the hundredth, no maybe the thousandth time, Peter wonders how much more deeply he could love Neal Caffrey – every crazy, brilliant inch of him.
Peter gets out of the car, walks around and opens the passenger side door. “Neal? Neal? Come on, wake up.” He rubs his hand up and down Neal’s arm, to gently wake him.
Neal opens his eyes, they are bleary and bloodshot. “I wasn't sleeping. Just resting my eyes for a moment.” He looks around. “This isn’t Grimaldi’s.” He glares at Peter. “You said we don’t take nooners.”
“No, we don’t take nooners. Especially when you are sick.”
“Peter – it’s just an…”
“…Allergy attack. No matter how many times you repeat a lie, it doesn’t magically become the truth.” Peter’s tone is stern, and brooks no nonsense. “Neal – you’re sick. You may even have the flu. I know how you feel about going to the doctor, and I’m not going to insist on that…not just yet. But you’ve got to take care of yourself. And if you won't take care of yourself, I'm going to take care of you.” Peter carefully helps Neal out of the car and up the front steps. He was beginning to shake with the onset of a fever.
Neal resists for just a moment, then leans into Peter. It feels so good. Peter, who is so warm and so solid, so there, feels so damn good. “I’m gonna make you sick too.”
“No, you won’t. I’m big, bad Peter Burke, remember? Germs don’t dare infect me.”
Neal begins to laugh, but it turns into a coughing fit and they both struggle to get into the house. Once inside, Peter leads Neal up to the bedroom. Not the guest bedroom, but the master. Neal tries to protest.
“Caffrey – you are part of us now. Remember - in sickness and in health.” Peter reminds Neal of the vows the three of them made last year. He efficiently divests him of his hat and coat and then his suit, stripping him bare of everything – even his underwear and socks, and as Neal stands there, naked and shivering, Peter dresses him in a set of warm flannel pajamas.
He pulls back the covers of the big bed and manhandles Neal into it. As if he is a small, helpless child, Peter pulls the covers up and tucks them under Neal’s chin. He’s still shivering, so Peter turns up the heat and fetches a down comforter.
“Don’t even think about getting out of this bed.”
“What if I have to go to the bathroom?” Neal’s voice is soft and scratchy, but there’s a definite undertone of warmth and happiness.
“Stop being a wiseass, Caffrey.” Peter growls and smiles. Neal’s sick, but it’s not so bad that he can’t joke. He goes to the bathroom and gets a bottle of Tylenol and a glass of water. Back in the bedroom, Neal’s huddled under the mound of blankets and pillows; the only part of him that’s visible is his face, flushed with the onset of a fever. His eyes are closed and his lashes are like ridiculous black wings against his cheeks. Peter doesn’t want to wake him, but he does need the medicine.
Peter sits down on the bed next to Neal, and brushes that floppy lock of hair off of his forehead, and he's troubled by the heat pouring off his skin.
Neal opens his eyes. “Sorry – I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” He stifles a cough.
“No, I’m sorry I woke you, but you need to take these to get your fever down.” Peter helps Neal sit up to take the medication.
“Thanks.” Neal takes the pills and manages to swallow with out coughing. He slides back down, deep under the blankets.
“Neal – you need to understand something.” Peter leans over him and brushes a kiss against his forehead, and cups his cheek.
Neal turns his face into Peter's hand and lets his head rest into Peter’s large, warm palm. Just like before, when Peter helped him up and into the house, it feels so good, almost too good to be cherished like this. “What – what do I need to understand?”
“You can rely on me, Neal. You can let me take care of you – and I’ll never make you do anything you don’t want. I love you – and you are as important to me as Elizabeth. I don’t know what I’d do without you anymore.”
Neal’s eyes are huge blue pools and maybe just a little tear filled. “Peter…”
“Shhhh, just rest now.”
“Peter - I love you too.” Neal’s voice is barely above a whisper.
Peter always treasures those words when Neal speaks them, because he so rarely does. Neal may articulate his emotions in a hundred other ways, but “I love you” is difficult. Peter understands why – he’s lost or been betrayed by too many people to whom he’s given his love.
“You don’t have to prove anything to me. Not anymore. He presses another kiss against Neal’s forehead, and then a soft one on his lips. Neal sighs, his eyes close and he falls into a restful, healing sleep.
Peter sits there, watching Neal as he sleeps, listening to him breathe. He’ll stay there, until Neal wakes, until he’s certain that Neal will be all right.